26. Be Fucking Nice

Lately Freddie has been so keen to welcome in the day he’s decided that 4am is a reasonable hour to do so, which seems pretty unreasonable to me. 4am is officially the middle of the night; lights out, deep dreams, silent streets, dead to the world territory. It certainly isn’t the optimum hour to begin the day, not even with a rendition of Heads Shoulders Knees and Toes. But Freddie doesn’t know this.

After beginning my day in the middle of night, I was a little blurry eyed on the way to work. Blurry because I was tired and because my morning had been fairly eventful in the five hours I’d been reticently awake. In those precious pre-dawning hours I’d already thrown up into a miniature whistle*, survived a flash flood** and showered twice in a sick storm***. It is fair to say my morning hadn’t started all that seamlessly.

So when confronted with unyielding traffic that stood between me and my bus to work, I was somewhat affronted by the cyclist who took offence to my position on the pavement, shouting ‘stupid idiot’ at me as she whizzed passed. And as I watched my bus pull away without me, my mind was still with the cyclist who’d shouted at a stranger at the side of the road – a stranger who’d been up since 4am, who had thrown up into a miniature whistle, who had fought a flood and showered in sick. A stranger who would never shout at a stranger for standing at the side of the road. And I thought ‘why can’t everyone just be nice?’ It’s really not that hard.

Be nice. Don’t huff behind someone whose contactless card is feeling frigid at the barrier. Huffing won’t help their card work any faster. Just be nice. Lend a pen, leave your change, open the door; wouldn’t that be nice? For goodness sake, give up your seat to the pregnant lady. Give up your seat to the boy with too many bags, or the red-faced woman with two children slipping from her hips, or someone who looks like they’re carrying the weight of the day on their shoulders and might just need that seat more than you. Be nice. When you walk past a homeless person don’t pretend you can’t see them. That’s not nice. Don’t blow smoke in my baby’s face at the bus stop. Be fucking nice. If someone falls, help them up. If the door closes, open it. Don’t gossip, say sorry; that’s nice. Say thank you (even if you don’t mean it) and say please because it’s just nice to be nice. Let them out, let that go, save a slice; be nice. Be fucking nice!

I appreciate that nice isn’t all that exciting. It’s not anarchic or passionate. It’s not sex on the beach, or screaming at the ref or drinking jaeger bombs from a bucket. Nice sits neatly on the white fence in middle of the road in Sussex. It’s a biscuit with your tea and flowers on reception. It’s ‘excuse me’ and ‘after you’ and seven kinds of ‘thank you’. But nice isn’t just agreeable, it’s essential. It’s essential to the life-blood of society that differentiates us from the rats in the race, grappling to survive in a world without compassion, empathy or understanding.

We are all guilty of focusing on our own feet, keeping our heads down in an effort to make our way through the day without disruption. Life is challenging enough without being tasked with sustaining societies good vibes; but surely we can all take responsibility for playing our own small part? A smile takes but a second. A pleasantry in passing can make a day. ‘Thank you’ might make it all feel worthwhile. Shouldn’t we all want to treat everyone like we’d want to be treated, no matter how insignificant your meeting.

Give it a go. Try it out for size. You might find your niceties are infectious and breed like a flu for the fair hearted. And whatever you do, please don’t shout at strangers on the side of the street, because they might have just thrown up into a miniature whistle. Think before you holler and BE FUCKING NICE!****

 

* Fred has a tendency to launch himself from his changing mat, so to distract him from such audacious actions I Iike to entertain my reclining prince with a miniature whistle. On this particular morning, his nappy was powerfully potent and I learned that throwing up into a miniature whistle makes for an underwhelming tune.

** The dishwasher broke and emptied 320 gallons onto the kitchen floor. I learned that I don’t own enough towels for such a situation.

*** I learned that when all your towels are on the floor mopping up the contents of the dishwasher and sick from a miniature whistle, you need an emergency back up drying solution when your son can’t stomach his third breakfast. (Socks aren’t a very good emergency back up drying solution.)

**** If you don’t think it’s nice to swear, I apologise – so don’t be fucking nice, just be nice. Thanks.

FullSizeRender

Fred says, ‘BE NICE!’

Advertisements

24. What if Captain Hook had kids?

This week I stepped down as El Capitan and my co-pilot stepped right up. His chest may be missing mammaries, but he’s got a clean license, broad shoulders and the constitution of an ox. He’s been waiting in the wings for some months now and he’s ready. Daddy Day Care is open for business.

When I was pregnant I knew I wouldn’t be taking my full maternity leave from work in order for Saint Luke to take time out with our impending offspring. It made total sense to us then, and even more now Freddie is actually here. It still surprises me exactly how surprised people are by this arrangement, it’s almost as though they don’t realise Luke had any part in creating our son and heir. Shared Parental Leave isn’t some sort of kooky alternative dreamed up by madcap employees who have a Zen Den and free Vegan lunches. Since April 2015, SPL has been an option at all companies because Nick Clegg made it so; so why should Luke’s leave be at all surprising? Perhaps it’s because only 1% of new daddies have taken up the opportunity, and I’ve been trying to work out why…

Maybe it’s because a lot of mums don’t want to give up any of their Maternity Leave, because it’s a bit like giving away your last Rolo – really really hard? Perhaps it’s because dad earns more money than mum or doesn’t know the words to Bah Bah Black Sheep? Or maybe it’s because men are so used to being told that they’re just not as good as women at parenting, and now they’re not as keen to try?

In a café last week, a lady who had been cooing over Freddie (as he attempted to eat his fist), remarked that I must have Luke ‘well trained’ when he sniffed a poo and quickly carted our bundle off for a costume change. Well trained? I don’t think so. If he was well trained he’d be a Michelin starred Chef, a master masseur, or a dog. And I’ve lost count of the times people have marvelled at how ‘hands on’ Saint Luke is. Of course he’s hands on, his hands are very clearly attached to his wrists thank you very much, he’s not Captain Hook. Luke doesn’t want to be trained by me or receive patronising pats on his back from admiring strangers (unless that stranger happens to be Emma Stone.) The fact is, we’re both piloting this parenting plane, trying to be the best we can be and doing almost anything we can to get a giggle from Fred. Of course there are things that I can do better, like breastfeeding and Luke’s better with explosive nappies (due to the strong constitution I mentioned earlier). Luke likes to carry Freddie like a rugby ball and fling him up over his head, whereas I prefer to count his creases and snuggle him in bed. Freddie thinks his daddy is hil.ar.i.ous but I’ll never forget his coat. You see the three of us are in this together; there’s no i in Team, and no gender specification in Parenting. Surely this isn’t revolutionary in 2017?!

But on Luke’s parental leave, every day he will be faced with a societal leaning towards women taking the parenting helm, from the Mother and Baby icons in the Sainsbury’s parking bays to the Mum & Me massage oil at home. And I wonder what awkward conversations he’ll be faced with in ladies loos because that’s where the majority of nappy changing facilities are? Despite daily messaging that reinforces Stepford-like stereotypes, Saint Luke is man enough to man-up in a ladies loo and do what he’s got to do.

I’m not judging people who have chosen to stick to more traditional roles if that’s what works for you (there’s a lot to be said for tradition, like booze for breakfast on Christmas morning). I’m suggesting that we should all start this journey on a level flight path, whether you are a man and a woman parenting, or two women, or two women and a man (you kinky buggers). We are all parents, and should stop feeding the myth that men are inferior to women in the rearing department, or that mum’s owe a debt of gratitude to dad’s who dare to do.

So although I can’t fathom why only 1% of men have opted to take Shared Parental Leave, I do know that Saint Luke is the best co-pilot I could possibly hope for. I’m not especially grateful because he’s a man, I’m grateful because he’s mine. And when I skip into a job that I love, I have the warmest feeling inside knowing what a precious time my boys are having together – I know this because I’ve been lucky enough to do it too.

FullSizeRender

Lady bays in Sainsbury’s

22. The Guilt Game

At 2am last night I took a moment to ponder this latest role of mine. Once upon a time I would be unlocking the front door about now, my ears still ringing with music and my heart still skipping with joys of the night just passed. But tonight I am clutching Freddie with one arm whilst frantically Googling ‘infant insomnia’ with the other. My right foot is waving manically in front of the nightlight to create shadows that might just entertain him for a minute whilst my left foot thumps blindly at Ewan the Dream Sheep to kick-start his sheepish beat. I’ve been ‘shhing’ and rocking with limbs flailing for two hours now, like a possessed one-man-band, and I’m thirsty but my glass is out of reach – that’s ok, I think, I’ll just drink next week. Everything is fine. Freddie is fine. I am fine. This is Motherhood.

This is motherhood and it is more than fine – it is beautiful and bewildering. For the most part it’s joyful and for moments it can be devastating. It’s almost always exhausting and exhilarating and sometimes, it’s just a bit boring. It’s tiptoeing like a ninja at nap time, and singing ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ 52 times. It’s poo up to your elbows and wee in your eye. It’s hilarious and hapless and a thousand kisses before lunch. It is a bubbling hotpot of love. ‘Oh look, he’s just blown a raspberry!’ Love in abundance. ‘Oh wow, he grabbed the brown bear!’ Love beyond compare. ‘Incredible, he rolled over! Our boy rolled over!’ Love X Infinity2. Our home is now home to an orgy of lashings of love because we’re just so damn pleased with who we created. I had three hours sleep last night but who cares?! Let’s all sing ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ again! Hooray!

But alongside the warmth of lovely Love comes its mean spirited cousin, Guilt. Guilt seeps into the generous open pores that Love has created and breeds bile under the surface, like acne. Yes, guilt is like acne on a Disney princess. And right now, an abundance of guilt plagues me in a way I’ve never known before, despite my Catholic school training.

I feel guilty for co-sleeping and subsequent sleepless nights. For failing to set a routine, setting a routine and failing at said routine. Guilty for longing to go to Sainsbury’s on my own, and losing myself in the condiments isle to buy more time. Guilty for air pollution. Guilty for not knowing the real words to any nursery rhyme and having to wing it in Baby Sensory class. Guilty for not signing up to more classes. Guilty for Freddie’s boob addiction, bottle phobia and that second glass of wine. Guilty for putting on Peppa Pig so I can go to the loo. Guilty for the donut crumbs on his head. Guilty for counting down the minutes until bed then scooping him up too readily when he stirs. Guilty for the sirens that wake him. Guilty that Saint Luke gets up with Freddie at 6am and guilty for resenting Saint Luke who sleeps through the night. Guilty there’s only a few months left until I’m back at work and guilty for uttering the words ‘child’ and ‘minder’. Guilty Freddie has a cough. Guilty for dressing in the morning, pretending I can’t see the faint splatter of sick on my jeans. Guilty for not brushing my hair. Guilty for not being as glam as the ‘Mum’s Who Can’ on Instagram. Guilty he’s too hot or too cold, he’s bored or overstimulated. Guilty I haven’t made the most of my maternity leave and written a book. Guilty I haven’t had time to make the bed. Guilty I forgot to ask Saint Luke how his day was. Guilty for daydreaming about the holiday we’ll be able to take in eighteen years once Freddie’s left home. And guilty for never ever wanting him to grow older, grow up and away from me. Guilty for writing that bit before about it being a little bit boring. Guilty for never wanting to sing ‘The Wheels on the Bloody Bus’ ever EVER again. Guilty for not feeling guilty enough!

And breath.

I don’t suppose I’m the only parent who’s dabbled in the guilt game and maybe that’s not a bad thing? Perhaps we’re guilty just because we care? Because we’re learning and we’re trying our very best and maybe if we stopped feeling guilty then we’ve stopped interrogating what is and isn’t best for our babes? So if you see me traipsing naked down Clapham High Street, thrashing whips across my back, shouting ‘shame, shame, shame’- it’s probably because I forgot Freddie’s hat. And that’s ok! I’m not sleeping at night anyway.

img_2919

I’m guilty as a girl can be.

19. Mother Lush

A funny thing happens when you give birth, quite a few ‘funny’ things I should imagine, but one thing above all others, scares me the most. I’ll get over the pain, I’ll brush off the blood and gloss over the grisly details of labour, but I will be undeniably changed the moment I am re-labelled a ‘mother’. Mother; a title so recognisable, so powerful and so all encompassing for those who wear it. Am I woman enough to don such a title? Can’t I be a demi-mum instead? Or a mother-in-training? Surely I’m not worthy of the same title as my own materfamilias. I can’t possibly be Mum, because my Mum’s taken that crown and wears it better than I could ever hope to.

It’s true, I’ve known her all my life, but Mother Lush surprises me every day with her undeniable brilliance. I lay naked on her chest the day we met, alongside the pulmonary embolism that left her gasping for breath. Heroically, she looks fondly on this time we had together, cocooned in white sheets and hospital bleeps. Just the two of us. Mother and daughter, forming a bond as fierce as fire.

Growing up, I believed Mum to be the font of all knowledge. Why have I got freckles? ‘They’re fairy kisses.’ Why won’t Jamie Emsel love me? ‘Because he’s obviously very silly.’ How do you spell queue – the kind you stand in? ‘Cue.’ Somehow Mum’s know everything, even when they don’t.

And as life would have it, we’ve both grown older. My hair has dulled and my forehead creases. Mum’s hands have bent in peculiar ways to mark years of transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary. She’s grown older, but has managed not to grow up with the resilient spark and spring of Peter Pan. Her limitless energy and lust for life is fuelled entirely by love for her family.

I can confidently say that I’ve never encountered anyone more awe-inspiring, although admittedly I’ve never met Beyonce or the Dalai Lama. (In fact, the Dalai Lama could probably learn a thing or two from my mum, like how to freestyle a victoria sponge without a recipe).

Awe inspiring, because mum displays levels of selflessness unfathomable to someone like me who has never before been responsible for keeping someone else alive. Awesome, because when I moaned about tidying my room, she never once reminded me that her internal organs rearranged themselves so she could carry me. Inventive, because she’s created text-speak such as ‘C U SN, PTS’ (call you soon, popping to Sainsbury’s.) Devoted, because when her brood arrives home, she’s never happier than dancing amidst the chaos we bring. Hilarious, because she sings along with no idea of the words, and really doesn’t care. Devoted, because she’d drop anything (but a chocolate) at any time or hour to be there if we needed her. Formidable, because her love for her family is endless, and she asks for absolutely nothing in return. And for all these reasons, plus a trillion more, I need my Mum now as much as I did the day I was born.

I apologise for this saccharin post, particularly since I’m aware that not everyone is lucky enough to have a role model quite like mine. If it’s not Mum then I hope there’s someone else that can help you on your way. I promise that I’m as grateful as I am lucky to be able to learn from the best and in two months time, I’ll be giving it a good go. I’ll be taking the lead from my Mum who is every bit the Mum I hope to be. How I can begin to say thank you for that?

For a start, thank you for carrying me in your tum for 9 months mum, I owe you one. X

 

FullSizeRender

Happy Birthday mumma x