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…

The cult of the princess

My daughter wants to be a princess, indeed her brothers, and certain friends encourage this by calling her a princess. Buying her ghastly clothes, with perky slogans like ‘daddies little princess’ emblazoned on the front. (ALWAYS sent to the charity shop as soon as received, and in the worst cases, chucked straight into the bin, or used as dusters- am not encouraging this in others).

Lets just clarify what a princess is. A princess is the daughter of someone, and in every fairy tale ever written- her entire value is either as that mans daughter, or as the potential wife of someone.

She has started requesting certain princess stories- Rapunzel for instance. I do tell her the story. Its just that in my version, Rapunzel realises waiting for some berk to come and use her hair as a ladder is pointless, and actually chops hair off, to a more manageable style, and makes her own rope ladder- leaving the tower a good 6 months before the  prince turns up. I tell her other fairytales with slight adjustments- you dont fall in love from a kiss, and certainly slightly more is required before committing to a relationship with the prince- never mind marriage. In my version of Rumplestiltzkin, the clever woman who guesses the mean midgets name, also gets to leave the mean old King, with the gold, and her child- and manages to live happily ever after on her own. In Cinderella, Cinders gets to keep the dress and the shoes, the Prince is told off for being so arrogant that he just assumes any damsel in the land will accept his hand, and eventually marries an ugly sister, realising that ugly and mean are not the same thing- while Cinderella and the Fairy Godmother set up their own design business. In my version, the eponymous heroines are not meek and mild, they are sharp, witty, and able to help themselves.

There are many theories about the origins of folklore, and certainly when the origins of some of our more well loved fairytales are investigated- they all contain quite disturbing themes of sexual repression, of terrible things happening when the young woman is awakened sexually(note for reader- spindle is ALWAYS symbol for penis-small penis probably, but penis nonetheless).

Yes, I hear you say- but these are just stories. But these are not stories. THese stories are so powerful, that I dont even have to explain the tales I am referring to- they are so deeply ingrained on our collective psyche, that I can safely assume that any reader from the western world, will know exactly what story I am referring to.

There are theories that the folklore and mythology of any give society, are an allegorical reflection of their own psyche, their views, their morals- and IF this is the case- then the cult of the princess needs to be tackled. I suppose if that is true of folklore- then its likely to be true for the modern equivalent of folklore- the media. Our films, our television, our fiction, our art.

I dont want my daughter aspiring to be a helpless virtuous girl- who when faced with trouble, thinks the only solution is that a handsome prince rescues her. The fact that at 2 years old, before she even has the ability to identify what a princess is(she thinks princesses eat sweeties, and have a crown)-this is her first aspiration, bothers me enough, that I will always rewrite these tales- even though by the age of 5, with, or without my influence, she will know the originals off by heart. I am sure that my rewriting these stories will cause a slight bit of friction, when she finds that mummy’s version is different…but who cares.

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Pink stinks!

I predictably swore that I would never do pink. My daughter would not ‘do’ pink. But here we are. Two loads a week. Bright pink, sugar pink, cerise, raspberry pink, peachy pink, pale pink, white with a hint of pink. Even the stuff that isnt pink, has pink fecking sequins, trims, and bindings.

I didn’t swear I wouldn’t ‘do’ pink, because I am a humourless militant feminazi. Although I am. It certainly wasnt because the idea that girls are somehow drawn to this bland, inoffensive, wishy washy colour, by virtue of being born with a uterus, was offensive to me- although it is.  It isn’t because thinking of the people who shape our nation, our minds, and our finances, standing up wearing sugar pink is absurd- although it certainly is.

I swore I wouldn’t do pink- because it is a fecking vile colour. It goes with nothing-apart from more fucking pink. The overall effect of a the obligatory pink trim, on anything, so that people are able to identify that my child is female, and is not called George- is horrible. It was a fucking vile colour when it was traditional for boys, and it remained a vile colour when boys realised, and it was shoved off to girls.

Rachel doesnt even suit pink. She looks great in red, blue, even yellow- but not pink. Yet it is almost impossible to buy clothing for a child without a penis, that doesnt have a sliver of pink, sneaked into it- somewhere, somehow.

I wish this post was original. I wish I was saying something that hadnt been said, a million times before, and that my insight into the cult of pink- was some kind of profound statement. But it isnt.

Ah, I hear you ask. You are the person controlling the purse strings- why do you buy pink? Consumer sovereignty and all that.

I try really hard not to. I will go to ridiculous extremes not to buy pink- but when 90 percent of the clothing available for girls is pink, is accented with pink, or has something pink on it- then you are left with little choice-and it slips in. When that is combined with the fact that her extended family and friends are determined to see her as some kind of princess(and am damn sure I will blog about the cult of the princess at some point- but I need to be able to do so without shaking with fury!)- the pink sneaks in. Rachel is told that she loves pink, that she should love pink- and slowly but surely, pink is becoming her favourite colour- as it is with every one of the little girls in her nursery class.   I would rant more about this subject, but I have to take a load of washing out of the machine, that looks like someone left a red sock in there.

I warn before you read- this is a rant. I bet you never read a rant about Afghanistan AND childbirth in the same place before…

(Warning- before reading this- please note that this post is a rant in two parts, and if you do not feel particularly in the mood to hear me ranting, I suggest you close the page down)

The first part of my rant is aimed at Dr.Denis Walsh, whose comments about women who ‘don’t fancy the pain [of childbirth]‘ and who should be prepared to ‘withstand pain’, were repeated across my sunday morning media.

Now, I understand the sentiment that inspired these comments. Of course labour should be a natural process, I wince at the medicalisation of childbirth, and the taking away of control of birth experiences from women, instead handing it to the ‘experts’ in the medical profession. I am lucky enough to live in an area where the local birthing centre meant that I didnt have to see a single doctor, in the whole time I was pregnant- conscious that I was going through a normal process, not an illness that needed to be presided over by a doctor. Instead receiving support in making MY choices, about delivering MY baby.

However, as a woman, who when refused drugs by a helpful midwife, launched the gas and air mouthpiece at the midwifes head, and demanded my husbands phone to obtain my own drugs- I have to say, I have a teensy weeny problem with this mans statements.  Debates about the medicalisation of childbirth, seemed irrelevant as I bargained in my head that death could not possibly be worse than this-while my daughter remained stuck and refusing to budge(yeah she was stubborn before she was born!).

And quite frankly Dr.Walsh- when you have shat a bowling ball, without anaesthetic, or stretched your front lip over the front of your head, as a new fetching winter hat- you may tell women they should just ‘deal with it’.

When doctors are telling people to have broken bones, and severe burns treated, without pain relief, because that pain will teach them a valuable lesson and enable them to process the trauma better- you may tell women to just get on with it, and stop whinging about pain.

Support women in their birth choices, teach them about natural pain relief techniques(loved the birthing pool, the tens machine..assaulting my husband…all fine, until was bargaining with a god I didnt believe in, begging to not be in pain and tired any more)- but telling women to just get on with it? To expect women to just grin through complete agony- implying that they are simply being ‘soft’ for wanting to manage their own labours in a way that isnt traumatic- makes me want to hunt you down and spray paint graffitti on your house.

I would quite like for women to be able to use the only imposition on childbirth, which benefits women, without it being implied by the profession that is supposed to be helping them, that they are just not ‘hard’ enough to cope with what nature throws at them.

Which links me nicely onto the subject of Afghanistan. Well, it doesnt, but it has also been bothering me this week.

I have this friend Sid. He isnt really called Sid. We called him that because his dad was a village bobby, when we were teenagers. Sid, Sid, the coppers kid.  Sid was one of my best friends, when I was a rebel without a clue 16 year old. We would skive school, and go to my flat and smoke dubious cigarettes of low quality weed(which I am sure was more boot polish than anything else..).

In our early twenties, Sid joined the army. It came as a surprise to me, but on consideration, as I had been bossing Sid around since I was 16, and everyone else had too, I suppose it was a logical step.

Last year Sid came back from Aghanistan. He had returned unscathed from a tour in Iraq, and on paper he returned from Afghanistan the same way. But the stress of whatever he saw out there, had taken my beautiful boy, and changed him. I hope not forever.

I stood in Leeds train station, on the day of 9/11. THe station was more or less silent, although packed. People all of a sudden knew who Osama Bin Laden was, and who the Taliban were. Within days, people who weeks earlier had professed ignorance, when I talked about the treatment of women in Afghanistan, were talking in detail about Islam, and reciting a glossy understanding of this countries history- helpfully served up and spun by our media.

This clear criminal act, perpetrated by a an organisation, was being discussed as an act of war.  We started a war, in a country, on the basis that they harboured a criminal, and because ‘terror training camps’ existed within it. We bombed the people of a country, where they were already experiencing poverty and hardship that we cant imagine in the West, with bombs with more financial value, than the markets and towns they hit. We have been fighting in that country now, since September 2001.

Now pardon me for being simplistic- but I was a little concerned at the time that we were bombing a country, for essentially harbouring a criminal. Given that we regularly harbour war criminals, and that we have criminals being harboured in probably half the countries in the world- was declaring ourselves at ‘War’ with terror, and bombing this poor country back to the stone age really the best way of approaching this?

We didnt define what terror was. We liked having a catch all umbrella term, that could justify almost any atrocity we cared to carry out. By declaring war, we legitamised criminals, and made them combatants. We radicalised the youth of an entire faith- by treating them with hostility, and by placing them on the opposing side of a war-with atrocities carried out, which were only matched in scale by the rhetoric of democracy, and fighting oppression, which glossed them over and repackaged them.

We have created a quagmire- and now politicians are worried- because we arent winning and we cant get out. We cant win- because there was never anything to win. You cant measure success if you never had an objective in the first place. And you cant bomb a country into the stone age to satisfy blood lust, and a right wing agenda.

We sent boys in to do the dirty work. Boys like my friend Sid, who were sent out, ill prepared, ill equipped, with little or no understanding of the country they were fighting in, and a half cocked illusion about what they were fighting for.  When these boys, and they are boys- look around at the reality of where they are. The illusion shatters, and they realise the lies that are being told about what they are doing. Only they are in a country where they are barely equipped for the geographical conditions, never mind to fight an enemy they cant even identify. They are the targets, and they deal with the consequences of the agendas of those who started this. They arent even safe in the knowledge that they will return home heroes, because they are fully aware of the way this ‘war’ is perceived.

This week, we had one of the worst weeks in Afghanistan since the conflict began. With more boys dying, and no end in sight.  I have heard comment from politicians, using words like ‘winnable’, and waxing lyrical about womens rights in Afghanistan-like that was even a contributing factor to our actions. On Friday it took every bit of restraint I had, while listening to Any Questions, not to throw the radio at the wall- as a response to the glib lies and platitudes about this ‘conflict.

I was in Vietnam a few years ago. In Ho Chi Minh city, the rickshaw drivers are those who collaborated with America, in the 11 years that they tore that country apart. They have an official status as outcasts, and are not allowed to eat in certain places, their lives are spent as a permanent reminder of their collaboration. They tell horrific stories of what happpened when America withdrew- leaving those who they claimed they were ‘helping’ to face the consequences of being on the wrong side during a war that should never have been fought.

We will be forced to do the same, when we leave Afghanistan. The soldiers out there know how little we are achieving, and they know that the country we have spent the last 8 years tearing apart, will have to deal with the consequences, as our leaders come up with a hastily devised, ill thought out exit strategy. Will we help those who risked everything to help us in our misguided confused aims? No, of course we wont. Tales are already pouring in from Iraq, about the consequences faced by those who did our translating, and our driving. People who have been rejected in their applications to come to the country they worked for, even though they are at risk of death without our protection.

The aim of this exit strategy will of course be to appease British Voters, rather than a consideration of the needs of the country we have destroyed.

I daresay this exit strategy will be sold to us like a victory for democracy, and like Russia, we will consign our 8 years in Afghanistan to the drawer of history. Trying not to dwell on it. In the meantime boys like Sid, and the people of Afghanistan will be living with the damage done.

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.