Mother's Day

Mother’s Day is almost upon us again.  I’m quite excited about this.  I’ve put a lot of work into Dope and so I think I’ve earned a day of recgonition.  My newfound understanding of motherhood makes me appreciate my mum that bit more, too.  I plan to celebrate her with a little more gusto than usual.

In fact, this year I appreciate all mothers more than I used to.  In large part this is down to the mummy lenses through which I now view the world.  We often hear women start sentences with the phrase, 'as a mother...' and I used to think this was rather crass.  But now I kind of get it.  I don't believe mothers are trying to position themselves as distant and above those without children.  I believe that they are merely reflecting on how massively their perspective has shifted since becoming a mum.  You see, our post-kid selves are incapable of viewing any situation or event dispassionately.  Natural disasters, terror attacks, road accidents, they all pack so much more of a punch now than they used to.  We immediately picture our own babies there and identify viscerally with the mothers.

The situation that’s really being magnified by my mummy lenses right now is the refugee crisis in Europe.  The toddlers fleeing war and violence and then being held at border crossings, washed up on beaches or freezing in makeshift camps.  They’re all Dope.  And I am all of those mothers, trying to get them through.  I feel their fear, hope, regret and hopelessness.  I feel how forgotten they feel.  How shocking and unthinkable it is to be living the way they are while we watch on, carrying on living the way we are.

And it’s not just the enormity of their situation that gets me.  It’s the minutiae.  Knowing that among all of the life and death decisions that they are making, they are also dealing with the day to day life of being a mum.  Nappy changes, kids pestering them for food, asking ‘are we nearly there yet?’, crying over a lost favourite toy.  You know those days when EVERYTHING is catastrophic for your offspring.  They scream for food and then fling it onto the floor.  They demand to be picked up then wriggle and fight their way back down.  They are desperate to get out of the house but meltdown at the suggestion of wearing clothes and shoes.  An on and on and on.  We all know how exhausting that is.  Now, think about dealing with all of that whilst traipsing across continents, hungry, hurting and scared.  Worse, knowing your kids are feeling the same way and that there is nothing you can do to stop it other than to keep on going, hoping that the destination is worth it.  We can’t comprehend this level of motherhood.  We can, however, feel how unbearable this is.  It hurts both our heads and our hearts.

You see, we mothers FEEL.  We understand that everyone, absolutely every adult, child and tween on the planet, is someone else’s daughter, son, Dope.  We understand that every other mother on the planet is simply another version of ourselves.

So what’s my point?  This started off as a Mother’s Day post.  You were probably expecting something about gift ideas and I took you down a rather more sombre road.  Thanks for sticking with me.  The good news is that it really was about gift ideas all along.  Alternative gift ideas, that is.

This year, stop and think about whether you really want or need things like chocolates and flowers.  I love chocolates and flowers.  *They are scientifically proven to cheer the soul.  So if you are in need of such things, go ahead and enjoy them.  We know that plenty of extreme mothering is going on around here so we won’t begrudge you a single petal or bite.  In fact, if you’re in need of a Mother’s Day pick-me-up, message me with your address and I will make sure that something reaches you. 

If like me, however, you don’t want or need anything this Mother’s Day, please consider this.  Unicef– and many other charities, I just like this one because it focuses on children and mothers – have a whole range of gifts and gifts in kind that you can buy.  You could help deliver a baby, warm up a refugee child or provide nourishment to a hungry Dope.  You could also buy your mum some jewellery, a bath set or a purse and let Unicef to use the proceeds wherever they are needed.  That’s what we are doing this year and it feels GOOD.

Shifting our pounds from Hallmark et. al to places like Unicef shows that we get that we’re all in this motherhood gig together.  It allows us to act upon our feelings and demonstrate our compassion.  Most importantly it means that one of us out there who is feeling hopeless and forgotten will, though this gift, KNOW that her mothering is noticed, appreciated and recognised this Mother’s Day.

*I am aware of no such study about flowers and chocolates, it just seems that their healing powers are so widely acknowledged that there must be some science in there somewhere.

How cool is this?

Not our actual glove, but pretty close - image taken from here

Things in the Dopey household were a little fraught this week.  Wednesday night saw Dope herself become really quite poorly.  I called the NHS on 111 and, to my alarm, they sent an ambulance for her.  Of course, she promptly perked right up, charming the paramedics with smiles and waves.  She bounced and pointed and squealed at everything in the ambulance and the crew empathised with me over the capacity of kids to make their parents look like big fat fibbers.  They could have chastised me for using their valuable time on a child that appeared healthy and well, but they didn’t.  They also didn’t seem to mind that she repeatedly reached for the hazardous sharps bin.  They simply blew up a latex glove and drew a smiley face on it so that she had something safe to play with.

At the hospital Dope was checked and monitored and cooed over.  She was admitted (see, we did need that ambulance!) and I was brought tea, given a bed to rest in and offered food.  A nurse came and good naturedly changed the bedding when Dope peed on it.  She didn’t grumble.  She also didn’t scold me for failing to catch the pee in the sample pot that I was supposed to.  Finally, Dope’s symptoms settled down and we were officially discharged.   

It was a worrying 12 hours but that’s not really what I’ve come here to tell you about today.  Instead, I want to remind us all that the NHS is amazing.  It’s most amazing points being;   

1.       It keeps people alive and healthy...

2.       For free...

3.       No matter who you are*

*There are exceptions for non-residents who pay for their treatment.

How cool is it that we can go to the doctors with niggles?  That we think nothing of getting ourselves checked out, ‘just in case’.  Would we look after ourselves quite so well if we faced a bill at the end of it?  Would we wait that bit longer to be sure that there really was an issue to be checked out?  Or would we wait until payday?   Every such delay would increase the risk of late diagnosis and treatment.  These are worries that we simply don’t consider.  The NHS protects us from those risks and difficult decisions by just being there.  Waiting for us, whenever we’re niggling, for free.

 ‘But the waiting lists!’ I hear you cry.  Yes, these are frustrating.  There are also more serious failings in the system; fatal misdiagnoses, neglect and abuse by staff, cuts taking away services, staff leaving for better pay and conditions elsewhere.  Please let’s not get into a debate about the whys and wherefores of this.  Let’s look at the bigger picture.  These incidences are heartbreaking and newsworthy because we expect MORE from the NHS.  We know they can do better because we normally leave hospitals healthier than we were when we went in.  I think that’s pretty cool.

What’s more, we know that there is a point to complaining because the NHS will respond and make changes.  We could be cynical about their motivations and efficacy in this, but the point is that reviews happen.  They, and we, understand that every life matters and that mistakes can’t just be written off.  Elsewhere, profit driven doctors and clinics take payment and glory for healing patients.  When things don’t go so well, they simply take payment.  The more people they see the more they earn, regardless of outcomes.  NHS staff earn the same regardless of the numbers they treat so individual doctors are driven and measured by quality outcomes for patients rather than quantity of patients for profit.  Again, cool hey?

When my sister in law in Nepal told me she was pregnant I was excited.  Buda not so much.  I chastised him for being a grump and he silenced me by reminding me that in Nepal you don’t celebrate a pregnancy.  You celebrate a birth that leaves both mother and baby alive.  And THAT’s the gift of the NHS.  It allows us to live freely and plan life with little caution.  We know that there is a safety net there for us that will almost certainly protect us.  Can you honestly say that a pregnancy announcement has left you worrying for the life of the mother?  I think this is the coolest point of all.

So people, please take a moment to consider what a gem we have here in the UK.  If you’re so inclined, take this one step further.  See it as a call to action to promote and protect the NHS.  If that’s not for you, just try really hard to imagine life without it.  Remind yourself and others of the freedoms it allows you and never miss an opportunity to highlight just how cool that is.

PS – It’s worth pointing out that neither I, nor anyone else connected to me, works for the NHS.  I just like to give credit where credit is due and to inject a bit of gratitude to areas where we can easily become complacent.

Playing Cupid

So, that's Valentine's Day done for another year.  For some there will have been flowers, romance, love and so on, but I suspect for most it will have been just another day.  For some, it was probably  a tough day.  A day when every shop, TV advert, facebook update felt like a personal attack.  Red hearts and pink champagne dangling just out of reach, saving themselves for those 'in love'.  That exclusive and excluding club that makes anyone outside feel a bit sucky, a bit less worthy.  And I don't like that.  Not one bit.

Earlier this week I had a friend over.  She is single and childless and hurting because of this.  She's 38 years old and working on accepting that she will never be a mother, not naturally at least.  She's a good and successful woman but feels rejected and alone.  For her, Valentine's Day magnifies of all of the gaps in her life.

After she left my house I got to thinking.  I got mad at Valentine's Day.  Stupid commercial, Hallmark holiday.  Callous shops, adverts and facebook statuses spurting out Disney-fied versions of love and relationships.  And couples...COUPLES!  You have each other.  You love and hold each other and share memories and homes and children and cars and fears and worries and hopes and dreams all year long.  Why spend a day looking further inward, leaving others hanging around on the edges alone?  I wanted to stop the whole thing.

Then I realised that stopping all of this nonsense is not the way to go.  Yes, Valentine's Day has been hijacked as a day of romance, but we can change that.  We can, and should, keep it as a day of love.  And here's the difference; romance might get one person interested, but love will make many people stick with us.  Love connects more than just couples.  It embraces friends, family, pets and communities.  It's long lasting, supporting, ever evolving and deserves to be celebrated.  So, this year, I reclaimed my Valentine's Day for LOVE.

I messaged my friend and invited her to my house this afternoon.  I then went on facebook and invited anyone who felt like being loved and happy on Valentines - regardless of whether they were single, married or anywhere in between - to my house for cake, tea and lovely times.

Two more women joined us.  Two awesome women raising kids on their own.  They have both been hurt by romantic love in the past.  They have no-one to take over mummy duty when it all gets a bit too much.  I simply cannot imagine how tired they must feel sometimes but they keep on keeping on regardless.  I don't know either of these women well but very much plan to change this.

I knew that the women coming to my house today needed to feel part of Valentine's Day, reminded that they DO have a claim to this festival.  Heck, I needed that too.  Yes, I have a husband but he's not particularly romantic.  No-one was going to spoil me, woo me or treat me so  I gave these women the type of Valentine's that would make me feel loved.

Each got a homemade card with an individual message and verse inside.  They got red roses tied up in ribbon and a favour bag with heart shaped chocolates, I made lunch and let their kids run riot in my house.  I wiped up their spills and assured them it was fine when they pushed my daughter to the ground.  We talked, we laughed and generally enjoyed each other.  When they left my house was upside down.  Nothing was in the same room as it was this morning - even the rug from Dopey's bedroom was lifted out into the living room.  It was perfect.  I plan on doing the same again next year.  Maybe with the same women or maybe they will have moved on by then.  I may have a room full or my invitation may not be accepted by anyone.  And that will be OK because it will mean everyone feels loved enough already.  But I will keep on inviting.  I will include the excluded and be the person who shows EVERYONE that they're loved, especially on a day that seems designed for telling us we aren't.

Family Fun Fail

Looking for ways to keep your kids entertained and your bank balance in credit?  Well, I'm afraid to say that you're probably in the wrong place.  I just failed miserably at this.  I planned on taking Dope to see the fish in the little aquarium on the 2nd floor of our nearest museum.  How cute!  Dope loves fish and the museum has free entry.  Perfect.  Free and fun.  Hurrah!

Unfortunately, people, the afternoon was neither.  I spent my life's savings on road tolls getting to the museum and then took out a bank loan to pay for the inner city car parking charge.  I sold a kidney to fund the cup of tea I had to buy to sit in the museum cafe and then finally had to sell one of Dopey's kidneys to buy another drink to re-hydrate us on the way out of the sauna cum aquarium.  Free day out it wasn't...*

In terms of fun, our starting point for the day was Dope's nursery.  I picked her up at lunchtime thinking that she could sleep for the car journey over to the museum.  She had other plans.  She apparently still hadn't forgiven me for abandoning her in that safe, caring, stimulating environment earlier on in the day.  She screamed and cried and shouted at me the whole way there, finally conking out as we pulled into the car park.  That nap cost me 40-odd minutes of city centre parking.  I could begrudge that, but it's in the past so I'm willing to let it go.

After battling through the howling wind and icy rain, I took her to the museum cafe.  Here, my friends, we were going to sit happily.  I would drink tea and Dope would eat her healthy, homemade snack and babble to me about her day.  Instead, I wrestled Dope into a highchair and she merely considered my culinary offering before swiping it out of my hand and down to the floor.  I offered it again, she screamed.  I re-packed the snack and she went into meltdown demanding I give it back to her.  I gave it to her and she threw it at me.  We repeated this cycle several times.  What fun!

We then headed up to the aquarium and finally had some success.  She made all of the right noises at the fish and the eels and the octopus.  She wandered up and down, delighting the pensioners around us.  She waved and pointed at everything and all was good.  Except that it was stinking hot.  So hot that I seriously thought I may pass out.  I bundled us both out of there quickly and back down to the cafe where I bought an extremely overpriced orange juice that most likely saved my life.  This is probably the only time its price tag has ever been justified.

Back home things got worse.  Buda was working late so it was still just me and Dope.  There followed a catalogue of errors that would keep you reading way past your bedtime so I will just give you a snapshot of the aftermath, as shared on my Facebook feed...

"So, I've managed to jam the bath plug in the bath; smash a glass in the kitchen sink; burn my daughter's taste buds with madras spiced scrambled eggs; drop her replacement dinner onto the floor; fill her up with rice cakes and fruit pot; fall while carrying her. My child, understandably, has grizzled and protested at me throughout this time. She then took 90 minutes to get to sleep. I'm also covered in baby snot from all of the consoling I've had to do. Oh, and I've just noticed that our electricity meter is almost at zero so we will most likely be plunged into total darkness fairly soon. Sorry Keshav, you work one evening shift and I've let our household crumble. ‪#‎proudmummy‬"

At this point the urge to fall asleep there and then was great.  But I decided to say NO to defeat.  A good mother never gives up, right? So I cleared up the mess and the house looked great.  Did I enjoy my well earned rest then? No I did not.  I decided I was going to finish the day UP on where I started rather than simply breaking even.  I went to the washing machine and saw, for the first time in my life, that I had dyed all of the white bits of my clothes pink.  I didn't think that this happened outside of detergent ads and predictable sitcom storylines.  But it does and it did.

Buda finally came home and laughed at my day.  At me, really, but he was kind enough to de-personalise his amusement.  He cheered me up with news of a cheesecake he had brought home with him, bringing me this with a cup of tea.  

Has anyone else ever seen such a cheesecake?  No, and I'll tell you why...because hemorrhage themed desserts have never caught on.  I was so horrified I knocked over my tea and then finally conceded defeat and headed to bed.

* Understand that my life savings, along with mine and Dope's internal organs did, in fact, remain in tact throughout this afternoon.  I didn't take any loans out either.  I did, however, have to dig very deep in my pockets to fund this folly.

What to (honestly) expect when your expecting

Pregnancy is often presented to us as a 'journey'.  We expect to float along with our emotions and nesting skills expanding with our bellies.  In reality, the journey often takes you off-road.  It's bumpy, uncomfortable and mucky and we need better preparation for this.  My guide to pregnancy seeks to do just that.

Trimester One 

You have taken that life changing pee that tells you that you are, officially, with child.  You get that giddy, nervous feeling like you’ve embarked on something that could be really fun or really stupid – you know, like at the end of the night when someone says, ‘let’s camp out on a roundabout’ (true story, but for another time) and you say, ‘OK!’ But then you can’t get that niggly voice out of your head that’s saying, ‘are you sure this is you?’

Once you’ve made peace with this decision it’s time to start telling other people.  You will probably have had a scan by now.  This is an exciting day; you get to see your baby for the very first time.  Wahey!  You will also have drunk a gallon of water before you go in (a full bladder is mandatory fr this) which means that instead of being absorbed by the wonder of meeting your child, all you will think is, ‘ok yes, there it is, can I go pee now?’

You will have the same conversation with everyone you tell about you impending motherhood.  Everyone will ask you how far along you are and they will then chastise you for not telling them sooner.  They will want to know if you are finding out the sex and they will then chastise you for being a spoil sport for finding out.  Or for not finding out.  It wholly depends on their own, personal opinion.  They will ask you how many babies are in there.  They will then laugh, nudge you, say, ‘or so you think!’ and then go on to tell you a story of someone they knew who got themselves a surprise second baby on the delivery table.  They will want to know how you are feeling.  It may take a few attempts but you will quickly learn that they don’t really want to know how you’re feeling.  They want a quick, ‘I’m fine’, or ‘oooh, a bit sick’.  They don’t want to know that you are puking and subsequently carb-loading like a hyperactive bulimic,

  

Trimester Two

You should probably be feeling more human around now and will finally start reading the weekly emails you’ve subscribed to.  These will tell you every single cell mutation and development going on in your baby.  It is fascinating.  Its sex is determined pretty much on day one, it goes through a whole fruit salad of sizes, from grape to avocado to watermelon (OK, the last one is my addition, but that’s how it will feel soon enough).  Grandparents will love to learn where their grandbub is up to.  NOBODY else will.  Everyone else will be satisfied to know that you are pregnant and will then forget about this until Trimester Three when your bump will make it impossible for them not to remember.

 At some point you will learn something that will make you realise that THIS.IS.REAL.  For me, that moment was when I learned my baby had nails.  That was a) fascinating, b)terrifying.  This really is a person growing in there, with nails!!!! But then, could it claw its way out??? No, of course I knew that wasn’t possible.  I was, however, slightly worried that I may get my insides nicked.

You will start to ‘get organised’.  You will go to a baby retailer and look at all of the wonderful things they say you absolutely need.  But you’re above that.  You won’t be drawn in and you will only buy the essentials.  You head for the pram section and realise that you know nothing about prams.  You thought it was simply a wheeled vehicle for transporting small people in.  Wheels, handle and seat seem about all you would need, but no!  There will be apparently identical prams with £300 price differences.  You need to decide if you want a full travel system or just a pram.  Parent or front facing?  Isofix or...whatever the opposite of that is?  Will it fit in your car?  Is the basket underneath easily accessible?  Are there drinks holders? AAARRRGGGHHH! You will turn on your heel and leave, telling yourselves that you will come back another day once you have done the research.  You will never do the research.  You return to the shop several times and finally settle on whatever pram is on offer.  Post-birth, you will realise how inappropriate your pram is.  You will rue the day you didn’t put the effort in to work out just what was what.

Your bump will start to show and this gets you some nice perks.  I managed to queue jump AND pee for free at London Euston train station.  The cleaner saw me and screeched, ‘You! Come here pregnant lady!’ and pushed me through the turnstile.  People hold doors for you, bend down to pick up items that you have dropped and general treat you kindly.  They’re even patient when you have a full trolley of shopping bagged up and realise that your baby brain has forgotten your PIN.  No-one tuts, they just offer to help you unload everything again.  You will remember your PIN just as they finish this but you will decide its probably best not to mention this right now...Small hint: Make the most of this special treatment.  After your baby arrives it will come as a shock that people don’t somehow realise that you have actually grown, birthed and nourished another human with your body.  They will let doors slam in your face, make you wait your turn in line and expect you to know your PIN.

Trimester Three

Now you really do have to get yourself sorted.   You open all of the boxes and bags you have stashed away and realise you have three cot mobiles and no mattress.  You then read up on baby sleep safety and discover that bumpers and quilts and blankets will all kill your baby and so none of that will be used.  You then dash out to buy some blankets with holes in to let the baby breathe and a sleeping bag or two.

Everyone around you will know that d-day is near.  As in the first trimester, everyone you meet will reel of the same list of questions.  Unlike in the first trimester, you will be so bloated and tired that you have no energy to humour them with answers.  You may consider compiling a card to hand out to people to head off such interactions.  Feel free to print and hand out this template...

Finally, your baby will arrive early or late but almost certainly not ‘on time’.  Your birth will be what it will be and you will do amazingly.  Your baby will come out all slimy and screamy and scrawny.  Its umbilical cord stump will stink.  Everyone will coo and aaah and you will smile and wish your nipples would go back to being a part of your body you were mostly unaware of.  The searing pain emanating from them will be worse than the birth.  You will be exhausted, drained, overwhelmed, terrified and confused.  But at some point – maybe in the delivery room, maybe hours, days, weeks, months or years later – you will look at the being you have brought into the world and realise that, true to the cliché, it really was all worth it.

And now for the good bit

15 long, LONG months ago, I gave birth to Dope.  She arrived 4 weeks early and in record time.  My entire labour was 40 minutes long.  She came through her express delivery beautiful and healthy and so did I. OK, I was in physically good shape but perhaps aesthetically could have done with some help.  Everyone told me how lucky as I was.  And I was, but I was also unprepared.  My heart had yet to realise what I was signing up for and my head had yet to learn all the ins and outs of newborn rearing.  I had a rough few months.  14.5 of them to be precise.  Many tears and tantrums, feelings of frustration and helplessness.  Minimal sleep.  Soooooo little sleep.  Soul destroying exhaustion.  Many moments of doubt: what were we thinking?  This was not one of our better ideas...I was a fully fledged member of the 'motherhood is hard' club.  Yes, there were nice bits.  Moments whenI looked a Dope and thought it was all OK.  Moments when my heart swelled with love.  Moments we laughed, felt proud, happy, together.  But overall it was HARD.   

But now, it has all flipped around.  Now, for me, motherhood is good.  Yes, there are hard bits.  Moments when I look at Dope and realise this particular turn of events is not OK.  Moments when my brain is ready to explode with frustration.  Moments we cry, shout, stomp, despair and feel lost.  But overall it is GOOD.  

I don't know what has brought about this change.  If pressed, I could maybe say that this change happened after Dope and I attended a first birthday party recently.  I was there, whinging and whining about how little sleep we get and I realised I’m such a downer.  I’m always the mum complaining.  I don’t like how that makes me feel and more importantly I don’t like the reputation I’m giving Dope.  So I decided to stop blabbing on about my mama troubles and to only share good news stories.  And there are so many of them.  Insomnia aside, Dope is a delight.  She really is.  

I can only think that changing what comes out of my mouth is changing what’s going around in my head.  And, in turn, that has given my heart space to expand and feel all of the lovely, squishy feelings that my grumpy head has been blocking for so long.  Or it could be that Dope has had a cold and has actually slept OK for a few nights.  But I prefer to believe that my own personal growth is responsible for this ground-shift in our house.  I’m loathe to credit it to a germ.

With all of my pesky thoughts out of the way, I’m now simply overwhelmed with love for Dope.  Truly.  I can’t get enough of her.  And it seems to be infectious (the love, not the cold-germ).  Buda also seems more relaxed.  It must be so nice for him to come home to find me welcoming him in to some family time with all of us together.  He used to get home and I would fire some Dope-keeping instructions at him – dinner is defrosting, she needs a nappy change – before mumbling something about popping out for toilet rolls.  I would then spend 2 hours wandering the aisles of Asda to make me feel I was doing something constructive rather than just avoiding my daughter.  Our new way feels so much nicer. 

I know that all of this happy, lovey vibe could disappear.  A particularly sleepless night or a whiny, clingy day could be enough to get me shooting out SOS calls again.  But I hope not.   I hope that I’m grounded enough to keep this mood.  I’m not floating around in a mummy bubble of perfection.  I still have the tough moments.  I still feel desperate to handover parenting duties to Buda at times.  I still take a deep breath before responding to a cry.  But now, I recognise these tough moments for what they are.  Moments.  I no longer string all of these moments together and allow them to become the unbroken narrative of our lives.  I still read amazingly accurate, truthful and funny accounts of parenthood trials like this and chuckle knowingly.  But I finish article knowing that as true as all of that is, becoming a mum is still my finest idea.

And so now, I think it's safe to say that we're into the good bit.  We have finally reached the promised land of parenthood.  The bit where you say 'it's worth it', and you mean it.  And that feels really, really good.

PS - For mamas still firmly inside the ‘motherhood is hard camp’, don’t let my newfound love for motherhood add to your pressures.  Know that if I was with you, I would be making you a hot cup of tea and holding your baby so that you could enjoy it.  I would empathise, share horror stories and acknowledge what a bum deal mothering can be.  But I would also offer you hope.  Reassurance that things can change – maybe not for a long time, but that’s OK.  Motherhood is hard and the longer you’re in that tough place, the sweeter it will feel when you leave. 

PPS – those of you who have visited this post before may notice that it has changed somewhat.  Previously it was a pious, preachy, sickly post about how amazing I find motherhood these days.  It actually had the phrase, ‘we overloading on love’ in it.  Horrendous, gushy stuff written and posted late at night.  Whilst nothing in the earlier post was a lie, I figured it needed some balance added, particularly for people not at this stage of their mothering journey.  From now on, I promise to save and sleep on a post before publishing!

It's hard to be good enough!

A couple of weeks ago I arrived at Dope’s first ever music class 10 minutes early with a HOME BAKED muffin in my bag.  She had napped well in the morning, eaten a good lunch and got in to the car without a blip.  We were the first to arrive at the class.  Dope walked in, waved at the teacher and started bouncing and swaying in her own goofy way to the background music.  The teacher was delighted, Dope was delighted.  I was delighted.  I also had a pram and a bottle of milk in the car.  After the class she was going to drink her milk, get in her pram and nap while I took her for a walk along the beach.  We were then going to drive to pick Buda up from work where we were all going to sit in his cafe and enjoy family time while Dopey ate her muffin (home baked, by me, full of goodness).  I had made a plan that day, and it was happening, all around me, just as it should.  I had a moment of feeling all squishy and light.  And just like that, for the first time ever, I felt like a good mum.  A REALLY good mum.

But then two other mums arrived at the class.  Not just any two mums.  One is a mum I used to be very good friends with.  I’ve made efforts to rebuild our friendship but she has a busy and full life and sporadic catch ups seem to be as much as I can hope for.  Seeing her out with another mummy friend made me feel awkward, uncomfortable and rejected.  Silly, I know.  She didn't intend this.  I have no claim on her time, it's just how I felt.  She was just out with a friend and bumped into an old acquaintance.  She probably went away thinking it was nice to see someone she knew at the class.  I suspect she doesn’t know how much I miss her.

By the end of the class, I just wanted OUT.  Seeing my old friend made me sad and reminded me that I'm useless at making and keeping friends.  With the final song she said, 'I'll text you, we really must catch up soon'.  This was awkward as we both knew this wouldn't happen,  I rushed Dope out and stuffed her into the pram.  She wasn’t happy.  She screamed and refused the milk I’d given her.  I walked her up and down the prom and she still screamed.  I pushed the pram through dog pooh and got freezing cold.  After the LONGEST time she finally slept.  I then attempted to un-poop the pram wheels by scraping them along curbs and tufts of grass.  My hands and face were numb.  And it was late.  It was now the time we should have been getting in the car to pick up Buda.  But I couldn’t wake her because I’ve read all of the baby books and I KNOW that if she misses a nap, or naps too late in the day, she will not sleep through the night until she is a teenager, or married, or in a retirement home.  I figured she needed that sleep.  I left her wrapped up in the pram whilst I froze on the bench next to her.  Then it got really late.  Buda was just wandering out of his workplace to wait for us completely unaware that I was sitting on bench with a sleeping baby 30 minutes drive away.  Finally, I woke her up, endured her screaming protests, wrangled the pram into the boot and set off.  By the time we got to Buda he grumpy from sitting in the cold for 40 minutes.  Dopey was still grizzling at me and it was almost dinner time.  I abandoned the idea of family time in the cafe and we went straight home.  The muffin, in all its home baked glory, was left uneaten.  My wonderful plan was shot.  And just like that, I felt like a rubbish mum.  A REALLY rubbish mum.

There are many positives in this day.  I cared enough about my child to make a plan, and a muffin, for her.  I’m privileged enough to have a child who is healthy, happy and confident enough to walk up to a strange teacher to wave and start dancing.  I can afford to take her to these classes.  We have a car to get us to such classes.  We live in a beautiful area where a seaside stroll is easily achievable.  My husband has a job for us to pick him up from.  We have a home to come back to at the end of a day, however rubbish that day was.  Our home is warm and safe and ours.  There is food in the house to feed my kid with.  My life is so easy that this faded friendship is pretty much the biggest hardship I face.  I know all of this.  Really know it.  Each and every day I thank God for all of these blessings because I can SEE and UNDERSTAND how good my life is.  But I just don’t FEEL like it is.  Life feels like a battle and a struggle, mostly with myself.  I KNOW what I should be doing and I expect myself to do it.  I just seem incapable of getting my sh*t together and I don’t know why.  So that moment, before the class when I felt like a good mum, doesn’t leave me feeling warm.  It frustrates me because I know now how nice life could feel.  That feeling is now the standard that I am striving, and failing, to reach.  I know that getting it all together IS possible because I did it once.  That means that I’m falling short the rest of the time.

I recently read that aiming to be a ‘good mum’ is simply inviting failure, much better to settle happily with 'good enough'.  That's all your kids need.  I get that.  It is advice I have regurgitated to many a mummy friend.  I just can’t accept it for myself.  Being ‘good enough’ is nowhere near enough for me.  I want to be a good mum.  All of the time.  This is a big demand and near impossible, but that’s the standard I set myself.  And every stumble, every meal that gets spat out and thrown to the ground, every nap that is late or cut short, every night time waking, feels like a punch in my gut.  It’s the price I pay for my ineptitude.  I need to fix this.  I know.  I need redraw the criteria by which I judge myself, or even better, STOP judging myself.  

So, what can I do?  I need to try harder.  Not on being perfect, but on being 'good enough'.  THAT feels like a bigger challenge to me that the striving for perfection.  This 'good enough' strategy feels so risky to me.  This little person’s entire life, future and well-being is in my hands.  What if I tell myself that  I don’t need to be a good mum, just a good enough mum. Dopey is fine, happy and healthy. If I drop the ball every now and then she will probably be OK.  But what if she isn't? CRAP! I dropped the ball.  She didn’t nap for the 3rd day running and now she won’t sleep at night and her development will stall because she will be so tired all of the time...and on, and on and on.

But striving for perfection carries its own risks.  It damages my mental health and sets a bad example for Dope.  I don't want her see her to grow up running herself into the ground and then beating herself up when she falls short.  So rather than continuing to push myself towards some un-achievable ideal, I'm going to push for the achievable.  I resolve to accept the hits and teach my kid that sometimes it’s OK to stumble.  I now strive to be ‘good enough’ mum, raising a kid that knows that SHE is good enough, no matter what.