Tether

One of the cruellest things about parenting and responsibility is the accompanying guilt.

Why aren't I doing it right?

Why is [insert anyone from baby group] so good at this and I am not?

Why do the creatures we love so much try us?

Why do they press our buttons when we just want the best for them?

Why can't I do this?

When can I run away?

What is wrong with me?

Some days it is relentless in it's let up of internal criticism. Some days I just want to walk out the door and I run and run until my feet fall off. Some days I want someone 'proper' to take over.

Of course I don't.

The furthest I've ever run to is my bedroom; just metres if that. I won't even lock myself in the bathroom.

Some days I don't know if it is being "just a mum" or if it is a throw back to the days of NICU and the accompanying uphill struggle that has been oral aversion, recurrent admissions and a scary unknown future. I can't forget. I wish I could. But the pain is still there in the background, lurking. Waiting around the corner. Waiting for the light of my life to close her sleepy eyes when the grief will pounce and smother me until I can fight no more.

I thought I had this depression, this rememberance, these experiences under control. Somehow, behind my back they have broken free of their shackles and crept up to tap me on the shoulder.

I am so tired.

Today it was all I could do but to curl up in ball on the floor while Wriggles pulled everything off the bookshelf half-watching In the Night Garden.

I have no idea what Iggle Piggle did with Upsy Dasiy. My eyes were closed. My brain was numb. I felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing. I should have been awake, alive. I should have been playing with my precious child. But I couldn't. I selfishly couldn't find the strength to even sit up or mumble through The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Why is it all so hard?

When can I move on?

When can I get it right?

When can I have happy moments all day and everyday?

If not for me, then for Wriggles. Please. She deserves it.

Sometimes

Always, always, always I am proud of Wriggles.

Proud of what she has achieved.

Proud of what she will achieve.

Proud of how far she has come.

Proud of what a delight she is (tantrums excluded) and how she charms the pants off anyone and puts a smile on the face of strangers.

But sometimes, although I am proud I am also sad.

Not disappointed, but sad. There is a huge difference between the two.

Sometimes I look at other children, and whilst I do not compare, I do notice. Notice that those younger are taking steps, forming forms, wobbling around whilst my older girl crawls around blissfully. And sometimes I feel angry or upset or frustrated that anyone should have a complicated journey, that any innocent child should have to be on a different path, that any family should have a challenging journey.

It's character building, they said. Challenges make us stronger and us who we are. 

Sometimes I believe it and sometimes I think it is bollocks.

Sometimes I want to know what the future holds and sometimes I am scared. Sometimes I am furious at the universe for giving my beautiful girl such a mixed bag when other (less nice, obviously) children get such an easy ride. To them, the terms I know and hear and think about every day are either those of ignorance or simply intellectual. To me, they are part of my child.

Sometimes I wonder if I had done anything any differently if we would have had the complications we did and still live with.

Sometimes I wish I could just take Wriggles had and run off into the sunset, away from doctors, from clinic, from observations, from reports, and just be the two of us alone.

2 shoes - 1 shoe = cross mama

Oh dear.

My desperately-trying-to-be-perfect SAHM mantle is slipping. Forget slipping, it has crashed to the ground.

The day started off well. Miraculously we were both dressed, fed and watered by 9am and out the door for a playgroup session at our local Sure Start. We weren't even the last ones in. We played for an hour and a half, sung some songs and trundled off to the high street in our district to collect the new super-duper-high-calorie milk order and have some lunch. As a treat, we had lunch at a cafe and Wriggles had a good go at chewing the crusts of my sandwich as well as drinking a bottle of the new wonder milk. Although slightly over-cast, the sun warmed us and the air was clear so we walked up to the supermarket to collect some bits and pieces. The trouble started there. Not to be out-done by her toddler friends, Wriggles is far too interested in basically, anything other than napping, and is a little monkey to get down at the moment. I wouldn't mind, but without one she is a monster by 4:30pm and dinner, bathtime and bedtime goes down the drain as she is over-tired and answers only to the Bedtime Hour on Cbeebies. Her eyes were drooping as we started down the aisles and so I put up the cover of the pushchair so she could get some peace and drop off.

Wrong.

The next half hour was spent trying to persuade her that napping was infinitely preferable to trying to throw everything out the pushchair and pull things off the shelves. After a while, I gave up and sped round eager to leave. Everything done, in near record time, I suddenly noticed something wasn't right. There were two pink socks poking out the pushchair. 

We came in with two shoes.

One shoes, I removed swiftly and placed in my handbag as one leg is far more flexible and she can take this shoe off with her eyes closed. The other leg, is normally safe and my handbag was out of space. 

Well, safe no more. I will have to find a bigger handbag or some jeans with gigantic pockets. 

We traced out steps back round once, then twice, then three times. Wriggles smirked and giggled.

I could feel my annoyance rising. Not only were we now wasting time in blasted ASDA, there was a really irritating in-store radio with a infuriating simpering woman on it waxing lyrical about Smarties, there was poor air conditioning and Wriggles was now trying to escape and chuck things simultaneously. Clearly naptime was off the radar. After round 3, I gave up and stomped off to the tills then checked in with lost property and customer service. Nothing. 

Why I got so irritated I have no idea. The little shoes weren't very expensive, but they are the only pair we have with semi-decent soles and we are supposed to now be defying all traditional baby-feet advice and wearing something with some support and a grippy bottom to help her muddled-up legs. As I got worked off, I got yet more worked up at myself. Why did I care so much? Big deal, toddlers are contrary and throw things. We loose socks all the time, to the hoover or lord knows where. I am continually puzzling over my diminishing pile of pants and that doesn't try my patience. Still clinging on to hope of a nap, I bundled Wriggles into the parent room to change her and give her a drink before leaving. Again, common sense seemingly flew off in the air and whilst my back was turned for half a second reaching for something, she kicked over the open bottle of milk which went everywhere. And then I ashamed to say, I saw red. I don't know what came over me, but for a few seconds I was furious. I was tired, hot and stupidly the puddle of milk mattered more than my little girl. I snapped crossly at her and tapped her on the leg. Not a proper smack by any means, but my goodness regret coursed through my veins. Hot shame flew over me, berating me. You're one of THOSE mums, you can't keep your temper, you can't look after your own child, you should be ashamed of yourself. You're no better than the young single-mum stereotype. Why don't you pick up a smartprice bottle of vodka and stamp back to your council flat and sit there are swear and ignore your child! Better still, why not put her in nursery where proper adults can look after her. It's not like you're doing a good job. Trying to find some calm, I mopped it up and held her close and looked into her beautiful face as finally she stopped fighting and her eyes fluttered shut in my arms. Gently, I placed her back in the pushchair after a few moments of just being still and walked out, home.

I rarely loose my temper. In general circumstances, it takes a bit to get anything stronger than an "oh, SOD" out of me, far less a raised voice or anything physical. I know I'm quite critical of myself, but on the whole, I am a pretty laid-back flexible person verging on the indecisive and vaguely hippy. I like having a sense of routine but am far from lost without one, and 'make it up as you go along' could be my catchphrase. I don't loose it with Wriggles especially that often, and spent large chunks at present trying to remove her from the bin, stop her tearing pages from books or from stealing biros (honestly, I had hidden every last one high up and somehow she finds ones I never remember owning) and trying to scribble on the carpet. It doesn't rile me. It might make me do some deep breathing but not shout. I am used to recurrent refusal of food, things thrown on the floor and wasted. I walk away. So what the dickens am I playing at today?  I am putting it down to ill-child-syndrome. After a hospital admission, I am often out of sorts. Exhausted mentally and physically and stirred out from having to recount every aspect of the whole sorry story of the last 22 months and pouring over bad memories so that the on-call consultant can get the picture. We leave elated at being let out again, but on a state of high alert trying to remember that things are not going to go downhill. Not this time, not now. My emotions are magnified and my responses less measured and lacking in reason. I feel such a magnitude of responsibility and sometimes with no-one daily to turn to for reassurance, the desire to get it right gets to me and rips out my instincts, temporarily replacing them with someone I don't recognise. Of course, in time everything is back to normal and I am left wondering what I was making a fuss about.


As much as playing hospitals, the reality is that this parenting lark can be hard graft. Just when you think you have sussed out your baby and are proudly imparting advice to those slightly further behind, things change and you have a new personality, new sets of whims, new routine and new parenting attitude to learn and quickly. Mostly, Wriggles is a delight but some recent toddler-ish habits and less attractive traits are creeping in (sleep regression, pouting, the emergence of some tantrums, shaking her head to everything, wilful vandalism of toys, thievery of possessions and lack of concentration on erm, anything). Suddenly I need to clarify my position on discipline, work a new routine which suits us both as a family unit and find tactics to avoid these toddler-isms wherever possible. I have no problem her being herself, but I do not want to stand back in la-la-land watching while testing boundaries becomes deliberate bad behaviour. Granted, we'd have a fair way to go, not least because she is lacking in some understanding still, but I do not want to be in a helpless position because I could have done better at the time. I want to continue being proud of my daughter-and that we did it by ourselves, together.


My mum is an early years worker and I have grown up hearing complaints of parents just not doing enough and I so want to be one of the good ones. Not just for anyone else, but for Wriggles to give her the best start I can. I want her to know she is loved and safe (but not immune to discipline when needed!) and to continue being a pleasure in mixed company and a delightful figure who commands attention for all the right reasons. Of course she is going to test my patience and press my buttons: we are both only human. I think I just need more practise! As much as I am looking forward to a period of time spent the two of us at home, I am also nervous. What if today is a sign of things to come? What if I have got used to bundling her off somewhere else a few days a week and just can't do everything alone? In my heart of hearts, I know that is just parent-guilt speaking. That horrible worm that burrows it's way into your psyche, making you doubt every move you make and pointing out that so-and-so down the road does it better.


It is a little like having a newborn, or equivalent. Everyone says airily "oh it's so TIRING" and you nod politely whilst thinking "how can such a small and sleepy baby be so disruptive?". Then weeks later, you are shrieking "why didn't you tell me what hard work it was! I'd have stocked up on restful cucumber slices, Mozart and gin if I'd known!". Likewise, everyone alludes to the Terrible Twos whilst your cherubs sucks on their toy's ears. Surely they would never...? Oh yes they will. Even the nicest baby has his or her wilful moments. Even Mrs So-and-So down the road. Just because she says it's all fine and they never have a speck of trouble, that is no reason to fall for it. We are all eager enough to trade stories with a comic edge, but more reluctant to share anything that shows us off at our worse. I can't remember meeting up with mum friends or going to a toddler group where everyone trades in expletives and the worst time they lost their rag. Because we all do it. Or will do it. And short of reading your children wrong and being genuinely out of control, they are not the worse for it. After five minutes anyway. 


I left the smartprice vodka on the shelf. For this time anyway.

Dear NICU

Dear NICU,

I am angry. So angry. I know I shouldn't be but there are so many things I want to say to you. Maybe it's not healthy nearly 2 years on but I need to get this off my chest.

You denied me my role of motherhood. You took away my basic rights as a parent. You can SAY I'm still the mum, but how was I really being a mum just sitting? Sitting and staring. Watching and waiting. That's not parenting.

Do you know how demeaning it is to ask for permission to touch my baby? Not even hold, but touch? And when told, albeit gently, no not now, no not today, how you snapped my fragile heart and stamped over it before brushing it aside for dead.

How patronising and sad it is to have cuddles put on a rota, as if it was another chore to tick off. 15 minutes a day; 3pm after cares.

How I felt as small as a gnat, no smaller, as worthless as a flea because I wasn't breastfeeding. I couldn't even do that and you didn't care. You didn't even say, don't worry because it wasn't important as long as my child grew.

You smashed every one of my dreams and preconceptions of my first child, my baby I will never ever recover or now live. My innocence was lost within hours. It doesn't matter if I go on to have another baby; I will never get those hours back with her.

You were rubbish at sharing. All those weeks and I could only visit. Every night I had to leave. Every night I had to leave my baby with someone else. Someone very kind and very skilled but a stranger. Every night I had to accept that someone else would comfort my baby because I couldn't be there to do it, and might get to hold her precious hands while I wasn't allowed.

You had the most important job in the world looking after tiny vulnerable beings that were each the centre of someone's universe and yet you had no compassion. Day in day out some babies would get sick. Worse, some might leave this earth. Why didn't you do something? Something more?

You weren't me. You might have cared for my baby but you will never love her and you took her from me when she needed love the most.

Kind regards,

but maybe not that kind,

Mouse

ps. By the way, thanks for y'know, saving my baby's life and looking after her. Thanks for giving her the chance to live so we could both be happy today. More than happy. Um. Maybe you could just ignore all of the above?

*screws letter up and throws it in the bin*

Sigh.