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…

Festival madness.

Do you know what a state dependant memory is? You know when you are drunk, and you lose something, and then when you are in the same state, you remember where you put it. That is a state dependant memory, and  that is what happens with me and festivals.

My stomach sank on Friday morning. I looked out of the window, and after a week of glorious weather- I saw torrential rain, and  Lake Gallilee had formed outside my house. This was the first state dependant memory. The memory of every festival that I have ever been to. Waking up on the day of departure, to torrential rain- and the prospect of a weekend with trench foot, bad food, and cold.  I packed deeply unnatractive waterproofs(which i lost anyway, and never felt the benefit of..), my list of the bands/dj’s I intended to see, and off I went.

By the time I arrived- the torrential rain had dissapeared- left enough mud for the wellies to come out(pink candy striped wellies- clearly not an outdoors girl really..) and been replaced with glorious sunshine.

Unlike every other festival, I did not spend hours grappling with the intricate science of tent erection- instead arriving on site after my friends(actually one friend and her friends) had constructed a tent, laid it out with all things necessary for a great weekend, and already settled in.  This all boded well. As it was, I barely saw this tent, and not putting it up, meant I was not familiar enough with it, to actually find it without difficulty and luck, later on in the weekend… Her friends quickly became my friends, and off we went.

The initial forays to explore the lie of the land,  became entwined with the festivities, and I happily realised that the whole of Hebden Bridge had upped sticks to this collection of muddy fields for the weekend- with my neighbours, my stepson and his friends(trying desperately hard not to look like they were doing anything illegal at all..) and various acquaintances from different stages of my life- also there, in wellies-tentatively exploring this site of tents, marquees and sounds stages. After the first hour or so, of inhibitions falling, and decibels increasing- time began to lose all meaning.

Went from soundstage, to marquee, to tea shack, to a beautiful clearing in some very tall woods pounding with techno, and teeming with people. Many conversations with people, some strangers, some not, some already half recognised, and gotten to know in the time that elapsed between Friday evening, and Saturday afternoon(evening? Really not that sure). Had conversations with everyone, on topics as diverse as the meaning of life, the new Doctor Who, how to eat a twix correctly(you nibble the chocolate off the sides, then peel the toffee off the biscuit, then either eat the biscuit or chuck it..). It was dark, then it was light. Then I was lying on a sleeping mat, in a circle of tents, with some rather nice people- considering the awful choice that lay before me.

Lie there and fall happily asleep in the sun(which was already hot) and eventually be discovered as the toasted remains of me, or move and find the tent(which could have been green/red/blue, large or small, and possibly in a field with more tents…). As I did not at that point, have the capacity to move- my options became rather limited. THe porch of someones tent was offered- and I lay there, hoping for sleep, but actually listening to the competing decibels and beats, from the various soundstages- contemplating the fact that there was definitely a toothbrush and an unopened pack of cigarettes in the tent I had lost.

After being christened Bernard, and being part of a discussion about which animal we would prefer to be stampeded by(we came up with Meerkats-but realised it was impractical- as we would need about 15oo meerkats trained to stampede, possibly in pyjamas, and that might be difficult to locate)-the urge to pee, became stronger than the urge to sleep- and after a doze(it may have been sleep, it may not)- I went to look for the toilets.

This turned out to be a masterful stroke of planning. While I did not find the toilets- I did find my tent. Important rule- if you are looking for your tent at a festival, you will never find it, but kismet and serendipity mean you will always happen upon it eventually when you are looking for something else.

Saturday night at a festival is always different to Friday. The energy and the enthusiasm dissipates somewhat, and it is replaced by casualties from the night before, trying to rediscover the energy that they had the night before-without realising that the lack of sleep, adequate nutrition, and a shower- means it is lost till at least Sunday.

I valiantly gave up at 4am, and spent several hours asleep in a yurt.

Sunday was spent in a day of relative sobriety, looking about 30 years older than my years- eating cake, drinking tea, and contemplating going home. This placed me at odds with the rest of the gathered partygoers- but responsibility beckoned. They had found the energy to party with the same enthusiasm that they had arrived with- but this was my cue to leave. As the friend I had come with, was in no fit state to drive- I grabbed a lift to the station- and on Sunday evening, I managed to get myself home, albeit with filthy hair, a mouth that tasted like someone had died in it, and attire that might as well have been a neon sign  that said ‘I am on my way home from a festival’-(muddy wellies, denim cut offs, a bag with a sleeping mat sticking out- and hair that looked like it was on the verge of dreads).

Today, as I settled back into life watching Rachel, drinking tea, having clean hair, with techno replaced by Radio4, I was reassured by the friends that I had been with, that they had had a wicked time. State dependant memories of recovery from festivals, have appeared out of nowhere- . I didnt see any of the DJ’s or bands I intended to see(I may have caught 808 state, but really was unaware), but I did have a brilliant weekend. I have eaten terrible noodles, some things with chickpeas in it, and a very greasy burger, and paid way over the odds for the priveledge. I have peed in smelly portaloos, and I am quite sure that my stuff will remain in the bags I took for at least a week. I dont have trench foot, I do have sunburn, in a pattern which indicates it was earned while I was lay on that sleeping mat, procrastinating about finding my tent.

Rachel is now in bed. I am clean, my house is not, and I have decided that that is my festival fix for the summer. Unless Kendal Calling tickets fall ito my lap…