Category: parenting

Am I rocking motherhood?

I’ve been tagged by the lovely Angela at Life, Motherhood and Everything to participate in White Camellia’s #RockingMotherhood tag. The concept of it is that us busy mums are so focussed on just taking care of business that we forget how great we really are. It’s easy to spend lots of time criticising ourselves or trying to improve, but sometimes it’s good to just take a minute to remind ourselves what we’re doing right. So for this, I’m meant to list 10 ways that I’m “rocking” motherhood.

I have to say that this is not something I would have volunteered for! It is definitely a difficult exercise, but I can see the value in it. You may not agree that the things I do to “rock it” are actually good things! But oh well, here we go…

1. I read a ridiculous amount of stories

Every night, me or their dad read a total of 7 stories. Four for the 4yo and 3 for the slightly more restless 2yo. I’m given to understand that reading so many stories before bed is slightly unusual. But they love it. They love the stories and the attention. And I can see it’s paid off for my 4yo, who is really doing well at learning to read on his own now he’s started school.

2. I also sing a lot of songs

Each boy gets around 3 songs after their story bonanza every night. The 4yo prefers pop music, jazz standards and musical theatre soundtracks. The 2yo always has the same three: Twinkle Star, Black Sheep and Row Your Boat. Like with the reading, I think it’s really benefiting them to learn different songs that constitute part of our culture and to begin taking an interest in music generally.

3. My kids love fruit and vegetables

I don’t know how I did it, but I’m going to go ahead and take the credit. They love their fruit and veg. Both of them will eat broccoli until the cows come home (weird expression – do cows really take a long time to get home?). The eldest often prefers to eat cucumbers and tomatoes to a burger, and will always, always eat fruit. He still thinks it counts as a pudding!

4. The lounge belongs to them

While I can totally understand that some parents prefer to keep the lounge as an adult space, I take the opposite strategy. My lounge is completely covered in toys, and I think that’s a good thing. It is only a very short time that my kids will have loads of toys that they will want to play with in the same room as me. There will be many years when they prefer to hide away in their rooms. So for now, we will all be together in the lounge.

5. I always have time to explain things

It’s a stereotypical story that kids will ask endless questions and parents might just say “I don’t know, leave me alone”. You know, questions like “Why is the sky blue”. I never fob off my kids when they have questions about how the world works. I try to explain what I know, and if I have no idea, we google it together. It’s a great way to spend time together.

6. I try to give them choices when I can

This is something I’m working on and I don’t always excel at. Instead of just dictating things to them, I try to give them viable choices so they can feel like they exert some control over their lives. I’m hoping this is the root to teaching them some autonomy and independence and to making them into confident people.

7. I spend a lot of time teaching them life skills

This is sort of connected to the previous point. I spend loads of time teaching them things like swimming, riding scooters/bikes, cooking, turn taking, climbing. These are things I think they need to know to be well-rounded individuals.

8. I teach them about culture

Be it high or low, I like exposing my kids to things that will expand their horizons. This includes watching lots of different films and TV, listening to pop music, as well as days out to museums, stately homes, etc.

9. I spend time away from them

I am a big believer that absence makes the heart grow fonder. This is as true for parenting as it is for other relationships. A bit of me-time (even if that so-called me time is actually working) makes me a happier, more patient parent when I’m with them.

10. I am honest with them

Okay – mostly honest. When it’s important, I always try to explain the truth to them in a way they will understand. And I try to never make promises that I’m not sure I can keep. I may, however, be guilty of telling minor porkie pies about whether or not there are any biscuits left in the tin.

I’m tagging the following lovely bloggers to join in with this tag next, if they want to:

http://sparklymummy.com/
https://meyoubabytoo.wordpress.com/
http://adventuresofmummyandme.com/
http://www.belledubrighton.co.uk/

Petite Pudding
Tammymum

Family dinners aren’t all they’re cracked up to be

Before I had kids, I was adamant that we would always sit down together for family meals. In the typical manner of a person who doesn’t have kids judging actual parents, I thought it was silly to be serving your children a separate meal. I also had this beautiful wholesome image in my head of us all sitting round the table and having a civilised conversation.

But now that I actually have to share my mealtime with my little anklebiters, I understand why some would rather not.

A dramatisation of dinner in our house

Dad: It’s teatime.

There is no response. The TV drones on in the background. 

Mum: It’s teatime! Come sit down at the table, please.

4yo: In a high-pitched tone No! PJ Masks is coming up next! I want to watch PJ Masks!

Mum: We’ll record it then. Presses record button on TIVO with intention of surreptitiously deleting PJ Masks after child is in bed. Turns TV off. Okay, now sit down!

4yo slowly and reluctantly walks towards the table. 2yo continues to play with his Ninky Nonk toy. If you don’t know what a Ninky Nonk is, lucky you.

Mum: Come on! It’s teatime.

2yo: NO! Catch the Nonk!

Mum picks up 2yo who does his best imitation of an angry cat in a bag, noises included. She places him in his highchair and attempts to put on his bib as he morphs from cat-in-bag to enraged Kraken. She passes him his food and he merrily starts eating it.

4yo: wiggling around in chair, not eating. MI, MI, MI-MI-MI. I’m being a Pontipine!

If you don’t know what a Pontipine is, lucky you.

Mum: Please be quiet and just eat your food.

4yo: NO! MI!

Mum: If you don’t eat your food, then you can’t have any pudding.

4yo: BUT I WANT PUDDING! MI MI MI!

Mum shrugs, gives up and attempts to eat her own food while 4yo continues to make irritating noises.

4yo: Need the toilet!

Mum: Well, go then.

4yo: But I need you to watch me.

Mum: …

4yo stands there holding himself and refusing to go to the toilet on his own. Mum gives in and follows him to the toilet and watches while he goes, thoroughly losing appetite in the process. After the deed is done, 4yo returns to his chair and starts happily munching his broccoli. 

Dad (to 4yo): So who did you play with at school today?

4yo: Everyone.

Mum: And what did you eat for lunch?

4yo: I don’t remember.

Mum: What was your favourite part of the day?

4yo: Everything.

CRASH.

2yo: FINISHED!

2yo had finished eating and so he had launched his cup onto the floor. 

Mum: Okay, hun, but you need to wait until the rest of us are finished.

2yo: FINISHED!

2yo picks up his spoon, extends his arm, makes eye contact with Mum, and ever so slowly opens his fingers and lets the spoon fall to the ground. Giggles hysterically. Then, he picks up his plate. Mum grabs it before it ends up on the floor.

2yo: PLAY PLAY PLAY! CATCH THE NONK!

4yo: I CAN’T EAT BECAUSE IT’S TOO NOISY!

4yo suddenly falls off his chair from all the fidgeting. Screams at the top of his lungs.

2yo: PLAY! PLAAAAYYY! AHHHHH!

Dual screaming continues.

Dad quickly serves the children some cake.

Silence. Mum and Dad drink wine.

2yo: dropping cake bowl on floor FINISHED!

Are family dinners civilised in your house? Do your kids respond to your efforts at conversation? Do they always need to take a poo halfway through? Let me know in the comments.

Petite Pudding
Tammymum
Keep Calm and Carry On Linking Sunday
The Pramshed

Mothers don’t sacrifice themselves. Not even for Sherlock Holmes.

SPOILER ALERT: This article contains a moan about a key plot point of Sherlock, Series 4, Episode 1. If you haven’t caught up on that yet, you might like to come back later. If you’ve seen it or don’t intend on seeing it, read on … you don’t need to watch it to understand my rant.

Right. So in this episode, Watson’s wife Mary, who has just had a baby, takes a bullet for Sherlock and dies. Sherlock is generally a show that I feel has pretty good writing and convincing plots. But this little twist, designed to give us all the feels, just rang false for me. I couldn’t get with the empathy.

After thinking about it for a bit, I realised why. Mary had just had a baby. And Sherlock, though a very close friend, was just this fairly annoying bloke who solves mysteries with her husband. I simply can’t fathom why a woman with a baby would make a decision to put her life at risk to save an arrogant man who was standing there DARING someone to shoot him. Call me a judgey mum if you like, but in my experience, mums don’t take their lives so lightly.

When you have a baby, especially in the early days, that baby is the centre of your universe. They become your reason for getting up in the morning. They might make you forget to eat, but they are also the reason you remember that you need to feed yourself. In the early days, caring for your baby is the rhythm of your existence, and your need to be with them is visceral.

I suffered through some dark times with my babies, including PND, and it was because of them that I didn’t give up on myself. I may have felt hopeless and at times that I was not bonding with my baby, but my thoughts were still all turned on the baby, and I battled through the bad feelings to survive and to make sure my babies were cared for.

I can forgive Mary for trying to “disappear” to get away from the bad guys that were hunting her. But when she sacrifices herself, she was already in the clear from the assassin-types. Then Sherlock was just standing there asking this lady to shoot without moving out of the way. Perhaps he already had a death wish. And she’s all like, “I could push him out of the way, or tackle the shooter, but nope, I’d rather jump in front of the bullet”.

I don’t know if the man who wrote that script is a dad or not, but I just don’t think parents are that slapdash with their lives. And that’s why the plotline is, in my opinion, totally unrealistic.

Perhaps my Sherlock outrage says more about me than anyone else, but it has got me thinking about how loving our children means loving ourselves. I think it’s wrong to unnecessarily expose oneself to danger when you have kids to look after. And that’s a lesson that I should apply to my daily life as well. Obviously I don’t have much opportunity to jump in front of bullets anyway, but there are more mundane things I could do (and maybe you, too, if you feel the same), to look after myself. I should do it just for myself, but looking after myself is good for my kids too!

So here are a few things, serious and less so, that I’m going to be careful about, so that I can look after my kids and myself.

Dangerous holiday destinations

I have a friend who enjoys visiting places that the Foreign & Commonwealth Office would prefer you avoid. More power to him and his sense of adventure. But for me, I have become a total travelling sissy since having kids. I’ve been travelling to utterly rural and random caravan parks in the hopes that no one wants to make a violent statement in those sorts of places. I obviously can’t avoid London, but I don’t see any reason to go somewhere doubtful if I don’t need to.

Health stuff

If I have the slightest doubt about my health, physical or mental, then I take myself off to the GP. There is no point waiting around and wondering if things will resolve on their own. Better to have peace of mind. And I’m extra mindful of how lucky we are in the UK to have the NHS. I can get peace of mind without emptying my purse!

Looking after myself

I’m giving myself permission to spend time exercising and worrying about what I’m eating. These things take my attention away from my kids but ultimately make me fitter so that I can be around for them in the long term and, in the short term, be healthier to enjoy my time with them.

Doing stupid stuff

Should I try to jump off the back of the Routemaster bus before it has stopped? No I should not. Should I drink an entire bottle of vodka on a rare night out? No I should not. My kids stop me doing those fun things that I might have risked when it was only my arse on the line.

Don’t be a hero?

I often think about what I would do if I found myself in a crisis situation – a crash or a violent incident. While I would like to think of myself as someone who would help others where I can, I know that my biggest priority would be keeping myself safe. Not for me, but because I don’t want my kids to be without their mum.

Going out to meet my problems

I used to be a fatalist about just about everything. I used to think “Oh well. It’s no big deal. If I die, to die would be a great adventure (you know, like in Peter Pan).” Now, instead, I think how to solve my problems without risking my wellbeing. Not that many of my problems involve life and death. But I do think about these things…

And Mary should have too.

Two Tiny Hands
A Mum Track Mind

Taking a holiday from parenting

I’ve been having an unusual time lately. First, I had a minor surgical procedure which meant I had to rest and not pick up my kids or do housework for at least 2 weeks. Now, this week, my “day job” sent me to work at a conference. I’m on the train home now after spending 3 days in a resort hotel. I’m not sure if you missed me, but as a result I also haven’t blogged all week. I have had a proper holiday from parenting and from my normal life.

The conference was actually hard work. I was watching and taking notes at one session after another, and in the breaks I was working at an exhibition stand. There were evening events too, with which came an obligation to “network”, even if such events were pleasantly abundant with good food and booze. So I found myself waking up at 6am and going to sleep after midnight every night – it was hardly a chance to catch up on sleep.

But it wasn’t as difficult or exhausting as parenting.

It got me thinking about how rarely most parents – especially mums – get any sort of holiday from the work of parenting. Stay-at-home parents must experience this particularly intensely. Those of us who work outside the home greatly value our quiet commutes, civilised lunches with colleagues, and hot cups of tea.

While I recovered from my surgery, I was at home but was officially required to rest. I didn’t have to jump up when somebody needed to be fed or changed. I didn’t have to wrestle the 2yo into the bath. I didn’t have to cook or clean or even do the school run. It was pretty amazing to be honest, and I caught up on some neglected Netflix series.

But there were difficult moments as well. I was at home with my children, but not able to pick them up when they cried. I saw my husband struggle with not having enough hands, and wasn’t able to offer him any help (yes it was hard, even if it was also funny). I was not even able to get on the floor to play with my children when they asked me to.

When I recovered from the surgery and was able to do these things again, I was incredibly grateful. I found that even though it can feel like drudgery when you’re doing it every day, I enjoy doing things for my family. I revel in the critical role I play in their lives. My children in particular need me intensely, and I am aware that that is something that will not last forever.

Now that I’ve subsequently been away from my family completely for a few days, I find that there are other things that I take for granted when I’m at home.

For example, at home, I often feel “touched out” at the end of a day after constantly cuddling my children and being climbed on, poked and prodded by them. I am so tired of being touched by others at the end of the day that I just want to be left alone. However at this conference, I have had the opposite situation. I haven’t really touched another human being (beyond the odd handshake) for 3 days!

I am suffering from touch withdrawal. I can’t wait to go home and feel that close connection to other humans again. The more I think about it, the more I actually can’t bear the thought that some humans live all the time without anyone else to touch.

Also, I have had 3 days of completely uninterrupted adult conversation. And most of it was to do with work, so it was also either extremely intellectual or just awkward small talk. Luckily, there were some friendly people there too with whom I could talk utter rubbish, otherwise I might have felt a bit lonely.

That sort of adult conversation is what I normally crave. But having an abundance of it for a longer period of time has made me grateful for the simple and real interactions I have with my family.

Tomorrow morning, I will start my day with cuddles and Paw Patrol. I will deal with poo. I will have protracted conversations about what to make for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I will break up fights. I will calm down tantrums. I will kiss it better. I will repeatedly pretend to eat plastic food, lovingly prepared by my children in their toy kitchen. I will explain for the 5 millionth time why the radiator makes a funny noise. And I’m looking forward to it.

When I tell you that I had a real parenting holiday, and that I found it hard sometimes, I’m sure you’ll be getting out the world’s smallest violin to play me a tune. And I know it’s popular to point out all the hardest parts of parenting. It’s important too – so that people know they’re not alone. But it’s also good to remember that in exchange for all the sleepless nights, the times we’re covered in poop, the endless washing and cleaning, and the downright boredom, we are getting something pretty wonderful in exchange.

I think it was John Lennon who said “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans”. So I will try to remember, when I start to get frustrated or bored, that these simple moments are the cornerstone of family life. And importantly, the hard times that we go through as parents are the price we pay to live a life filled with love.

Keep Calm and Carry On Linking Sunday
Petite Pudding

Christmas Carols: A parenting minefield

One of my favourite bits of the bedtime routine is singing to my children. I always sing at least one song to each of my sons before they go to sleep. My eldest usually chooses a song now that he knows my full repertoire, but during the festive season his only guideline is that I sing Christmas songs.

There aren’t a lot of Christmas songs that I know by heart, and even with those I’m probably getting the lyrics wrong. But either way, I find my inner monologue while singing these songs to my son ever so slightly troubling. I worry about what exactly do these lyrics mean and are they really sending appropriate messages to a 4 year old?

Okay, so it’s not a really serious worry. Certainly not big enough for me to stop singing them. But I thought it might be amusing to take a look at some of the weirdest Christmas song lyrics out there.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town

He sees you when you’re sleeping
He knows when you’re awake

My son pegged this one the other day. “How does Santa Claus see me when I’m sleeping?” I told him it was “magic”. He seemed to accept it. But how creepy is that? No wonder my children look slightly worried in their Christmas photo, if they think they’re meeting the fat bearded man with odd dress sense who has been watching them all night long – ALL YEAR.

Family photo with Father Christmas.jpg

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

Without quoting the lyrics directly, we all know the story of this song. All the mean bully reindeer laughed at poor Rudolph because he had a stupid big red nose. They wouldn’t let him join in their reindeer games (whatever those might be – maybe antler ring toss – Rudolph probs wasn’t missing much).

But then, when suddenly Rudolph gets some extra accolades from the big boss (Santa), and becomes the manager of the Sleigh Guidance Department, all the reindeer “loved” him. The bastard suck ups. I worry that this song is teaching my son that it’s okay to be a shallow arse-licker who bullies people until they want something from them.

Winter Wonderland

My son said the other day that this is his favourite Christmas song. I guess he just likes the tune. I worry about the old-fashioned sentiments.

In the meadow we can build a snowman
Then pretend that he is Parson Brown
He’ll say, “Are you married?”
We’ll say, “No man”
But you can do the job, when you’re in town

What? So this couple is walking around in the snow, they decide to build a snowman, and then they decide to pretend he’s a priest? How random is that? Is it actually both members of the couple, or just one of them trying to propose in an entirely creepy way? “Look, Parson Brown the religious snowman wants us to stop living in sin. What do you say, babes?”

I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas

I’m not actually worried about my son’s reaction to this one. We both know we’re talking about snow. But the whole time I’m singing this, I can’t help but think of racists. I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know. I mean, why don’t you still know white Christmases if you used to have them all the time? Did you move from Finland to Spain? Or are you just a member of the alt-right and speaking in thinly veiled innuendo? It just makes me think of some of the worrisome politics we are facing today, even though that’s obviously not what the song is about.

We Wish You a Merry Christmas

This one is pleasant enough, until it gets to the bit about figgy pudding. Bring us some figgy pudding. Please bring some right now! We won’t go until we get some. Bugger off, you spoiled brats. Where are your parents? Get your own figgy pudding.

Silent Night

This one is lovely and soothing. It is definitely one of my favourites. But I have to admit to cringing a bit at the round yon virgin bit. What if the boy asks me, “Mummy, what’s a virgin?” And what do I tell him? Maybe a young, unmarried woman? But that could backfire. He might go around calling people virgins. “My cousin is only 16. She’s a virgin.” But I can’t tell him what it actually means! It’s a minefield. I’ll just mumble the virgin part and hope he doesn’t notice. Round yon mm-mm-mm, mother and child!

What are your favourite Christmas carols? Do any of them have slightly dodgy lyrics?

Keep Calm and Carry On Linking Sunday
Petite Pudding

Why birth plans are a waste of time for first-time mums

Is that a nice controversial blog post title? Well, it got your attention, right? Right. Okay, so birth plans might not be entirely a waste of time. But I think first-time mums in particular should be warned that they very well might be.

You see, when I was pregnant with my first child, nobody told me that a birth plan wasn’t really a plan. It’s more like a sort of wish list. To me the word plan connotes something that I have control over. If I plan to go to work tomorrow, then there is a 99% chance that I’m going to go. There are some conceivable events that could stop me from going, but in all likelihood, it will be purely up to me as to whether I follow through on my plan.

But when it comes to birthing babies, we have very little control as to how things are going to pan out. That is the truth that nobody told little old me. My birth plan was written on my heart. It had the following points:

  • I wanted to deliver at a midwife-led centre instead of in hospital
  • I wanted a water birth with only gas & air for pain relief
  • No induction
  • No epidural
  • No continuous monitoring
  • I was going to have a beautiful, calm, natural birth

I was so certain that these were the things that were needed to help me cope with the delivery. I also thought they were the best and safest options for me and my baby. However, at 10 days overdue I was showing meconium-stained waters with no other signs of going into labour. So this is the birth I got:

  • Birth in hospital instead of the midwife-led centre
  • I didn’t even go anywhere near a water birthing pool
  • I was induced
  • I had an epidural
  • I laid on my back the whole time, being continuously monitored
  • I screamed and cried and swore and was absolutely terrified and NOT CALM the entire time
  • I had an emergency c-section

It was the polar opposite of what I had wanted.

And I was absolutely heartbroken about it. I had spent so much time thinking about how it was all going to go down, and researching what the best things to do were. When I didn’t get to do any of those things, I saw myself as a failure. For me, failing to have the “natural” (read vaginal) birth I’d planned was like failing at something I thought I was born to do. I’d been gallivanting around telling my friends that my body was built to give birth. And it was. Just not the way I had intended.

I just wish that someone – anyone – had taken the pregnant me aside and told me just how unpredictable giving birth can be. And that at the end of the day, all that matters is that you deliver a healthy baby. So if you’re pregnant now or recently gave birth and are feeling disappointed by the experience, here are a few things that I think need to be said:

  • Remember that there is a possibility that all plans, wishes and expectations will go completely out the window on the big day. Accept that and don’t dwell too much on a future you can’t predict.
  • A lot of advice I was given from various sources made me think that I would need to “advocate” for myself during the birth. I would need to keep those doctors and midwives in line by making sure they knew my birthing desires at all times. But when it came down to it, I was too scared and in too much pain to argue about anything. I just did exactly what they told me to. And that was probably the right thing to do, but the earlier advice made me feel as though I’d failed myself by not pushing my agenda.
  • There is no nobility in facing unbearable pain. If you want the drugs, take the drugs! There is nothing to feel guilty or ashamed about if you use every single pain relief method available to you.
  • It doesn’t matter how the baby comes out. You will give birth in the best way you can, be it vaginally, via a caesarean or with other assistance.

So in my humble opinion, the best birth plan is a plan to go with the flow. How can you plan something that is different every time it happens, even for the same person? But if you think it helpful to write down your wishes with regard to your birth – of course go ahead. Just be prepared that when you’re actually in labour, you may want to crumple it up and throw it at someone – probably your partner.

And if, like me, you are unhappy about how your birth went, then talk to someone about it. Many hospitals offer a postnatal debriefing or counselling service where they go through your delivery notes and explain why things happened the way they did. I took advantage of this service myself and it made me feel so much better about my birth. I stopped blaming myself for it not going the way I wanted.

Before I had the counselling, I was afraid to ever give birth again in case it was equally awful. But the counselling showed me that every birth is different. When I did eventually have a second baby, everything went exactly to plan. Because I didn’t have one!

Tammymum
Petite Pudding

Should I lie to my children about Father Christmas?

Like most non-parents, before I had my children, I had some pretty strong opinions about how I was going to parent my future children. I remember sitting in my neighbour’s lounge, 9 months pregnant with my first son, saying to her:

“I will never let him watch In the Night Garden. What a ridiculous programme!”

Well ha bloody ha ha! By the time he was 1 year old, Night Garden had become a part of our bedtime routine. He wouldn’t commence bath and story time until CBeebies had actually told him it was time to go to bed. So much for my pre-parent parenting plans.

Another topic on which my pre-parent self had strong opinions was about telling my children the truth. I told anyone who would listen that I would never lie to my children. And that included “lying” to them about the existence of Father Christmas.

I saw an article on Netmums recently saying that researchers have found that “the lie of Santa can actually be damaging”. Now, pre-parent me would have been nodding vigorously to this. I had long conversations with my mother-in-law about how I wouldn’t be telling “the Santa lie” to my children because it would be a betrayal. She understandably disagreed with my thoughts on this.

I worried that if I lied about this one thing, then once they found out the truth they would never trust anything I had taught them. Especially if it was anything that needed to be taken on pure faith without any proof. However, post-parent me feels a bit different.

The thing is, I never truly believed in Santa Claus as a child, but I still went to his grotto every year. My family never went out of their way to convince me he’s real, but they still sometimes gave me gifts from “Santa”. I enjoyed playing the game. It didn’t matter to me whether he was real; it was just fun to imagine he was. I never told them I didn’t believe because I was afraid that would be the end of the fun stuff. I’m sure they knew that I didn’t believe, but none of us cared.

So as my eldest son grew old enough to understand the concept of Father Christmas, I found I couldn’t resist teaching him about the Christmas customs. Soon, I was shamelessly “telling the lie”. I’ve enjoyed getting family pictures at Santa’s Grotto. I’ve loved teaching my son Christmas carols. One of his faves is “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”. Last year, on Christmas Eve, we even put out mince pies, brandy and a carrot for the reindeer. The brandy was large and the carrot was very, very small.

This year we’ve kicked it up a notch and he’s written his first letter to Santa, which we actually sent off in the post.

Letter to Santa

So, as with Night Garden, I’ve done a complete 180 degree parenting turn.

The thing is: I’m not sure if it’s really lying. How is it any different from telling any other imaginative story or playing a game of pretend? And importantly, my son hasn’t questioned it yet. The closest he’s gotten is, when listening to “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”, he asked how Santa can see him when he’s sleeping. I just said “magic” and he was happy with that.

The real test will be if he starts asking more serious questions about whether Santa actually exists. This is where I will draw the line. I don’t care to go out of my way to propagate the fantasy, but at the same time, I don’t want to outright say Santa doesn’t exist. If I told him this, he might ruin it for his friends, and no one is going to thank me for that.

So my plan is to explain that believing in Father Christmas is a game we all love to play in order to make Christmas more fun. That’s why we do it, right? Because it’s fun?

I’m going to tell him that nobody knows for absolute certain that he doesn’t exist, but that it doesn’t matter. The idea is that it’s fun to believe – just like when we pretend to be cats or Pontipines (oh yes, being a Pontipine is a popular pastime in my house). And I will remind him that it’s important not to tell other people if we don’t believe he’s real, because it will ruin the fun.

There may not be a literal jolly fat bearded man hanging out at the North Pole forcing elves to make toys. But the idea of it is a positive way to fuel our children’s imaginations. Just look at all the fantastic books and films that use this popular myth to create a new and different story. It’s a quintessential part of our culture.

So even if Father Christmas doesn’t exist in the real world, he will always exist in our imaginations. Without him, Christmas wouldn’t be half as much fun. And that’s the absolute truth.

Petite Pudding
Two Tiny Hands

An exercise in thankfulness

This week it’s Thanksgiving in the USA, where I lived until I was 22. It’s a day every year where people come together to eat ridiculous amounts of food and then fall asleep in front of the TV. It’s sort of like an extra Christmas without the presents or the religion. I won’t go into the full history of it here, but if you want to know more, then this article in the Telegraph is pretty informative.

For some, Thanksgiving is just about having a good time and they don’t think much about what it really means. However, for many, we like to take a moment and think about what we are grateful for in our lives. And a cursory Google search on the term “being thankful” brought up numerous articles explaining how gratitude can actually make you healthier.

But it’s not always that easy, is it? Children need looking after, houses need cleaning, work needs doing, family members need help, you get health problems, you have a bad day, people are jerks … all of the things that happen in a normal life can pile on top of each other and weigh you down until you forget to look up and remember what’s good.

I’ve been feeling a bit weighed down lately myself – so much so that I’ve started having heart palpitations and even panic attacks. My doctor’s only suggestion was to “give up coffee”. Oh right, like that’s going to make me less stressed!

But I have decided that as it’s Thanksgiving, I’m going to make an effort. I don’t bother with the turkey and all the fixings now that I live in the UK (I get enough turkey at Christmas, thanks), but I do think taking time out to be grateful is time well spent. So here is my exercise in thankfulness. I’m going to tell you some of the things that are pissing me off, and then find something related for which I’m thankful. Some are serious – some less so – but hopefully some of you will get where I’m coming from.

I’m not happy about…

…the fact that my older son is still not getting on well at school. He screams at the teachers and runs aways down the halls. Yesterday the teacher actually called home to tell me what he’d been up to. His behaviour at home has gone downhill as well. This is despite a recent visit to a paediatrician who basically thought he was fine. I’m at a loss as to how to help him right now.

But I’m grateful for…

…my son. We are having these issues but he is still my child and we love each other. There’s nothing better when I hear him say “I love you” in his little voice. We can play and giggle and have a laugh. I am not the perfect parent and I need to learn how to work with him to improve his behaviour, but we will always be a team.

I’m not happy about…

…having lost a friend recently. He passed away and I’d not made the effort to see him for a while. And so I felt grief but also guilt. I messaged him just before I found out what had happened, but it was already too late.

But I’m grateful for…

…the fun times we had together. I’ve spent some time looking at old photos and remembering, and enjoyed a pint of Guinness (his favourite) in his honour. Remembering the good is the only way to move forward. I’m also grateful for the lesson I learned about keeping in touch with people. Next time I think of a friend, I will message them straight away, while I still have the chance.

I’m not happy about…

…being sore and weak while recovering from the hernia surgery I had recently. I haven’t been able to pick up my kids or even leave the house for the last week and a half.

But I’m grateful for…

…the prospect that this will improve my long-term health. Plus, the leaflet they sent me home with says I must not do the washing or hoovering for 6 weeks! It’s right there in black and white. I’ve shown it to my husband.

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I won’t be doing this for 6 long weeks!

I’m not happy about…

…my lack of interior design skills. My house is so cluttered, with my main decorating accents being brightly-coloured plastic toys. I look with envy at beautiful lifestyle blogs and their owners’ skilled arrangement of attractive scatter cushions. I have scatter cushions that my neighbour gave me after she bought some nicer ones. It was my house or the bin for them. Appropriate – since at my house they are often covered in cat hair and biscuit crumbs.

But I’m grateful for…

…the fact we’re nearly finished building an extension to our house. It’s been hard having builders around and everything in upheaval for the last 5 months, but soon we will have more living and storage space. Hopefully I will then be able to cut the clutter. I doubt I’ll get any better about scatter cushions though.

I’m not happy about…

…being rubbish at Instagram. This is a blogger gripe. I know good bloggers are expected to take fabulous photos and share them on Instagram. But I just don’t really “get” photography. To me, it’s what the picture makes you think about, rather than the aesthetics. And I hate the shallow “great feed” comments you get.

But I’m grateful for…

…the people who follow me anyway! Why anyone beyond my close friends are happy to look at a poorly-lit photograph of my dinner is beyond me. But they do. I even got 30-odd likes on a shot of my messy living room full of packages of laminate flooring and plaster dust. So I’ve decided to keep it real on Instagram. I’m going to post pics of my real life and just be happy with the followers who want to see it.

I’m not happy about…

…what I like to call the Christmas conundrum. I’ve been working hard to get fit and be happy with the way I look for a school reunion I have coming this summer (don’t we all want to be fabulous when we see the people we grew up with after a long time?). The surgery has set me back a bit, and now we’re getting into Christmas. How can I eat ALL the mince pies without compromising my fitness goals?

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I need to try all the different brands. Let’s call it blog research.

But I’m grateful for…

…the fact that I can choose to binge on pie or not. Some people can’t afford to buy all the pies, or can’t eat pies for other reasons. I’m thankful for the very existence of pie. And wine. Let’s not forget to mention wine.

But really, why bother?

Being thankful often gets a bad name. Insensitive people try to cheer up a person who is grieving or having a bad time by pointing out that they have things to be thankful for. But it doesn’t work that way. Everyone needs to talk about things that are making them unhappy, and being thankful can’t always fix things. It’s also important to be honest about our own feelings.

But forcing myself to write down some of the things that make me happy – thinking about what’s funny, what’s serious, what’s poignant and what I have learned – has already made me feel calmer and more in control. I’ve taken a break from exercising my body, but taking some time to flex my thankful muscles has helped me lose some of the weight I’ve been carrying on my shoulders.

What things are you stressed out about? What are you most thankful for? Let me know in the comments.

Tammymum
mumturnedmom
Keep Calm and Carry On Linking Sunday

The Night Before Christmas ebook

I get very excited about introducing my children to Christmas traditions, and one of the ones I’m keen on is reading the famous poem The Night Before Christmas (originally by Clement Clarke Moore) on Christmas Eve. I get excited when I hear the opening words:

It was the night before Christmas and all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Last year, I shopped quite a while to find a copy of the poem set out in an appealing children’s book. I found one with some very classic, old-fashioned illustrations. I wrapped it up with the intention of offering it to my then-3-year-old son on Christmas Eve. I thought he would enjoy unwrapping a present “early” and then sharing this lovely story together. However, after he unwrapped the book, he didn’t want to read it!

My son loves books and reading so I was very surprised. However, occasionally I pick up a book and he refuses to look at it. I can only assume it’s because there’s something about the illustrations or design that doesn’t appeal to him. Unfortunately, this was the case with the book I bought last year. He just wasn’t interested. It still sits rather forlorn and unloved on his bookshelf.

So I was pleased when NurseryBox approached me and asked me to review their newly published ebook version of the story, by Rose Collins.

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The story has been adapted and illustrated with modern children in mind. As you can see from the cover, the illustrations are bright, cartoonish and recognisable to a child’s vision of what Santa’s reindeer might look like. When Santa himself appears, he has the big red outfit and chubby cheeks one would expect (unlike the version I bought last year, which had some sort of skinny Scandinavian-style Santa).

The family that Santa visits also happens to be friendly bears instead of humans – and you and I both know how much kids love a bit of anthropomorphism.

Another twist that I like is that it makes an extra effort to be gender inclusive. What’s that, you say? Well, I actually emailed the person who sent me the book to say that there’s a typo. One of the reindeers is called “Donna” instead of “Donner”, I told her. She told me that this was intentional! NurseryBox did market research with their audience, and girls had said they were disappointed that all of the reindeers were boys. So they took advantage of the homophone and changed the male Donner into a female Donna. What a lovely idea!

So I like this book, but I’m not the one who’s important. I put it to the real test and read it with my 4yo. To my delight, he loved it! And he’s extra excited that we can put it on his tablet for him to look at on his own. This year he is aware of our plan to read it on Christmas Eve, and looking forward to it. And I’m so excited that we can share this classic bit of literature in a format we can both enjoy.

If you would like to buy The Night Before Christmas by Rose Collins, you can purchase it for less than £2 from Amazon, iTunes, Barnes & Noble or Google Play.

Disclosure: I received a copy of the ebook for the purposes of this review.

Petite Pudding

Emergency services and wee funnels – my rubbish weekend

If you read my recent “soft play and fails” post, you will know that I had a slightly annoying Friday last week. You will also know that said rubbish day culminated in my toddler being sick all over one of my friends. What you don’t know is that vomit was only the beginning.

The worst thing about my 1yo’s bug that night (besides the usual feelings of worry about him) was the fact that I currently have no washing machine. You can imagine the “joy” of dealing with pukey clothes without being able to just bung them in the machine. I didn’t deal with them. I hid them in a far corner of the bit of my house which is being renovated, in the hope that the plaster dust would neutralise the smell until I could find a launderette.

I can’t say Friday night was pleasant, but we survived it. By midnight, poor little 1yo was finally able to keep down some water and we all gratefully went to bed.

Saturday was sort of alright. We went to IKEA and I discovered I could put my 4yo in the basket of the trolley with his tablet. This enabled me to look at candles and unnecessary soft furnishings in peace, instead of spending the whole time stopping him from forging a path of destruction through the kitchen displays. I even think the children actually went to sleep nicely in the evening.

But cue 3am and my poor little 1yo started crying in an unusual way. I ran to his bedroom to discover he was burning up. I took his temperature and it was nearly 40 degrees celsius. I gave him some baby ibuprofen (we were out of baby paracetamol), brought him into our bedroom for a cuddle, and stripped him down a bit. Then we noticed that his breathing was a bit fast as well. I decided to call 111 (for the non-Brits, this is a 24-hour health advice line you can call for non-emergencies).

After the usual assessment, the advisor on the phone told me he was calling an ambulance. Okay. That’s serious shit. My adrenaline kicked in. Best put some clothes on, I thought.

I put some Peppa Pig on Netflix for my 1yo while I waited with him for the ambulance. My husband stood with the door open as advised by 111, to make sure the paramedic could find the house. The paramedic soon turned up and was very reassuring while she did a series of tests on 1yo to assess his condition. Based on these tests, she offered to drive us to hospital.

It wasn’t a full-sized ambulance. It was smaller and called an Emergency Response Unit or something like that. The back of it was sort of like the back of a Black Cab. We strapped 1yo into his own chair – he always prefers to have his own chair – and I sat in another. Husband stayed home to look after the 4yo.

Our local hospital has a paediatric A&E and this allowed us to be processed through triage very quickly. The nurse brought us to a bed and presented me with a sort of test tube with a funnel attached to it. “We’ll need to get a urine sample,” she said.

I said, “Uuuhhh, how do I get that then?”

“You should take off his nappy, put this waterproof pad underneath him, hold the funnel nearby, and wait.”

Me: “Right. Okay.”

I felt a heavy weight of responsibility. I had been given a urine sample obtaining job. I wished to succeed at this. Never mind I also had the responsibility of keeping a sick baby mildly content whilst waiting an unpredictable amount of time to see a doctor.

Luckily, we’d brought my best friend: the tablet. And the hospital had brilliant WiFi. Streaming CBeebies saved my sanity on this night. Thank you, tablet. Thank you, hospital WiFi. Thank you, CBeebies. Never say I’m not grateful for small favours.

So now you can picture me:

  • Holding the tablet at a comfortable viewing angle for the 1yo (which was an uncomfortable angle for my arm).
  • Simultaneously holding my head upright in a way that would keep me from nodding off in utter exhaustion (the head bobbing slowly down and then shooting back up again in another bid for wakefulness).
  • And watching LIKE A HAWK for the anticipated wee sample.
  • Constantly re-adjusting the funnel to ensure ideal placement for the catching of a sudden wee.

In the end, we waited 3 hours to be seen by a doctor. I spent that entire 3 hours waiting for my son to wee in the funnel. That’s right: I spent 3 hours staring at my son’s junk, hoping for a wee. Well, how else could you spend the wee hours of a Sunday morning (maybe be dancing in a club? I wouldn’t know).

When the doctor finally came, he diagnosed tonsillitis and sent us home with some penicillin. We never did get that urine sample.

While I was waiting for husband to collect us from hospital, I gave my son his first dose of the penicillin from a syringe. At first he took it eagerly as he loves the flavour of Calpol. But then he made the incredible grimace. This was the precursor to a later disaster.

When we got home I was allowed to go for a nap while husband looked after the children. I was awoken when he tried to give my son the next dose of his penicillin. He screamed and screamed and refused to take it. When my husband finally got it in, 1yo promptly puked it back up.

I was enlisted to have a go at administering another dose. Let’s just say I failed.

Hours passed and my son refused to eat or drink anything. My husband popped out to the shops, and while he was gone, 1yo laid down on the sofa and just went to sleep. I looked closely at him and I thought he’d gone a bit blue around his nose and mouth. In hindsight I was probably imagining it.

Suddenly, my heart started pumping at a mile a minute. It felt as though it was going to leap out of my chest. I didn’t know what was happening to me. I called 999. This was the first time I’d ever called 999 (or 911, when I lived in the USA) in my life.

The woman on the phone was very kind and talked me down from what was apparently a panic attack. I’d never had one before.

When my husband got home, we agreed that my son should go back to A&E because he wouldn’t drink anything and we couldn’t get the medicine into him. Why are children always sick on Sundays?

They were very nice at A&E and they gave us special rehydrating solution and then the doctor eventually came and gave him an extra check. She said he was fine and then had the nurse help us learn the best way to pin him down and trick him into opening his mouth so we could syringe the medicine in. It seems cruel, but the doctor said if we couldn’t give him the meds then he’d need to stay in hospital for a whole week to get them via a drip.

Perhaps we didn’t need to go to A&E the second time, but you hear so many horror stories about misdiagnosed children. It was a “better safe than sorry” situation. And the doctor and nurses were completely understanding and incredibly helpful.

We went home again and I can’t say giving 1yo the medicine got any easier. But by the end of the day, you could tell it and the rehydration solution was taking effect, and he started taking an interest in his toys again.

He’s now perfectly fine, even though we’re still wrestling him to get the drugs in. Luckily, he is also back at nursery and they skillfully administer some of the doses.

So there you have it. My crap weekend. Why did I bother telling you? Partly just to vent. Partly to say you shouldn’t feel embarrassed to use emergency services and the NHS if you feel you need them. And mostly so you can laugh at the image of me obsessively holding a wee funnel for 3 hours.

Keep Calm and Carry On Linking Sunday
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