Did I really need a mirror for my flaws?

When you have a tiny baby, you may spend much of your life trying and failing to be the parent and person you want to be, but you havent yet made enough of an imprint onto this blank canvas of a child- that other people will ever know that you are anything less than the parent you aspire to. As they get older, they copy your expressions slightly, your mannerisms, and emulate you when caring for their dolls- but stil, there is no clue to the outside world, of anything apart from what you show.

Then the miracle of speech happens.

It is natures idea of a practical joke, that children develop communication before they develop reason. Once you have finished tending to the basic needs of this child in your care- feeding, bathing, dressing- you are left to teach them about the world. Unfortunately, whatever your intentions are- that teaching does not come from the wisdom you choose to impart, like a stressed out Yoda- but from them watching an absorbing everything you do or say. They judge you, not with a developed understanding of the nuances of the world- but with the unquestioning eye and black and white logic, of an unforgiving mini Dr.Spock.

This week, we have mainly been talking about swearing. The concept of swearing was introduced, when out of the blue, my 10 month old daughter, uttered the beautifully formed and enunciated word ‘Cunt’. Up until that point, I had never considered that she understood language(apart from milk, mummy and daddy)- and I did try to say to her dad that it was only his behaviour that had necessitated the use of the word in the first place- but I was suitably shamed, and realised from this point on- this child would show up every single character defect I had. Oh, how right I was.

The dreaded ‘C’ word, has not reared its head again(due to creation of the word ‘Custard’ which is a cross between ‘Cunt’ and ‘Bastard’- but which can be safely uttered around the smaller members of our society). But the theme of Rachel showing up my every flaw, has continued in earnest.

I abandoned the concept of ‘naughty words’- after I told her that ‘bugger’ was a naughty word, and it was repeated whenever said child was in a mood for mischief. My telling her that it was not nice to say ‘bugger’ was met with the explanation that it was ‘nice cos it was NORTY!’. This  showed me very clearly that an alternative strategy was needed. Although if we are honest, her reasoning is a philosophy which has served me well in many areas of my life.

The attempted removal of expletives from my own speech, as well as a refusal to give attention, when the occasional exploratory swear word came from her mouth- was very effective. No swear words, not even beautifully uttered and enunciated ones, came forth. My occasional lapses were ignored, and life continued as normal.

THen someone, not me I might add, had the bright idea of telling Rachel that words were ‘Naughty’. Yesterday, while sat in a cafe, a young man on a nearby table, was reprimanded by my two year old, for saying such a naughty word- and during the discussion that they entered into- also explained ‘My mummy says naughty words when she is on the pooter and the telephone, but she is always naughty”. Thanks snitch.

And this is what toddlers do. They absorb what you say and do, and without any reason, or understanding of concepts of discretion, and tact- they proudly show what they have learned to the outside world.

From the introduction of my boyfriend(who is also Rachels godfather, her favourite pet, and who wasnt even allowed to kiss me in front  of her for 6 whole months) to her nursery worker as ‘J, who sleeps in my mummys bed’, to very vocal questions about whether I have lost my keys again, every time we get within 5 minutes of our house. The flicking through a magazine, with loud statements that she ‘liked those shoes but that dress looks cheap’, the correction to my friend, that we did have sweeties, its just that we kept them in mummys bedroom drawer. Through to the telling of the world that ‘mummy is grumpy and needs a cup of tea cos I am a pain in the bum’.  She proudly exposes my every parenting weakness, and character flaw, to a visibly amused world.

When Rachel bumped her leg, while her dad was carrying her downstairs- I am sure the constant repetition of the exclamation ‘My daddy smashed my leg into the wall and I CRIED’, did not raise any concerns about her father(incidentally also a child protection social worker…), and I am quite sure that the proud exclamations that ‘mummy will let me have a pot noodle for tea if am a good girl’(entirely untrue- I ONCE gave her a taste out of my pot noodle-pot noodle being one of my guilty dirty pleasures in a life dominated by fair trade produce, and organic veg), or the statement that I was planning on selling her on ebay for pooing in her nappy(and I have NO clue where that one came from!It wasnt me-I always plasters on a smile when welcome with a big steaming turd!)- have never led our friends and acquantinances to question our parenting.

I am taking Rachel on holiday with 6 of my friends, and their children, on Monday, and I am in no doubt, that after a week with Rachel they will be a) making phone calls to our local social services team b) convinced that I am a woman with such loose morals, and character flaws- that I should never have been allowed to attempt parenthood in the first place! The latter may possibly right…

Er..think am going bonkers…

After spending last night, and all of today, with Rachel appearing to be on deaths door. She woke up from her nap like she had been dipped in amphetamines, tearing about the street after Maisie and Finn.

Had James not been here this afternoon, while my little invalid was in deep slumber, and then witnessed first hand her forlorn little requests for grapes and juice, there would be no witnesses to it.

THis raises a question- if a child is ill, but only their parents have seen it….were they ill at all…is it all in the perception? Think I desperately need sleep and tea…lots of tea.

Florence Nightingale I am not.

I knew we were in trouble yesterday, when a trip to the local swimming pool resulted in a very upset little girl, who just wanted to stand in the shower with her armbands- and not get into the pool, or go and get something to eat. I did find it quite amusing when she commented that the lady in the communal shower had hairy knickers on…and tried desperately hard not to look at the hanging tangle of grey pubic hair, that was hanging down from said womans swimming costume.

But I digress. By teatime, Rachel was burning up, and sleepy.

Now thismay seem like a minor concern- but when you have a little un with a high temperature- scare stories of febrile convulsions and dehydration run side by side, with nightmares about having to physically have your child restrained while you adminster a syringe full of foul tasting calpol/nurofen syrup, and media scare stories about Swine Flu, which you know shouldnt cause panic, but do.

But these concerns about your childs possible welfare, pale in comparison to the knowledge that you will spend the next 12 hours finding more and more inventive ways of adminstering medicine, and that the the chance of sleep for the next 24 hours is slim to none, and slim just left town.

It would help if I hadnt been a food nazi, obsessed with dental hygeine- and Rachel didnt think that fruit juice, pop, and flavoured milks, were the work of the devil. THese sugary nutritionally inadequate solutions, allow you to hide medicine in the guise of a treat and remove any necessity of brute force, instead of a distraught child, shocked at the tactics their parents employ- I assume you get a grateful child, who thinks being ill is a marvellous excuse for sweets.

By the time we got to 9pm, and Rachel was running a temp of 39(verging on A+E time). Any attempts at getting this ghastly syrup down her were met with the kind of distress which resulted in bedclothes covered in sticky syrup, and her temperature further rising, due to the outright anguish at the thought of mummy trying to get her to take this stuff.

I had tried putting the medicine into grapes, and stitching them up, a la John Carter in ER. I had made an ice cube tray filled with jelly, with a spoonful of nurofen in with it…I had mixed it with milk, water, and tried holding her down, and forcing it into the side of her mouth. The problem with brute force, is that you actually need two people- one to restrain the child and the other to shoot the medicine into the side and back of the mouth- to prevent rejection. I had tried outright bribery, cajoling, and tried to pull on the early sense of peer pressure, by saying that her friend Finn LOVED medicine. I had offered her some rather dubious mint flavoured childrens paracetamol donated by a neighbour.

Problem with Rachel, is that she is smart. She was slightly perturbed by the fact that the jelly was in ice cube form, and immediately realised that red jelly was not supposed to taste of orange nurofen- and refused. The grape was half bitten and shot across the room immediately. And getting an octopus into a pillow case would have been easier than holding her down.

So we were left with the old staples of a cool flannel sponging her down. When I am ill, and am running a temperature, I pretty much always have the chills- the same applies to Rachel. Attempts at opening windows(highly ineffective in July), using thinner covers, and wiping her down- were met with cries that she was cold.

By midnight she thought she had been in bed for days,  and that it was clearly time to get up. And so we set into the pattern for the rest of the night. I dont often complain about living on my own. I love it generally, I love having my own house, I like not being accountable to anyone else. The nights when your child is ill, however, are a different matter.

The nights stretch long, and by the time Rachel was sleeping in 20 minute bursts- common sense told me that getting some sleep was also a very good idea. The problem is that you lie there waiting for her to wake up, and as soon as you begin to drift off, she wakes again. What the baby books dont tell you, is that by the time this has been repeated six or seven times, you begin to get tired and snappy. As someone who has suffered insomnia, I know that the surest fire way of getting tired, is to be told you cant go to sleep.

When you are married- regardless of what kind of cretin you are married to, there is an adult in the house who you can be snappy to. Because the temptation is to get tired and snappy at Rachel, and it really doesnt matter how you look at it- snapping at a two year old for being poorly, is really not on.  I think this is where the image of the serene, calm, Florence Nightingale figure comes in- because by 5am- this is the facade that you are adopting- to cover the fact that your entire body just wants to go to sleep, and actually the crying is beginning to grate, and you have that kind of tiredness where you can almost feel yourself sinking into your bed, even though it is a floor away.

Rachel and I both settled by 5ish, and here is where the ultimate irony of childrens illness comes in. RAchel woke at 6.30, feeling fine, although still hot- and not understanding why I didnt want to play. She now morally objects to the insinuation that she may be ill, and this may be a good reason not to go to the park, and the library. She has assured me that if she was ill, she would take medicine, and as she is not having medicine, she is clearly not ill…

On the upside, we get to doss around the house in our pyjamas, eating sandwiches, and nibbling fruit, while Charlie and Lola plays on a loop. And Rachel gets to adminster her own medical treatment to the line up of dolls and teddies, who being poked and prodded, and forced to take her own version of medicine. Judging by her bedside manner- she should be really grateful that my impression of Florence Nightingale is slightly more compassionate and less gruesome than hers.

Did someone replace my child with Satan?

So apparently, I am a ‘mummy blogger’(according to the mouth of Rupert Murdoch that is The Times). I am assuming that means I am expected to dispense sage parenting advice, passed through generations- and share the marvels that are parenting, while impressing you all with my ability to be a domestic goddess, eternal nurturer, and general all round Madonna.(the first one, not the one who collects babies from the developing world, and boy toys from LA).
Well, it’s a good job I didnt update yesterday then. Because at precisely 2pm, I truly believed  someone had swapped my child with Satan over the weekend, and left a foundling with me, whose sole raison d’etre was to send me to the loony bin.

Now dont get me wrong, having the company of a fiercely unpredictable, smart cookie like Rachel has its benefits. BUT when your energy is flagging, or she is out of kilter- it becomes an endurance test they wouldnt inflict on prisoners of Guantanemo. When both happen at the same time, you have a situation which they couldnt show on film, because the results would be too frightening.

While Rachel says she is not a ‘feminist’, she clearly has the nature of someone who doesnt understand that there are limitations on what she can do/have. So from the early morning wake up call of ‘Mummy mummy mummy WAKE UP WAKE UP I WANT CEREAL DORA CBEEBIES’, to the screaming tantrum because I put the spoon in the cereal, instead of handing it to her… right through to the ‘I peed on the floor cos I couldnt be bothered’(for the third time in one morning), and I hate you, you are a stinky meanbag, and I want to go to the park, even though its bedtime- we were in a war of attrition.

You can go and buy books, or watch tv shows with that muppet Supernanny(who by the way doesnt have kids), and you will learn about clear boundaries, following through, remaining calm, and generally being an uber cool, detatched, controlled, caregiver- delicately nurturing your offspring with clear expectations and a firm loving hand.

You would be better off watching an old 50′s thriller, with someone diffusing a bomb, and not knowing whether the red wire or the blue wire, will be the one which sets off the explosion which will consume them into a fiery ball, and leave their liver hanging off the shop over the road. This is more akin to parenting a toddler.

Remaining calm, and communicating clearly, becomes quite difficult when you are faced with a two year old, screaming because her peach isnt green, and has a bone in it. Ah, I hear you say- offer an apple. But when the offer of an apple, is met with a meltdown beyond hiroshima, because she ‘WANTS A PEACH’- you begin to see a problem. When this screaming fit, is only one of several zillion screaming fits, for equally bizarre, and unrelated reasons, the sanity of any normal person begins to wear. When you combine that with the fact that I am not a ‘mummy blogger’, I am in fact just a normal woman who blogs, who happens to have a child,  and who was still slightly delicate from a demanding weekend in muddy fields, we begin to see a problem.

You cant even take the lazy way out, and give in, because when the request is that mummy makes it stop raining, so we can go to the park- my powers are limited. While i believe myself to be a very capable intelligent woman, I think attempting to create sunshine would be mixing up my ambitions and capabilities somewhat.

So, after two days of this seemingly endless war of attrition, I was counting the minutes till 8am this morning, when my daughter would be lovingly left in the capable hands, of those angels in blue, at her nursery, who swear she has never had a toilet accident, and is the most well mannered little girl in Christendom. And here I am, ‘mummy blogging’ and contemplating clearing the carnage left by my two year old devil.

But with the help of Dora the Explorer on a loop, playdoh, scissors, card, gluesticks, a box of teabags, and many friends on the end of the phone, I made it through alive. I shouted slightly more than I would like, and I dont think any parenting experts are going to be using me as a case study.  I wont get a medal, like the veterans of the Israel/Egypt war of attrition, and I have achieved about as much as they did. I will relish my baby free day, and by tomorrow will be pining for my little girl to be home- having completely forgotten how rubbish yesterday was.  Selective amnesia is the thing which allows us to carry on, and not sell our children on ebay(that and a handy rule from ebay, that you cant sell your child using their auction site).

So here is my ‘mummy blog’ for the day. And I am sure that I will come over all supernanny for the next installment.