Education – Mother in the House

Punctual, Proud and Peeing…

The Girl has started school. The school do a very gentle induction of half days for a whole week. Which is of course a total nightmare for childcare and for my child who is used to 10 hour days at nursery. It is somewhat painful all round.

Anyway, accepting this, Phil rose to the parenting challenge and took some annual leave. As did I, as I wasn’t missing the first day of school obligatory photo shoot either! But on the Friday I had a course to go on.

So I swanned out of the house at 7.30am being a strong and independent woman, going to work and leaving Phil to have the Stay-at-home-dad experience. As we have long established, time keeping is not Phils’ strongest point so I left him fully briefed and and crossed my fingers.

But I needn’t have worried. Phil is a new age independent man. He’d got this. And he really did. He dropped the girl off. He fed The Boy, he returned at lunch time to collect The Girl. He told me with great delight that he spoke to lots of the mums at the school gates, he tells me he was a proud dad and he didn’t stick out like the only dad at the gate, he did the school run and enjoyed it. In fact he was so on time that he managed to collect The Boy’s prescription milk (because cows milk makes his insides bleed) from the pharmacy before he went to the school.

The Boy’s milk supply comes as 7 tins of formula. Which they kindly put in a box to make it easy to carry.

So Phil went to the school gates and mingled like a pro with a huge, bright purple, clearly labelled, Tena lady incontinece pads box under his arm.

Now when I realise that this has happened I have mixed emotions.

Firstly I’m mortified that every parent at the school gates is going to think that I have incontinence issues. I’ve had two children, including a 9lb 1 chunk of a boy so it’s not entirely unreasonable that people would think this. But I actually don’t. I’m lucky enough to have a husband who is a urologist and therefore kindly offered frequent reminders to do my pelvic floor exercises. Which to date have proved very effective in maintaining my ability to pee on demand.

But then again. Why should I be so distressed that people are thinking my husband is collecting my incontinence pads? I mean what a guy to do that?!

And, so what if I do need incontinence pads? What’s the big deal? It’s a common problem, why should I be embarrassed? Why shouldn’t we say it loud and proud “I carried 2 children and popped them out of my fanny. My body is amazing. So let’s cut it some slack and forgive it for being a bit leaky.”

Maybe Phil proudly chatting away with the Tena Lady under his arm will make someone else think. Maybe it will normalise this. Maybe it will encourage someone else to seek help. Maybe us ladies should stick together and breakdown the stigma. Maybe we can help each other out.

And maybe we should all just do our pelvic floor exercises now.

Right now!!!

But maybe, just maybe, nobody noticed the Tena Lady box after all….

Age is But a Number…

Last week The Girl made me a birthday card at preschool and presented it to me.

Me: Oh thanks, that’s…. interesting

The Girl: It has got an eighteen on

Me: Yep, I see that….How old am I now?

The Girl: You’re 32. But I thought you would like an 18 better.

On another note, she also opted to leave the inside of the card entirely blank.

#winning #sheknowsmesowell #thatwilldonicely #ifihadafavouritechildthiscouldswingit #cardrecycling

Under Pressure…

The exam is done. Well the first attempt is complete. And no. I don’t know how it went. It was an MCQ, and I’m human, so out of the 200 questions I answered, I keep remembering the 3 I got wrong. I could have got all 197 others correct (I didn’t, but theoretically I could have) and I would still only remember the 3 astoundingly irrelevant ones. I could have revised day and night for a lifetime and I would still never have got those right.

Now, in my younger days before children and responsibilities when my time was my own and how hard I worked was down to me- I would be anxious about the results- could I have done a little bit more? Should I have done those extra few questions? Should I have approached it differently? But now. Well, what will be will be.

If I pass it’s because I am amazing. It’s because I worked so blinking hard. Its because I arrived an hour early for work and my lunch breaks were spent alone in my room reading NICE guidelines and the BNF. It’s because I put the kids to bed each night and hid in the spare room answering question after question. It’s because I packed off my children to any willing relative and knuckled down with the cool kids in the library. Its because I sat down with the GCSE and A level candidates and the uni students. Its because I sat surrounded by top knots and high tops, exposed mid drifts and teenage angst. Its because I sat opposite the younger version of me, and watched as she shared her pens with her boyfriend, swapped medical books with each other and had lunch lying on the grass outside together.

Its because I wondered. I wondered what the hell possessed me to still be doing this. Why 12 years on I’m sat in the same library revising again but this time on my own? Is this really what I signed up for? Didn’t I work hard enough when I was younger? Could I not have taken an easier option? Could I not do something else?

No. No I couldn’t. I know nothing else. And so, I got on with it. I gave it my best shot. Therefore, if I pass, it’s because I am ace.

Well, that and the fact Phil put his work on hold and didn’t once moan about the fact that he was bottom of my priority list, my mum basically moved in for a week and became my house keeper and chef, I let the neighbour mow my lawn, I paid a lady to clean my house, a man to cut back the garden, my sister in law took the children to play group, my dad taught The Girl to ride her bike and picked her flowers that made her “sooo happy” when I couldn’t, making my heart swell and break in equal measure.

They say it takes a village and I’m incredibly lucky to have mine.

And if I fail? Well, I tried. I did my best.

So yes, being a working mum and revising seems pretty tough. So many people have remarked on how challenging it is to do all this with kids. But in some weird way it actually makes it easier and less stressful. Somehow having children gives some perspective, a limit to how self absorbed I can be, and constant reminder of the bigger picture.

The Girl told me today, “Mummy you’re going to be a winner, you have worked so hard, you’re going to be a winner”. So I may not have learnt enough to pass this exam, but it looks like The Girl learn something pretty important.

Then she puts on the toy stethoscope and tells me she is going to be a doctor. Actually, maybe she learnt nothing at all…

Always Look on the Bright Side…

In need of a sunny day? I have a fail safe way to ensure glorious sunshine….

1) Arrange to spend the day sat in your local library revising.

2) Ensure your children see you leave the house so that you can depart to the enchanting sound of wailing and screams of “But I love you don’t go”.

3) Sit in a window seat (thinking it will lift your mood to at least see the beautiful blue sky) but make sure that the radiator positioned right next to you is on full whack. That way you can pretend you are sat in a greenhouse.

Done.

Trying to be positive, at least I am getting a break from playing “Post Office” with The Girl. There are only so many letters a mummy can post before before she is wishing she can post a Molotov Cocktail in the letter box…

#5daystogo

#whyhaveimadethesechoices

#thishadbetterbeworthit

#juniordoctors

Old School…

I’m revising. The last time I did this properly I was a student. My stationery was supplied by my parents (Perhaps acquired from their respective places of work- the plus side to teacher parents!), my time was my own. I had access to so many libraries – of which I used maybe one. Once. And my biggest issue was fitting it in around meeting friends for a cheap glass of wine.

This time it’s all a bit different. It’s postgraduate General Practice exams. I have had to purchase stationery. Everyone who has ever sat an exam (successfully or not) knows it’s all about the stationery. I invested this time, I’m revising and earning (theoretically although my wage is solely to pay the childcare bill which if I didn’t work I wouldn’t need…so why I am working is a question I dare not dwell on).

So my stationery shopping trip resulted in:

-A selection of highlighters.

-3 brand new biros with the little clippy bits at the top so I can have 4 different colour biros encased in one slightly more girthy shaft just like my school teachers of the 1990s.

-A rainbow assortment of fine tip felt tips, some it turns out are too neon to be written with but too fine to be a highlighter, so actually an entirely useless item.

-A rather fancy faux leather post-it note selection holder, half of which are too tiny to write anything of any value on and the others so large, I may as well just fill a page in a notebook.

It’s a truly magnificent set up I have invested in.

To complete the kit, the creme de la creme is a hard back, A4, Looney Tunes notepad which I won in 1998 by sending a postcard in to the address in the back of my “Fast Forward” magazine and subsequently deemed too precious for everyday use, so I have moved it from house to house over the last 22yrs and it is now, officially, in use.

I also had to spend £100 on a subscription to a revision web site advertising nearly 3000 questions, like thousands of questions is a great thing… which yes it is, but equally it’s totally horrifying to think I’m going to spend weeks of my life trawling through these thousands of questions in a vain attempt to hope I get lucky on exam day and manage to scrape a pass.

So on top of the £500 exam fee and this whole experience is quite the investment. In an effort to not have to pay for it all again in 6 months time, I need to pass. To do that I need to revise. A concept entirely wasted on my children.

So last weekend in an attempt to knuckle down and do some work, I made arrangements to drop the kids off with the in-laws and head to a local library (it goes without saying that Phil was at work!). I took with me my backpack, computer and stationery, because revising isn’t revising unless you are making pretty pictures.

So, I settle down at the only available desk in the silent work area (if silence is an option I’m totally going to take it) and set myself up. I look around and see that I am sitting beside an acne ridden (moderate severity if my revision serves me well) teenager who is revising for his biology GCSE. Next to him are two girls studying for their maths GCSE and an AS level geography student behind me. There is officially no one over the age of 20 revising. I am sat in a library, on a sunny Saturday, as a 31 yr old married mother of two, surrounded by teenagers studying for school exams…..How have I ended up here?! I think I have made some bad life choices.

None the less, I crack on with a couple of questions before the afore mentioned spotty adolescent next to me turns to ask me if he can borrow a phone charger. Unfortunately glancing at my neatly arranged work station he appears somewhat distracted. No, not by my magnificent array of stationery, but by the fact that on my computer screen is a larger than life up close photo of a vagina – covered in genital warts.

Needless to say I explained I didn’t have a charger and then after an awkward pause proceeded to attempt to explain to the hormonal, awkward and perhaps now mentally scarred school boy, why, in a public library, I am looking at a close up photo of a vagina. Nothing like a spot of freelance health promotion…

Despite this slight mishap I did manage to get a couple of hundred questions done. So provided that I’m not struck off the GMC register for showing inappropriate material to a minor, I will continue with my revision in an attempt to edge closer to the much desired mirage of exam freedom…..Although perhaps saving my sexual health revision for the privacy of my own home.

It’s Complicated…Or Is It?!

So, what with everything going on in the world and International Womens Day happening, I found myself thinking about my values and opinions regarding feminism. Now, I’m not a raging bra burning feminist or anything but I’m a strong believer in women’s rights. Like I am in men’s rights. And in fact most other rights. So I guess you could say I’m all for equality.

Now fear not, this isn’t going to turn in to some political blog – I’m astoundingly ill educated in politics (unless it involves the NHS, in which case you just can’t shut me up some days!) so I would only embarrass myself if I attempted it. But I thought it would be interesting to get The Girl’s view on the world. So I thought of a whole series of questions I was going to subtly slip into conversation to explore her take on the crazy world we are living in. First question….

Me: Are boys and girls the same?

The Girl: Yep…. But boys have willies.

And she wanders off to tuck up her large plastic roaring dinosaur in its pink fluffy blanket for a nap.

Right then. That’s that sorted.

Willies and Tinklers

Whilst getting ready for bed The Girl walks in on Phil in the shower this evening.

The Girl: Daddy, I can see something dangling…

Me: Yes, that’s Daddy’s willy

The Girl: No. Not that. Look behind.

She tries to move closer to get a better look while Phil and I look slightly alarmed as she is clearly speaking of his scrotum…

The Girl: That there, that funny bit.

Phil and I both respond simultaneously: “Balls!” “Testicles!”

This had not been discussed in advance. Unlike ‘willy’ and ‘tinkler’ (our chosen nouns for male and female bits) which had been discussed at length, friends questioned and tentative google searches performed.

Suggestions ranged from the slightly horrific ‘penny slot’ to the more common ‘sixpence’, the too frequently used in everyday language; ‘bits’, and suggested by one of our more well-spoken friends; “personals” (which whilst a perfectly reasonable suggestion, I found it disproportionately hilarious) to describe the female anatomy.

For us ‘willy’ was a simple no brainer and therefore further discussion regarding the surrounding area was not had. If it had been we would have had a simple and united front with which to respond to the ball sack question.

However, Phil being a urologist clearly thought “I have got this. This is my area” (not only anatomically speaking) “I can answer any question she’s got. Bring it on!”

And then took it upon himself to elaborate further, explaining that girls wear their balls on the inside…
At which point I put an end to the discussion and usher The Girl out. There is a time to be a urologist and a time to be a Daddy. That was not the time to combine the two and explain the embryological development of genitalia to a 3yr old.

We have already explained to preschool that Phil “deals with willies and wee” to hopefully contextualise any questionable remarks our rather astute 3 yr old may make. But “girls wearing balls on the inside” was one step too far.
Now to fit a lock on the bathroom door….

Not So Yummy Mummy…

Today it’s Babysensory. The only baby class which The Boy gets to go to- being the second child. The Girl went to several in an effort to keep the ‘new-mum-me’ sane but now I take The Boy to just one – to alleviate the guilt of always partially neglecting him- this is his one hour of intense attention.

So the class is great but it is full of yummy mummies, the ones with their toned tummies, full face of make up, freshly washed hair and designer clothes. Needless to say I don’t really fit in with the particular aesthetics of this group, tucking my mum tum in to my Sainsbury’s jeans, on a good day I manage to wear a little mascara and because the class is at 9.30am my hair remains very much unwashed again today. So in an effort to make my sleep deprived self feel better in attending this class, I crack out the dry shampoo and then delve around in my make up draw to find some hairspray. I tip my head upside down and spray freely- confident can work the ‘just got out of bed look’.

Only to realise it wasn’t hair spray, it was Phil’s antiperspirant.

So not only do I look rough with lank and greasy hair, but I now smell like a man.

Watch out everyone- yummy mummy coming through…

N is for Nose….

In my attempt to be a model Mother on the nursery run this morning I attempt to engage The Girl in some educational chat.
“What letters can you see?”

“N mummy…” she has correctly identified the letter and it’s not one in her name so I’m actually rather impressed at this point.

“….N is for nose”

“Yes, that’s right- great stuff!”

“N is for knees mummy”

“Erm, no, not knees actually”

“Yes mummy, nnnnnnnn- knees”

“Yes it sounds like a ‘N’ but it’s not”

“Why not mummy?”

……And I’m done.

The first question from my 3.5 year old and I’m way out of my depth. Tomorrow we will not attempt such a foray in to the world of education. Tomorrow we will go back to pulling funny faces at each other in the rear view mirror and leave the serious stuff to the experts. I was beaten, beaten by a 3 yr olds question and a silent K.

Let’s hope I remember to complete the school application, or my kids are in a whole world of trouble….