Lockdown 2.0: Another Day in Paradise

So, a pandemic. 

I'll admit that it is a parenting hurdle I never saw coming. It's not so much the sanitising (I mean, they eat dirt so what's a few more infective agents between friends?), the lack of play dates (I don't miss the self-imposed pressure to be "fun" for other people's children) or even the home schooling (which is akin to piercing one's eyeballs with rusty screws while being subjected to the impassioned overtures of Kenny G) but it's the need to be persistently optimistic in the face of impending doom in order to buoy the spirits of one's offspring that I struggle to contend with.

Our children need our support and our leadership in these uncertain times; they look to us for reassurance as they are subjected to life altering decisions that are ultimately thrust upon them in a bid to protect the preceding generations against an enemy that does not wage its battle against the school child at all. At an age when we have previously been told to be mindful and accommodate their craving for consistency in order to enable them to process and adjust to life's uncertainties, children are being plagued by inconsistency. They are given ever changing goal posts at which to aim in a bid to progress to the next level; a level at which they might be able to see their friends, have a birthday party or merely hug their grandparents. They are told that they are good, that they are brave and that they are living through history. They are told to treasure the enforced changes that this time brings as it is "once in a lifetime" and only acts to reinforce the importance of the simplistic needs of childhood; love, time as a family and the great outdoors.

Bollocks.

It is awful and let us not pretend otherwise. 

The sentiment may be true were we all safe in the knowledge that the end is in sight and a reprieve is on the horizon but we, as parents, are struggling too. We want our own parents to wrap us in their arms and tell us that it is all going to be okay but we can't for fear of bringing harm where we receive solace.

We want to be assured that the vaccine will be both effective and available in the imminent future but our ability to hope is constantly being thwarted by a consistent stream of false promises and cruel disappointments. When the battle started nine months ago it was hard but we had reserve. It was a novel situation and promises of improvement were we to commit ourselves to an initial lockdown were clung to like a raft in the vast uncertainty surrounding us. There was an element of faith that those who were dictating the necessary restrictions had a level of knowledge or answers that we, mere mortals, were not privy to. We now realise that this is not the case.

The fact is, we are all winging it: parents, politicians, teachers, care workers, scientists, hell, even the virus is having to adapt. We all need to be able to not cope for a little while; to not be able to face dressing up as a superhero and doing a burpee with Joe Wicks or slapping a smile on our face and pretending that Sophie Ellis Bextor's upbeat tunes are enough. They are not. 

Rest assured that the feeling will eventually pass and we'll pick ourselves up again and wait for the next thing that will see us through the next little while until one day we can actually say that it's over. 

Goodbye to the Sick Kids Hospital

 My daughter didn't have the easiest start in life. She went from being unviable at 12 weeks of pregnancy, to an in utero diagnosis of unilateral talipes (club foot) at 20 weeks, to a dramatic entry into the world where it was discovered that she was one finger short of the customary ten.

The initial fall out at each step of the way was traumatic for our family.

Was it my husband and I's genetic make up? Would we be able to have more children or would they all be susceptible to the same fate? Would she be able to walk, run or dance like other children do? Would she be able to write, to do up her buttons and dress herself? Would she be able to attend mainstream school? Or be picked on for her differences? 

These worries consumed us. 

We were relatively healthy individuals whose family trees bore no suggestion of underlying conditions laying in wait for a susceptible foetus. We had worried to the normal degree in pregnancy but had subconsciously expected everything to go to plan. Our world was being repeatedly turned upside down. 

Then the Sick Kids Hospital stepped in. 

We were counselled by a warm, friendly and immensely reassuring physiotherapist about the ensuing treatment pathway for our daughter's talipes while she was still housed safely in the womb. Upon her arrival we had her genetic make up scrutinised, her hand assessed and a plan made by a specialist plastic surgeon so that by 12 weeks of age we knew where we were headed. 

There were no false promises or unfounded reassurances given but we felt that with these people in our corner we could navigate the uncertainty. 

As you may imagine, such diagnoses have meant that we have become frequent flyers to the Sick Kids Hospital both with my daughters long standing conditions and planned operations but also with the many childhood illnesses that the majority of parents endure. It has almost become a second home; with its cosy intensive care, high ceilinged victorian wards with beds lined up like soldiers and its warren-like corridors which make you feel like leaving a trail of pebbles so that you can find your way back. We have learned to feel reassured on entry like an embrace from an empathetic family member. 

Knowing that it is being decommissioned comes with a mixture of feelings. We are well aware that the services have outgrown the paltry footprint that the building holds on the Edinburgh map and they will greatly benefit from space and the ability to install more modern equipment but we will miss the warmth of the aged premises and the memories that are held there. 

All we can do is trust. Trust that the beating heart that is the staff, once transplanted into their new built-for - purpose accommodation, will instill the same feeling of reassurance and empowerment that has given us the ability to cope with whatever hand (even the four fingered type) that life deals our family. 

Everything Changes: Working Out the "Working Mother" Bit

It's been a big week this week and, no, we haven't sold our house. In fact, it is no longer even on the market which was both a heart breaking and entirely sensible decision on our part. How dull. We have opted to stick with the devil we know until we can afford what we want which, fingers crossed, should be an option available to us around the same time our daughter is eligible for retirement. Anyway, despite our domestic situation being something of an anticlimax, this week has heralded big changes, albeit predominantly, for me. After six and a half years of, what my brother terms, "bean counting" I have decided to change jobs. 

Taught her everything I know

This was not an easy decision to make. My current employer has seen me through two rather gruelling pregnancies, my daughter's numerous hospital admissions and appointments as well as my own diagnosis of diabetes and the rigmarole that that entails and whilst they may be one of the "Big 4" (a super uninteresting term for the most prolific Professional Services firms) they have acted like anything but. They have looked out for me and cared for me like I was part of a tight knit family (think more Brady Bunch and less Walford Mitchells). They have gone out of their way to make sure that part time working worked, not only for them, but for me and my family (and believe me, it took quite a lot of doing). They understood that I was the primary caregiver and there would be times when I was needed elsewhere. There were points when I would barely be in the office for days at a time as illness was passed from child to child (and then far too often) to parent and they never made me feel bad for it. They understood that each nativity performance was as momentous as the, undoubtedly, clashing deadline and they were more than willing to have me work from home on the rare occasion that my childcare fell through or, more often than not, when the school run took priority over my personal appearance. In short, they were bloody lovely.

Nativity performances were prioritised

The only teeny, tiny issue was that the work never really excited me. I never hated it but neither did I find myself intrigued to read further than what was entirely necessary. This was never a huge issue for me as plenty of people don't love what they do and the job still had more good points than bad. It allowed me to be the sort of parent I wanted to be so leaving never really crossed my mind. As a qualified accountant I would regularly be approached about "exciting opportunities" in the industry that I may be interested in but I knew that as soon as I revealed myself to be a part time worker they would disappear quicker than a tinder date when a bad case of herpes becomes apparent. I was accepting of the fact that I might not love what I do but I liked the people I worked with and it suited our family life. I knew that the only jobs advertised as "part time" were entry level, administrative type affairs that could never command the (albeit middling) salary to which we had become accustomed. 

It was fine. 

being the parent I wanted to be

Until I saw "the job". It was a mix of the subject I used to love and the skills I had acquired over the past six years. It had the potential to excite and engage me in a way that my current job had not. It was perfect. Except that it was full time. 

Medicine: but more people fewer animals

Now, I am all for every type of parenting: full time worker/full time parent, part time worker/full time parent, occasional worker/full time parent and full time parent full stop. Horses for courses I say, but as a family we need to balance the income with the childcare which means full time for him (the more substantial earner) and part time for me. At the minute we have no wriggle room on this but Reader, I applied anyway! The plan was to throw my hat into the ring then politely decline any further interview when informed that full time was non negotiable. I could leave the provess telling myself that I had tried my best but it wasn't to be and return to the cosy embrace of my current employer with some more interview experience under my belt. 

Then they uttered the seductive phrase that every primary caregiver - cum- worker longs to hear: "you tell us when you want to work and we will work around you". Damn it. 

Now there was a choice: a viable option. I could leave but did I want to? Staying where I was was safe. I knew what was expected of me and (since resigning have been reliably informed that) I wasn't too bad at it. It was comfortable, much like those jogging bottoms with the visible elastic that you've had since the late 90s but refuse to throw out because they don't cling to your lumpy bits the way your other clothes do. On the other hand though, there was the potential of something new; the potential of something that might make me feel good. Maybe something with a little more form but also a little, dare I say, sparkle? 

SPOILER ALERT: I took the job. 

I took the leap

So now I wait. Now I have broken the news to the people who have seen me through the most awful times and the best. I have left the warm embrace of a team I know, enjoy and understand  to move toward the unknown. I don't know what the new job will really be like or whether I will rue the day I left the almost perfect set up but the possibility of loving what I do was enough to tempt me to try. 

Fingers crossed x

In Da Club: The Youngest Turns Three

And just like that you are three.

Well to be honest you tell me you are nine (what with that being your favourite number) but the passage of time and my keen memory of the birthing process tells me that you are, in fact, three years of age. While we are on the subject of honesty, I have to unburden myself and tell you something that has been weighing on my mind. We lied to you. It was actually your birthday last Tuesday but I was the only one around and your sister had her swimming lesson so we thought it best to ignore the day and celebrate it (and you) the following Saturday. You would not believe how that one act divided opinions and my word, did people share their opinions! I do like to think that you are relatively unscathed by our deceit but I am sure you (and your therapist) will feed back to me in the fullness of time.

I like to use these annual punctuations to take stock of the person you are and the things that currently tickle your fancy so that I can cling to your infant state forever. So, if you are sitting comfortably we shall begin.

You are:

1, Charming
You have learnt the subtle art of flirtation and are using it to your advantage. People see you (your beautiful face makes sure of that) and they watch as you converse with your companion (be it person, animal or inanimate object) and tell them that “it’ll be okay. [Max] is here” before bestowing the most gentle of cuddles.

"It's okay. [Max] is here"

You have mastered a coy expression which you introduce to full effect upon meeting strangers but are also keen to display your ability to count, perform simple addition and inform them of your daily activities (generally accompanied by a nonchalant arm cross and worldly nod of the head.)

2. Frustrated
You get angry. A lot. We haven’t quite worked out the reason as your vocabulary is quite extensive despite often returning to a few key phrases:
“Good point Mummy!”
“Let’s talk about volcanoes”
“Mummy, I love you”
“You be Maxi and I’ll be Mummy”
“Can you make Sharky/Tiny Doggy/this random bath toy talk?”

In a one- on- one situation you are the best company and have the sweetest nature a persona which will continue so long as you have the other party’s full attention all of the time. If their attention were to be diverted for any reason (from meeting a casual acquaintance to saving a pot that had boiled over) you will go full gremlin and release an impassioned squeal that renders your veins bulging from your neck and your hands bundled so tightly that your fingernails almost draw blood. Laughing at this point does not help.

Sharing is so far beyond your remit that it is not even a speck on the horizon and at best is merely the notion that you might consider the concept at some less crucial point in your life and with something you never really owned in the first place (i.e. anything your sister is playing with.)

We are working on this.

Woe is you. 

3. Funny
You make us laugh, everyday and I mean genuinely howl with laughter. You seem to understand humour before we expected and will regularly use it to defuse a situation. Your routine move will be to bring out the “robot” dance where you employ a series of jerky movements and roll your eyes towards the back of your head.

You love to pretend to change roles and dissolve into giggles when we choose to impersonate you when consumed by one of your rages. With fists in armpits we lower our chins, gaze from beneath our upper eyelids, take a deep sigh and say “Mummy, don’t make me angry.” You just about end yourself, every time.

No words. 

4. Affectionate
I don’t know if this is a boy thing as frankly with only one of each of you to reference it could just be a you- and- your- sister thing but you cannot get enough physical affection. When your sister emerged from the womb she flatly refused to be put down right up to the point of walking but since mastering the ability to reach her destination independently she does not have time for physical affection. Frankly, she is too busy planning world domination (albeit through kind acts). You, on the other hand, may have to be surgically removed from me at some point. Your favourite thing to do is sit on the couch and read books so long as you get to sit on my lap and burrow in as far as the human form will permit. You cry if anyone forgets to give you a goodbye kiss and bask in people’s need to squeeze you when you say something sweet.

I love it.


Things you like:

1. Paw Patrol
Don’t you just. Paw Patrol seems to speak to your soul and Chase is your alter ego. We have all been given roles with your father being Ryder (the dog owner), Moomie as Rocky (because she fixes things), your Sister as Skye/Everest (storyline dependent) and myself inhabiting the role of Zuma (this involves a lot of swimming which also happens to be my least favourite activity so thank you for that). You seem to love the emergency service they provide to Adventure Bay and the hapless Mayor Goodway and seek comfort in the programme’s complete absence of peril (read “anything interesting happening whatsoever.”)

For six months you have been planning your Paw Patrol themed birthday party and I like to think we didn’t disappoint but if we could move on to something a little more stimulating in the near future I would be very grateful.

In fact, I beseech you.

Please.

Paw Patrol Hell

2. Sharky
After an impromptu (and rather successful) trip to sea world on the long journey south to visit your grandparents you were allowed to choose a memento from the toy shop. Where Your sister opted for the incredibly life like pink turtle with purple flowers on their head, you plumped for the tooth- baring, cuddly Great White. I made the mistake of bestowing voices and personalities upon the sea creatures as an attempt to entertain you when your sense of humour ran out at the end of the pilgrimage. This was a more successful diversion than I anticipated and now we frequently (if not daily) have debriefs with the crew about anything and everything; the more mundane and banal the better.

The Adventures of Sharky

3. Firefighters
Even at such a young age you have decided that your career as a firefighter is a foregone conclusion despite being absolutely consumed by terror at the sight of a candle.

The witching hour pre-bedtime is often spent running up and down the hallway in your firefighter pyjamas with your imaginary hose putting out a series of imaginary fires. This has made me broach the possibility of Fireman Sam as a viewing option but I was met with an adamant refusal (see your issues with peril, flame and forsaking the canine breed.)

Fighting with (his fear of) fire 

4. Anything your sister has
I mean anything. Were you sister to contract a hideously painful disease you would probably still want it and wail about the injustice of “Cha-lotte not sharing!” The issue we have is that she relents and will, more often than not, issue a shrug of the shoulders, a knowing look and bestow her possession upon you as she opts for the easy life. No one’s fault per se but not helping prepare you for life.

We are working on this.

You are in summary a loving, impassioned and complex character; a product of all of those around you and yet entirely your own person. We would not have you any other way.

All the love

Although if you were able to reign in the almighty rages we would be eternally grateful.

All my love

Mummy x

Coming Clean: Confessions of an Untidy Mother

The times are a changing. We have laughed in the face of Brexit fear and made the rather rash decision to put our home on the market. “So what?” I hear you cry. “Who cares? You are not the first to do this and you won’t be the last. What is the big deal?” 

We are “live”

The “big deal” my friends is that we currently have nowhere to go. The "big deal” kind reader is that we have two small children. The “big deal” loyal souls is that we are not, by nature, very tidy as a family. In that respect I fear we fall very short of everyone else’s mark. I placate my anxious self with reassurances of “it’s not like we are unhygienic” and “we do have two small children to look after” but in reality I fear that my husband and I will still be resolutely untidy until the day we shuffle off this mortal coil.

Now I know that Husband will be reading this with a resolute shake of his head while inwardly exclaiming that he does all of the laundry and that every so often he does set aside a time to do an overhaul of the homestead and I will admit that he is marginally more intuitive of the jobs that are required before the situation becomes desperate but, and believe me there is a “but”, he piles. He piles everything and that pile will become part of the furniture; gradually moulding itself into the contours of the room. 

He, too, embraces the chaos 

I, on the other hand, am blind to the gradual deterioration but merely wake one day to the realisation that I appear to live in a squat; the surfaces are no longer visible and my children are down to their last set of pyjamas. I then get to action (following a dramatic and self loathing outburst) and afterwards, thinking I have done a fairly good job, smugly flaunt my handiwork to my mother who will inevitably rectify the situation to a much higher standard. Tidiness is just not in my nature and, unfortunately for her, she is used to it.

In fact, my husband is the only person who has actually learned to cope with my mess and I genuinely believe that is because, as with most things, in this we are equals. All flat mates (even those who were, and are to this day, counted amongst my best friends) ran for the hills after a few months of living with me. It’s not that I don’t care about my belongings (although I wouldn’t consider myself to be materialistic) but I just don’t seem to notice their erratic dispersal about our abode. If it were left to me laundry would be done on the basis of immediate requirement rather than a need to see the bottom of the basket, ironing would be saved for essential work items and the windows would be washed when it is starting to look unseasonably foggy in June. 

“What is this Mummy?”

I’ve attempted to rectify the situation and even had my fair share of cleaners but they all seemed to do a great job on day one before making a half hearted effort thereafter. This was probably my own fault as I didn’t really know what to ask them to do and, in all honesty, I was pretty uncomfortable asking them to do anything. The foray into professional help was short lived.

When the kids came along we just embraced it and put it down to tiredness, infant paraphernalia, toddler toys and the short attention span of children when it came to activities. We would spend the vast majority of the weekend outdoors and would rarely invite anyone into our house preferring to socialise at parks, cafes and other people’s homes. It wasn’t that we had dirty plates or soiled clothes lying around but the whole place appeared chaotic not just because of the “laundry couch”. There would be the odd occasion where we would have people round and remedial actions would be taken but descended into its previous state. 

Note the “laundry couch” in the background

At the tail end of last year we decided to sell our house. It wasn’t because of the mess, I mean, we’re not that bad. It just felt like the right time (ignoring Brexit, the ever present threat of a second independence referendum, job changes and night time potty training). We tidied, painted, scrubbed and put two car loads worth of belongings into storage and then, basking in our efforts, we invited the estate agent in and showed her around with unashamed pride. 

"Well you would need to declutter obviously...” Just brutal.

I see clutter, they see joy.

We are not ones to ignore advice though and two further car loads (including some unopened 5th birthday presents) were packaged off to the lock up. We were “live” in estate agent speak, “on the market” in anyone else’s. Viewings were coming thick and fast which meant that we had to diligent in maintaining the tidy state. Our drawers were fit to burst and we could find nothing but our house reflected a serenity that we could only dream of. It was exhausting. The children were routinely being hollered after to “hang that up!”, “that’s not where that lives!” and “we are trying to keep this place tidy!” It was fun for all the family but the only thing is, if we can’t pick up after ourselves how we can expect them to?

You can always try...