First world pre-schooler problems

As my four-year-old daughter sat, breaking her heart, on the sofa, bawling at the top of her voice “I don’t want to go to Thailand, I want to go to Portugal”, I couldn’t help but wonder what I had created. I’m 33 and have never been to Thailand, and here is this pre-schooler turning her nose up at the opportunity. And the situation got even more ridiculous when my boyfriend called mid-meltdown and, on hearing her utter devastation, suggested we holiday elsewhere – a suggestion which I actually agreed might be the best option. But fear not, because I managed to bribe – yes, BRIBE – my daughter to allow us to take her away to an amazing country which she will thoroughly love and won’t want to leave.

“I don’t want to go to Thailand…”

Seriously, where have I gone wrong?

And what was her problem with Thailand, I hear you ask? A country which, just a few weeks ago, she was desperate to go to, and asked every morning if it was time to go there yet.  The U-turn was all down to the fact I told her she will have to get vaccinations before we go. In a way, I can’t blame her for not wanting to get them – the poor girl was left traumatised after a four-night stint in the Sick Kids Hospital last year. At one point, when her cannula fell out and had to be re-inserted, it took about five medical staff plus me to physically hold her down as they tried and failed to put it back into her wrist and ended up having to stick it in her foot. And while the promise of a Lily from Peter Rabbit cuddly toy, a post-injection ice cream AND a lollipop may have resulted in her giving us permission to go ahead with our holiday, I fear at least one of us will need tranquilised come vaccination day.

We may well end up in the safe haven of Portugal after all…watch this space.

On the plus side, her sad faces are highly amusing.

 

 

You can’t live with ’em…

Men. Apparently, you can’t live with them, and you can’t live without them. Personally, I disagree. I think the real saying should substitute the word ‘men’ for ‘children’. To me, that’s far closer to the truth.

Take Saturday, for example. We attended the fifth birthday party of Poppy’s friend from nursery. Of course, she had a great time – who wouldn’t when you spend an hour bouncing on trampolines and then half an hour stuffing your face with sweets, crisps and cake? But sadly, it meant the rest of the day was an absolute write off, especially for me. It evaporated in a haze of sugar and E numbers, leaving behind only the remnants of a child who started out the day looking like a perfect party princess and ended it looking like the Tasmanian devil. Fortunately for me, I could see light at the end of the tunnel. Usually I’d have to just grin and bear it, and remember that come 7pm, that sauvignon blanc in the fridge would be very swiftly winging its way down my throat. But, on this particular day, I was dropping her off at her dad’s at 4pm, so I knew with a little bit of careful handling, I could survive this. I could get to 4pm and send her on her merry way to her dad’s (allowing her to eat some party bag loot en route because the resulting behaviour wasn’t going to be my problem) in time for a dinner and bedtime meltdown on his watch. Score.

The thing is, though, that despite the clock watching that afternoon, followed by the relief of being able to get ready for a night out without little hands grabbing my make-up and trying on high heels, I instantly missed her. It’s like that feeling when you think you’ve left your hair straighteners on and you’ve gone on holiday for a week….you have to stop yourself from turning back and checking because you know, deep down, it will be fine.

Nursing the hangover of all hangovers on Sunday didn’t help with my feeling of melancholy, combined with hanging out with friends and their children – one of whom is the same age as Poppy. And while I was glad I didn’t have to take a turn at toilet duty, or worry about making a healthy dinner when all I wanted to do was order in a Chinese and watch back-to-back episodes of Once Upon A Time, I just felt the sun had disappeared behind a cloud the whole time she was away.

Don’t get me wrong, most of the time I’m really grateful for the break from the relentless demands, and strops, and questions….but this time felt particularly hard.

When it was finally time to pick her up from nursery – after three sleeps away – I felt immediately like everything was right again. The sun had come back out, and I didn’t mind that she moaned about what I’d made her for dinner, or that we had to watch Elf even though it’s not Christmas, or even that she kept breaking wind and laughing about it like a maniac.

My sunshine.

So yeah, you can’t live with them sometimes, but they are impossible to live without.

We’ll see…

So, it would seem I’m having a baby. If you listen to Poppy, that is. She has got it into her head that she is going to “get a baby sister”. She has been talking about it a ridiculous amount recently, randomly dropping it into conversation when I least expect it. Approaching the airport terminal the other week, she casually asked me where babies come from as I was busy wrestling with two suitcases whilst trying to hold her hand to avoid us getting hit by taxis (though after that question, getting hit by a taxi was an appealing option…) And at soft play on Monday, when I spotted a hole in her already-too-short leggings, I told her it was time they went in the bin. She was horrified at the suggestion. “But mummy, why can’t you knit the hole so we can give the leggings to my baby sister?” Ummmm…..

I have to accept slight responsibility for her getting the wrong end of the stick. After one particularly long day, our dinner time conversation turned to the subject of her getting a baby sister. I tried to explain that that was not going to happen. “But why mummy? I want one!” I told her that I’m very happy with the child I have, and that just because she wants a sister, it doesn’t mean that I want another baby, and that I am quite content with just being her mummy and no-one else’s. But of course, that was not accepted as an explanation. And so she went on…and on…and on. And I made the fatal error…

“We’ll see”, I finally replied.

“Great!” said she. “I’m getting a baby sister! Can I tell daddy?”

“No!” I shouted, horrified at the thought of her sharing my phantom pregnancy with my ex.

I managed to scrape her off the ceiling for long enough to reiterate my earlier points about her not getting a baby sister….and I thought it was sinking in… until my boyfriend called. As I was just about to pick up, Poppy shouted out “Can I tell him about our new baby…?” Decline call….

It wasn’t until recently that I realised the full extent of my mistake when I innocently uttered the words “we’ll see” just to get her to shut up. Following another occasion where I gave her the same reply in response to her asking for something else she was never going to get, she turned to her friend and said: “When mummy says that, it always means yes.”

 

All in a day’s work

In my job, I have witnessed some awful things. I have arrived on the scene just moments after a young girl was decapitated by a car in a hit-and-run. I have seen photos during an inquest of a father who hanged himself from a tree, and watched the utter heartbreak of his grieving family as they unwittingly looked at the same images. I have seen fear, squalor, depravity. I have interviewed murderers and had to be polite and professional on the phone to convicted sex offenders and paedophiles as they ranted about my newspaper’s coverage of their horrific actions. I have listened to a woman’s graphic account of years of child abuse at the hands of a family member. I have seen a dead body after a week lying undiscovered in the Water of Leith, bloated, discoloured, barely recognisable as the man he once was. I have drank tea in the home of a family who lost their beautiful ten-year-old boy to a hit-and-run driver in a stolen car trying to escape police capture.

Two of those things made me cry. I remember clearly the drive home through tears after watching the devastated family in front of me in the courtroom sobbing when the coroner – rather cruelly, in my opinion –  showed them the photos they could never unsee. And I cried every night for a week after listening to the father of the young boy so tragically killed on his way home from school talk about the son he would never see again. I couldn’t get my head around how life could be so unfair, and also couldn’t begin to understand how the boy’s grieving family were capable of such immense courage and resilience. I still can’t let myself think about it too much.

Both those stories I covered relatively early on in my career. I didn’t grow less sympathetic as the years went on, but I did grow hardened to the fact that life can be horrendous at times and that bad things happen every single day. They just happen. As a journalist, you quickly develop a skin thick enough to allow you to deal with situations like the ones described above; to get involved in someone’s tragedy to the point where they open up to you and share their innermost grief and suffering, and then walk away and barely think of it ever again. You also develop a humour black enough to make light of the most devastating situations. I quickly got to the stage where I no longer cried about the things I’d witnessed in my job, and stopped taking everyone’s pain and anguish home with me.

But today I’m worried about an interview I have to carry out with a young mum who lost her newborn baby. Since having my own child, I struggle to deal with stories like this anymore. I cannot even begin to imagine the pain and there seem to be no words capable of describing it. Where the rookie reporter me would have felt great sympathy, I am now capable of that more powerful emotion of empathy.

Today might be another day that I cry.

Mummy do it…

I am in possession of magic powers, it would seem. Apparently the way I pour a glass of milk, or pass a hairband or assist in putting on a coat is far superior to any mere mortal. I can’t believe I went all these years without knowing about my supremacy, only finding out around about the time my daughter started speaking. What a coincidence!

Ever since she was able to string the words together, it has always been “mummy do it” – though now she is more eloquent in her sentence construction, I am pleased to report. I go through phases where the “mummy do it” mentality annoys the hell out of me. For example,when we go to stay with friends or relatives, I like to have a bit of a break from having to do every single thing by myself all day long. I just want someone else to be capable enough in Poppy’s eyes to fetch her some raspberries from time to time. And I really wish that other people could just pour the goddamn glass of milk as well as I can. Why can’t they? What is wrong with people???

But then other times, I secretly like it. Because I know she does it because she has the genuine belief that I am amazing. She looks at me like no other person ever has or ever will. I am the single most important person in her life. She just wants me to be there with her, to acknowledge her, to play with her. It’s as simple as that. And I know that these days won’t last forever.

So the next time she refuses to accept help from anyone other than me, I need to try and remind myself of that. Or alternatively I could just go and lock myself in the bathroom for a while because that girl is not going to allow herself to starve for anybody. Not even me.

How could this face ever annoy me…?

 

It’s all about the Taytos

Two and a half years ago I made a vow to myself. I swore I would never, ever, under any circumstances, take my daughter on a plane without back-up ever again. But last week I broke that promise, the recollection of that hellish ordeal when she was just 18 months old slightly improved by the passing of time and the kind of memory that saw me go into the kitchen earlier, pour a cup of milk then return to the living room without it. That, and the fact I had no choice. If I wanted to take her to Ireland, as I had been promising for ages, then I would simply have to man up and get on another flight with her by myself. And to my complete and utter disbelief, it was actually a success. No tears, no screaming, no tantrums….and Poppy was pretty well behaved too.

It wasn’t just the flight I was nervous about. It was Poppy’s first time  over in Ireland meeting my boyfriend’s family. And she wasn’t just meeting them – we were staying with them too. For four days. I’m generally nervous taking her to meet people she doesn’t know in environments she’s not familiar with because I just don’t know how she’ll settle and how she’ll react to certain people and certain situations. Basically, she’s unpredictable. There’s no rhyme or reason when it comes to who she likes and who she would rather hide behind my leg from. But thankfully she took to her new Irish family like I took to the Tayto crisps. And I *think* her behaviour was acceptable enough for us to be invited back…

And while Poppy got her fix of lollipops and ice cream and met “the real Mr Tayto” at Tayto Park (yep, they do love their crisps enough to have a whole theme park dedicated to the brand), me and my boyfriend got two nights out and lie-ins every morning. And I got a suitcase full of Taytos and Superquinn sausages to take home with me. Poppy said it was the best weekend ever, and who am I to argue?

PS – this blog post has been sponsored by Tayto.

Winning and losing

Today has been a day of winning and losing.

Poppy got up at 6.15am (losing). She came into my bed for a cuddle (winning) She went off to play for a bit while I nodded off again (winning). Had a shower in peace (winning). Came out of shower to find her ransacking my things in my bedroom (losing). Went into living room to find the milk bottle on top of her beanbag but couldn’t see any spillage despite her looking very guilty (winning). Went into kitchen to find the spillage (losing). Did a big pile of washing as it was a sunny day and wanted to get it all dried outside (winning). There was no space left for my washing in the communal garden as all my elderly neighbours had the same idea and they get up even earlier than Poppy (losing). Was genuinely annoyed by this scenario (losing all self-respect). Went to supermarket and the only drama was the brief misplacing of a set of bunny ears (winning). Poppy told me she was in a good mood and was going to behave all day (winning). Got home in time for my friend’s arrival (winning). Friend’s arrival with her two kids plus Poppy thrown into the equation meant my flat was trashed (losing). Went to the beach (winning). Poppy behaved like a brat for the first hour and wouldn’t play nicely with her friends and cried about wanting to go home (losing). Poppy got a new lease of life then didn’t want to go home when it was time to (losing). Drank my third cup of coffee (winning). When it was time for our visitors to leave, Poppy declared she’d had a nice day (winning). Noticed that the coffee that had been spilled earlier had actually stained my cream carpet, despite my efforts with the Vanish (losing). Handyman came to re-seal the bath and did it with special anti-mould silicone (winning). Was so excited that it looks like I’ve had a new bath fitted I texted a picture of it to my boyfriend (most definitely losing). Dinner was eaten up completely (winning). I resorted to eating my Fruit Corner in the kitchen in secret after my child told me I wasn’t allowed one (losing). I then ate a mint in case she smelled said Fruit Corner on my breath (losing beyond belief). Got her to bed before 7pm (winning). As a result, will be woken up again tomorrow by 6.15am (losing).

During a brief moment of winning.

Out of the mouths of babes

I love listening to my daughter chat to her friends. Kids are funny when they don’t think anyone else is listening. I distinctly remember one of her first conversations with her little friend Conor (some might say boyfriend, she likes the Irish lads too). The pair of them were in a play tent outside in Conor’s garden, the safe haven of the den protecting them from the adults. The conversation went something like this:

Conor: “Why have you got wellies on Poppy?”

Poppy: “Because I wanted to. Why have you got shoes on Conor?”

Conor: “Because I wanted to.”

Deep.

The other day she had a friend round to play.I guess this was her first proper play date when the friend was there by herself without parental supervision. My motives were purely selfish for inviting her little friend round – if Emma was there, then I would get a break from playing doctors or the game that I’m not allowed to win. Ever. Oh, and I knew Poppy would enjoy it too.

When I heard what the girls were talking about, I realised Poppy had moved on a fair bit since that footwear conversation with Conor a couple of years ago. I was amazed, saddened, inspired and proud all at the same time. The conversation went something like this:

Emma: “Where’s your daddy, Poppy?”

Poppy: “My daddy doesn’t live with us. He has his own house.”

Emma: “Oh right.”

And that was it. Two four-year-olds just totally nailed the issue of the breakdown of a marriage in those couple of sentences. Matter of fact and mature, unquestioning and accepting.

It’s funny the resilience Poppy can show at times – she’s lived in three different homes since she was born, four if you include her dad’s house – yet if I give her the wrong colour of spoon to eat her breakfast with or we run out of avocado, she goes ape shit.

Feeling super smug, I made them both a healthy smoothie like the super mum I am, before Emma’s nana came to collect her.

And then Poppy wiped the smile right off my face. The conversation went something like this:

Poppy: “I used to have a nana, but she died.”

Emma’s nana: “Oh that’s a shame.”

Poppy: “She got too old. She had white hair just like yours.”

Emma’s nana looked like the Grim Reaper had just entered the room. I looked at the floor, hoping it might open and swallow me right up.

“What’s it like to be fat mummy?”

My daughter likes to ask questions. Lots of questions. Sometimes she doesn’t even wait for the answer to a question before she’s quick fired another one right at you. Only this morning, as we walked along the prom to her nursery, she wanted to know all about King Arthur and his connection to Arthur’s Seat. And about the sword in the stone. And why the sword was in the stone. And why only he could pull it out…..

I’ve always supported her inquisitive nature – there’s no-one who asks questions more than I do – and I always try to be honest with the answers I give her. But the worst questions are the ones where she’s asking about someone’s appearance right in front of them. Those are the ones I struggle to answer. I have different ways of ‘dealing’ with these situations she so frequently places me in. Sometimes I go for the ‘pretending not to hear her’ option. This just makes things worse, however, as she asks me again and again and again, getting louder each time. She caught me off guard with this last week when a friendly woman started to chatting to us outside our house. “Is that a lady or a boy?” asks Poppy. Shocked and mortified, I didn’t answer, so she asked me a further two times until I managed to sheepishly say “it’s a lady, of course.” To which she replied: “Oh, she sounds like a boy.” She wasn’t wrong, to be fair – that’s what a 20-a-day habit does for you.

Sometimes I go for distraction techniques. I dread our weekly visit to the swimming pool as she seems to take great delight in commenting on people in their swimwear. “Why has that lady got big wobbly legs?”, “why is that man all hairy?”….you get the picture. I honestly sometimes dread getting out the shower in front of her in case she has some wonderful comment or other to make about my body.

Sometimes I try to preempt who she’s going to comment on and think of an answer before the question even leaves her lips so we can quickly move on. On the bus last week, I knew she was going to be excited about one lady’s cornrows (“can I have my hair like that mummy?”) and that she would want to know why the man sitting next to us had his hand in a bandage.

Sometimes I simply say: “I don’t know.”

Last night, as I read her Hansel and Gretel before bed, and the witch was fattening the young boy up ready to devour him as a tasty feast, she asked me: “what’s it like to be fat mummy?”

Sometimes, I’m just speechless.

 

 

Feeling Loved…

So yesterday was Mother’s Day.When I was little, I’m sure it used to mean something, but now it just feels like yet another day where mums take to Facebook/Pinterest/Instagram/Twitter to brag about how fantastic their kids are and how amazing they themselves are to have given birth to such thoughtful offspring (“just look at these gorgeous flowers” – feeling loved).

I’m not a big fan of ‘days’. I mean, Monday to Sunday I’m totally fine with, but Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, International Kiss A Duck Day…it’s just not my thing. No offence to anyone who “celebrates” such occasions – each to their own and all that. But if you receive a bunch of flowers on Valentine’s Day from your beloved, why not just thank him there and then? Do you really need to do it via the medium of social media when he’s sitting less than 3ft away from you? And wishing your “gorgeous mum” a happy Mother’s Day on Facebook when she doesn’t even own a computer is just bordering on the ridiculous….

My own Mother’s Day was nothing particularly out of the ordinary, and it certainly wasn’t one straight from the pages of Pinterest. It started off with me being woken up extra early by an excited child who presented me with a present and card she’d been hiding in her den for a week. She kindly opened both on my behalf then told me she was keeping the gift (a ‘best mum’ teddy). She then offered to make me breakfast in bed, an offer quickly rescinded when she remembered she’s only just turned 4 and incapable of cooking a fry-up. She suggested she get me a yoghurt from the fridge instead. After a few hours together, which included playing a game several times that I’m not allowed to win EVER, I drove her to her dad’s because it was his ‘turn’ to have her. I went to Tesco and then Asda (because it would be impossible for one supermarket to have everything I needed, wouldn’t it?) during the height of Sunday traffic hell. When I got home I followed through with my moment-of-madness decision to clean all the carpets (quickly regretted) then I went for a run in the sleet. 

Mother’s Day isn’t always just about hearts and flowers, but doesn’t mean I had a bad day. In fact, I had quite a good day. Sometimes a bit of peace and quiet and being able to go to the toilet by yourself is the best gift a mum can get.

Look everyone…my amazing daughter who clearly went to the shops to buy this all by herself – feeling loved!