Learning – Mother in the House

Public Parenting Politics…

I get that everyone parents differently, I’m in no position to judge. There are definitely times when I’m absolutely not winning parenting awards and occasions when I’m barely parenting at all. However. When I say I’m not judging…

The Girl has swimming lessons. 8 kids in an old school swimming baths, teacher in the water, arm bands all round, parents sit on benches next to the pool. You get the the picture.

Parents generally sit on the side, perspiring, passing the time of day, some checking their phones, others lightly snoozing, or like me, chasing after a newly wandering baby (who I know isn’t really a baby anymore but I’m damned if I’m gonna accept it).

All except Billy’s mum. Billy’s mum doesn’t sit down. Billy’s mum paces the side like an Olympic swimming coach. Billy’s mum is rather vocal. And because of this, every other parent knows that Billy’s mum is “so proud”, we all know that Billy “is the most amazing swimmer ever” (an awkward declaration in front of 7 other “swimmers”), we are all aware that it was “really amazing swimming” when Billy didn’t sink, despite him having arm bands, a woggle and kick board – it would have been more of an achievement if Billy had managed to sink with such an array of floatation devices.

Now, I know it’s a bit catty, I don’t know the ins and outs of Billy and his mums life (other than how accomplished Billy is at preschool and how much he excels at football, running, and everything else) and I KNOW I shouldn’t be, but I am so intensely irritated by Billy’s mum.

At the end of the class there are 3 showers and 8 children. Billy is one of the first ones in (obviously – he would be, his mum cheer leaded him in to it from the poolside), and Billy’s mum is waxing lyrical to anyone who will listen about how great Billy is.

Billy says “Mum, I’m going to do a wee”. This is witnessed by 5 waiting children and at least 6 of the parents. One of the parents who didn’t hear is Billy’s mum. Billy’s mum is still vocalising her sons success. So she misses it the first time he says it and also the second time. She also misses it when Billy pulls down his shorts, takes his willy out and starts sprinkling the shower floor, and the poolside with his chlorine water diluted urine. In fact, Billy’s mum only notices when she gets a warm, wet foot.

Billy’s mum is mortified.

Inside there is a tiny bit of me smugly enjoying the fact that this perfect little boy with his perfect mum is absolutely, totally, 100%, normal.

Obviously at this point I do the right thing. I drop a classic line “boys will be boys” and follow up with some small talk my urology husband tells me when I question the amount of time The Boy spends playing with his todger. “If boys weren’t meant to mess with their boy bits then they wouldn’t have been made with them at hand height”.

So, Billy’s mum just learnt that that kids make sure that pride comes before a fall. Billy’s mum, being the way she is, clearly feels more mortified about this than most.

So, then on reflection I feel guilty about how annoying I find her. I decide over the next week that I will not be annoyed by her over enthusiastic parenting, and will instead recognise that I’m maybe slightly envious, as this highlights my own shortcomings as a parent.

But then the next lesson comes. And Billy’s mum won’t sit down. Or shut up. And “Darling Billy” is still the “best swimmer ever”. Even if he does publicly pee all over his mother.

Well, that’s unconditional parental love right there. So I guess Billy’s mum is alright really. Just wish she would pipe down, because clearly The Girl is “the best swimmer ever”…

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

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….

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….