A Lesson in Parental Superpowers

by Rachel B

“The only real mistake is the one from which we learn nothing” – John Powell

It’s my view that somewhere, way up there, is a higher power, whose job it is to keep us parents in check. To ensure we don’t become too smug, comfortable or complacent. It’s for this reason that once you stop for a second, congratulate yourself for a job well done or a parenting catastrophe avoided, an inevitable disaster will follow. Like the time, very recently, that I made it to the check-out at the supermarket with both of my children still in my sight (actually, they were both still in the trolley. Double win). I managed to employ Monkey as my trolley-unloader and a whole weeks’ shopping was subsequently packed into those ridiculous plastic bags (which are getting THINNER and THINNER on a weekly basis, are they not?! G-d forbid you should try to pack a cucumber in one of those suckers. Cucumbers are akin to hot knives through butter when it comes to slicing open Tesco carrier bags, leaving your perishable produce rolling down next door’s driveway and under their car wheels. I’ve lost entire melons this way. Cucumbers are NOT our friends). But I digress, where was I?

Oh yes, I was at the front of the check-out. Shopping packed. Children still behaving. Smug. Somewhat jubilant. Planning a celebratory Facebook status update.

“That’ll be one hundred and whatever pounds, please.” Said the cashier. “Do you have a Clubcard?”
“Yes, I do.” I said. Feeling a bit like one of those organised and together mothers that you see. You know, the ones who don’t forget their re-usable carrier bags and don’t let their children play with their iPhones to keep them quiet in shops.

“My Clubcard is right here, in my…….ohhhhhh”.

At this juncture I felt I deserved extra parenting points for not swearing.

My purse was not in my handbag. I was at home. In the kitchen. On the floor, where Madam had been playing with it.
So, back in the car we went. Of course a thunder-storm of biblical proportions had commenced during our time in the store. Of course we weren’t parked anywhere near the entrance to the store either, thanks to several builders taking up residence in the designated parent-and-child spaces. Of course we weren’t at the supermarket closest to home. Needless to say we hit the school-traffic. It goes without saying that screaming and crying ensued. From all three of us, in fact.

But I learned a lesson that day. Never get too smug. And always check that you have the means to pay for your groceries. My son will now always ask me if I’ve remembered my purse before we go anywhere. And I also now keep an emergency credit card hidden in my car, for emergencies (but don’t tell anyone).

Supermarkets are a parenting minefield. I often think that rather than loyalty cards there should be someone standing at the exit with a congratulatory glass of wine. Or at least a bar of chocolate. I mean, I find it completely impossible to even dress appropriately for a supermarket shop. No matter how cold it is in the freezer aisles, if I have children with me, I will always be sweating. There will always be a crucial item way back by the door that I have forgotten. If I have been organised enough to write a shopping list, it will inevitably still be at home. If I have remembered the list, I will forget to look at it. If I look at it, I won’t cross things off. So I’ll still require several more arduous trips to the supermarket in days to come. Even online shopping seems to result in several extra visits to the shops. I have a theory that supermarkets deliberately withhold items from your delivery to force you back in to their stores to top-up and spend more money.

I wonder if I’m the only person who occasionally forgets that sometimes there isn’t a child present when I shop. Who every-so-often rocks a childless trolley back-and-forth and asks it which yoghurt mummy should buy this week…? Probably just me, then.

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I find looking on the bright side is a useful skill when it comes to dealing with small children; when they emptied an entire box of tampons in to the bath a few weeks ago, I was actually quite pleased. At least on this occasion it wasn’t an entire loo roll. The strings made them quite easy to remove from the bath and, unlike toilet paper, they didn’t dissolve and block the drains. Every cloud, see? Lesson learned: Place tampons on higher shelf.

Speaking of bright sides, sometimes my domestic slovenliness has advantages.

For example, I was grateful for the fact that there was a pile of clean laundry which required my attention, when Madam emptied an entire pint of water in to my underwear drawer. (Well actually, she didn’t empty all of it in my drawer. Some of it she tipped on my head in order to wake me up. I’ve filed that strategy away for when she’s a teenager). So luckily, in this instance, my somewhat disorganised laundry system prevented me from going bra-less and commando on the school run. Winner.

Sometimes it feels like we need superpowers to get through everything required of us in the average day.

Parents are a bit like superheroes, really. Sadly, though, I haven’t worked out how to use my powers for good. For example, I only need a fleeting thought to enter my head for it to come true. Only yesterday I registered that it had been weeks since I’d been up in the night with one of my children. Of course, lo’ and behold I heard the 3am call of “Mummmmmyyyy, I want to get in your bed.” Superpowers, see? I made that happen. Similarly, I only need to observe that I haven’t wiped a snotty nose for a while for one of my children to instantly come down with a cold. It’s a similar logic that ensures that it will ALWAYS rain the day I paint my toe-nails. How does this work?! And why can I not use this power for lottery wins or solving the middle eastern peace crisis once and for all?

Often I think that resolving the conflict in the Middle East would be far simpler than refereeing a room full of three year olds having a playdate. I wish I knew the reason why one lone, broken and forgotten little car will suddenly become the most sought-after toy since the Cabbage Patch Doll phenomenon in the ’80’s. Everyone wants it. Superhero powers would come in handy here, but I find diversionary tactics work better.

Did you know that children have Super-powers too? Take afternoon sleep, for example. Children have a unique power to turn a five minute nap in the car at 5pm in to the equivalent of a three hour sleep. It’s worth more than the sum of its parts. One of the only things I remember from science lessons at school is the equation for speed. Speed = Distance divided by time. I wonder if a similar sum applies to car sleep. Rest earned = miles per hour multiplied by proximity to bed-time, or something. I only wish I could recharge my batteries as quickly as my two year old can in a car-seat with a five minute power nap. It’s a super-power, I tell you. And you can kiss that nice quiet evening on the sofa goodbye as a result.

These kids can turn things invisible, too. Either that, or somewhere in my house there’s a secret room to which only they have a key. It currently holds one very small red slipper, one half of a pair of cordless telephones (which I keep thinking I’ve finally found, only to have my hopes crushed when I realise it’s the same one, again.), a remote control, a favourite bowl, a very first shoe and several cosmetic items.

It’s interesting how for much of the day I’d like nothing more than a few minutes’ peace. But any parent of littles will tell you that there is absolutely nothing as suspicious as the sound of silence in a household containing awake children. My wooden floor will never be the same after my two emptied an entire, large tub of sudocrem everywhere in the time it took me to go upstairs, have a wee an put on my shoes. Of course they were dressed in their nicest clothes. Of course we were running late for a lunch date. Have you ever tried to remove sudocrem from skin? That stuff is designed to stick. I practically needed a sandblaster to remove it from them. I was just about to remark that they haven’t tried doing that again. I won’t though. For reasons stated above.

It’s my experience in my four years’ of parenting that whilst mistakes are plentiful, learning is continuous. Most days I learn something new. It’s not always something that I need to know, though. Like the fact that the simultaneous wearing of three contact lenses induces headaches, for example.

Often your children even enlighten those around you with knowledge. Such as, when I was using the loo next to the doctor’s waiting room. My son announced loudly that I was having a poo. I wasn’t, as it happens, but I thought there may have possibly been one person in the waiting room that hadn’t heard him, so I decided against clarifying the situation to my fellow patients.

I have learned to never, ever put your own coat on before those of your children. I think it’s a similar logic to fastening your own oxygen mask before anyone else’s on an aeroplane. Putting your own coat on and subsequently trying to fasten zips on two moving targets in a recipe for disaster, bad-temper and possible collapse.

I have learned that spontaneous mooing can, on occasion, divert the mother-of-all meltdowns. That you should never, EVER, remark that your child has never poo’d in the bath. (See reverse super-power point, above.) In related news I learned that those little stacking cups with holes in the bottom are useful for sieving said-poo from the bath.

I have learned to always ask exactly where on a plate a child would like their ketchup. This is one mistake I have not made twice, I’m pleased to say.

I have learned that when your child wishes you good luck rather than goodnight, you’d better brace yourself.

But more than anything I’ve learned that every shocking day, is usually and conversely followed by a good one.

Keep smiling, mummies! Bye for now.

May 25, 2013 Uncategorized body image, depression, Diet, health, media, pregnancy, Weight 12 Comments

Beyond the Scale

by Rachel B

Nothing highlights how your life has changed more than going on holiday with two small children. We’ve just returned from two lovely weeks in the sun. It was our first holiday abroad in three years and we chose a very family friendly resort so that the kids would be well catered for.

Anyone who’s taken their pre-schoolers on holiday will tell you that the days of relaxing on a sun-lounger with a book and a cocktail are long-gone, at least for the time being. But this isn’t the only change I noticed around the pool.

In my late teens and early twenties I went on several girls’ holidays with my friends. The only similarity between those days and the present is the lack of rest! I remember sitting around the pool with my two closest girlfriends, ten years ago. Both were tiny size eights and I was a twelve. I used to feel so paranoid about being bigger than them. Of course if I had a time-machine I’d go back and tell that foolish girl to make the most of her pert figure because gravity and pregnancy would soon take it’s toll and one day her stomach would sway when she walked.

Usually before a holiday I’d be frantically crash-dieting, but not this year. Having recently recovered from a serious bout of depression (which admittedly involved a fair amount of comfort eating) I simply wasn’t in the right place to begin a diet. I didn’t have the emotional energy to dedicate to a diet and I don’t think I’d have handled the stress well. My bikini days are well and truly behind me and I packed my trusty one-piece swimsuits, thanking my lucky stars that they’re fashionable at the moment.

In contrast to the days when I used to look with envy at other girls’ bikini bodies, this time I noticed similarities between all of the women around the pool;

The body of almost every woman I saw on holiday showed signs of having experienced pregnancy.

This was something that I found incredibly comforting. I can honestly say that I think I saw three women out of the hundreds in our resort, whose bodies still looked perfect. I even asked one of them what her secret was. Turns out there’s something to be said for vigorous daily exercise!

Now I have never felt particularly comfortable in my skin. But this has been magnified since having children. I was enormous in pregnancy and I’ve been left with an unsightly “pouch” of skin on my lower stomach. I don’t hide the fact that if I had the courage and the money I’d get it surgically removed.

Why are so many of us surprised and disappointed with our post-baby bodies?

For lots of women, a major goal in life is to have children. Whether consciously or otherwise, a great deal of effort goes in to finding a partner to reproduce with. For some, conception is easy and for others it can be a painful journey taking many years. Then comes pregnancy, birth and often breast-feeding. Here is this amazing little person you’ve created, nurtured and sustained thanks to your incredible body.

Yet, once this stage is over, many of us (myself very much included) will look in the mirror from time-to-time and shake our heads. Poke at our once-lovely boobs and prod our jiggly tummies and dimpled behinds, wondering what happened.

Pregnancy happened. Childbirth happened. Life changed forever and beyond recognition thanks to the little person (or people) you brought in to the world. Yet somehow we expect our bodies to remain unscathed. To not show any sign of the miracle they created. We look at the marks left behind and we view them with disdain, as a sign of imperfection. Whether we’re aware of it or not, we compare our bodies with our peers and with air-brushed images of celebrities who somehow make it back on to the catwalk within days of giving birth. (I often wonder about this. Where do they hide the massive brick-sized post-natal sanitary towels in those skimpy outfits, anyway?!).

But who is watching us, when we stand in the bathroom scowling at our reflections?

Our children are watching. They are listening and they’re learning. Their little sponge-like brains are forming opinions that imperfection is bad. That fat is ugly. That image is so very important. That mummy doesn’t like herself very much. Perhaps even that if they get fat too that mummy may not like them anymore, either.

I read a fabulous quote from Kate Winslet, online recently:
“As a child I never heard one woman say to me ‘I love my body’. Not my mother, my elder sister, my best friend. No one woman has ever said; ‘I am so proud of my body’. So I make sure to say it to Mia, because a positive physical outlook has to start at an early age”.

Now granted, I’d find it easier to love my body if it resembled Kate Winslets. But that’s not the point. Our daughters (and sons) need to hear this. We simply MUST learn to lead by example when it comes to teaching healthy body image to our children. They need to know that imperfection is acceptable. Regardless of their shape, size, colour or countless other factors, they need to know that they belong and are loved.

Through the eyes of our children, we are beautiful. We’re their beautiful mummies. Who are we to argue with their views and to tell them that they’re wrong, to point out the flaws in their logic along with those on our bodies?

A friend recently told me how her seven year old daughter came home from school in tears. Another child had called her fat and she wants to go on a diet. Seven. Years. Old. This makes my heart hurt on so many levels. That a child should have this worry on their shoulders is devastating. That another child should use the “F Word” to another child to hurt them is equally awful.

I want my children to accept and embrace people of all shapes, sizes and backgrounds. I want them to be confident enough in their own strengths of character for appearance to not be their only defining factor. I want them to never be the child hurling insults at others.

This has to start with me.

We women are our own worst critics. If we’re not beating ourselves up by comparing ourselves with others we’re often bashing other women. Discussing or criticising the appearance of our peers. This only serves to make ourselves feel more insecure. If we’re discussing someone else’s weight gain, surely someone else is doing the same to us, right? And who is listening, when we’re sitting in a room discussing how such-and-such lost all that weight and has now regained it all? Who is taking in every word we say, filing it away for future reference? Yep. You guessed it.

Think about the women in your life. Think of who you see as beautiful. Are they all perfect size eights? Are they all jiggle, line and stretch-mark free? Of course they aren’t. There is so much more to beauty than physical appearance and size.

To truly set an example to our children we need to learn to respect and honour, if not love our own bodies. Inside and out.

This is the only body I’ll ever have. It’s seen me through a lot and given life to a two whole new people. That’s amazing. There’s no question about it.

In an ideal world appearances wouldn’t matter at all. What we wear and how we look would pale in to insignificance versus our good deeds and our kind spirits. We’d all be recognised for our talents and strengths and no-one would give a second thought to weight, skin colour or any other physical attribute. But this sadly isn’t the society we live in.

This, too needs to change. But the diet and beauty industries are worth far too much to the media. We and our children will be bombarded with images of how we’re supposed to look. How we’ll only be truly happy if we drop a dress size (or four)/wear this/buy that.

Our ammunition against this tirade of negativity is our own self-esteem and rational mind. We simply must remind ourselves and our children how many qualities we have, beyond looks. How clever and kind we are. How thoughtful.
By pointing out positive characteristics to our children we can take some of the emphasis off physical appearance as the only gauge of a person’s worth.

I just hope that I can put a sizeable deposit in to my children’s self esteem bank: If someone throws an insult at them, they can draw on a reserve of strength. If they see a magazine article which tells them they’re “less-than” I hope they’ll be able to laugh it off.

I can only truly achieve this when I start to accept my body for the imperfect marvel that it is.

Of course our insides are far more important than our outward appearances. I hope that being slim or beautiful won’t be defining factors for my children. I want them to see beyond the scale and the mirror when it comes to calculating their worth. But at the same time I hope they’ll realise that whatever shape or size they are, they’re beautiful. Like their Mama.

May 10, 2013 Uncategorized autism, bullying, friendship, love, Parenting, special needs 5 Comments

Guest Post: When I Grow Up, I Want to be Like My Children.

by Rachel B

I’m lucky enough to be on holiday at the moment. I’m hoping to write a post during my break, but so far, on day three we’ve managed to lose Monkey once, Madam has escaped from her cot (head-first) and we’ve had several smashed glasses in restaurants! Luckily we’re in a family friendly resort and there’s usually several children misbehaving at any one time, so we feel right at home!

I’m sharing a post that my dear friend Lizi posted last night. It’s from her blog Through Accepting Limits which you can find here. Lizi has four year old twins, J&L. They’ve been in our lives for only a year but it feels like we’ve known them forever. I strongly suggest you read and devour every word on her site. You’ll be glad you did.

When I Grow Up, I Want to be Like My Children

About six months ago, L started to notice that J was “different”. She asked why he sometimes ignored her when she was talking to him. She asked why he always needed to repeat his daily scripts as we passed certain points when we were out in the car. She asked why he clamped his hands over his ears and shouted during tannoy announcements in supermarkets. She asked why it would sometimes take J a few minutes to answer a simple question; why he could not cope with making choices; why he would lay in bed screaming in the early hours of the morning; why he was obsessed with meerkats. She asked a lot.

At the same time J listened to L’s questions. Her enquiries meant that his difference, his “strangeness” was being pointed out to him. And whilst he made no comment I could see he was absorbing L’s questions. I saw the anxiety and confusion flicker across his face as L reeled off the ways in which he failed to behave like “normal” preschoolers. And I knew that my reply: “Because that’s just what J likes to do!” wouldn’t cut it for long.

So that’s when I first considered the idea of introducing the term “autism” to my 3-year-olds.
I initially broached the subject by gently introducing the concept of “disabilty” to them. L had only recently noticed that one of the presenters on CBeebies is missing the lower half of one arm. We had discussed some of the things she might find difficult and how others might be able to help, both practically (offering to tie her shoelaces) and emotionally (not saying mean things to her). And suddenly L’s world changed. Difference was all around her. She was, inevitably, full of questions. Why did that lady need to sit in a chair with wheels? Why did that man sound funny when he talked? Why did that big boy keep hitting himself on the head? Why did those people need sticks to walk? She very quickly grasped the idea that sometimes there will be part of someone’s body that doesn’t quite work the way it should, or work like everyone else’s. She understood that it might make life a little harder for that person, and that we should all do what we can to be kind and helpful to each other.

We talked about the infusions I do each week and she grew to understand that part of Mummy’s body doesn’t work like everyone else’s either – but that you can’t see it. L learned what an immune system is, and shouted angrily at her “fighters” to “make those germs scram” when she caught a cold. And finally we talked about J. I explained that whilst J’s body works fine (I’ll save the explanation of hypermobility for another day!), he sometimes thinks and feels differently to others. We revisted all of L’s “whys” and she started to put the puzzle together. J shouts in the supermarket because he hears everything really loudly and it hurts his ears. J sometimes ignores her because he can only think about one thing at a time. J screams in his bed because his brain isn’t very good at going to sleep. And gradually I introduced the word “autism”. At first it was hard to explain such an intangible condition. But then L would start to ask “Did J do xxx because he is autism?” (I still can’t get her to say he has autism!). Sometimes I would reply “Yes, I think J probably did xxx because he has got autism”. And sometimes I would reply “No, I think J did xxx just because that is what J likes to do”. Again, J listened and absorbed. And as autism by its very nature likes facts and answers, rather than intangible questions, J seemed at peace with the answers that were emerging.

And of course, we talked again and again about how much we love J, and how the things that make him different also make him very, very special. I knew I had overdone the “J’s autism makes him special” when L tearfully insisted that she is “a little bit autism” too. I didn’t protest too hard. We’re probably all a little bit autism after all.

And as time has gone on, “autism” has become just another word in J and L’s ever-increasing and hugely impressive vocabularies. It is simply another descriptive term. L has got blue eyes and curly hair, is very little, and loves to sing and make pictures. J has a wicked laugh and autism, is great at reading, and loves shapes and tickles. Sometimes J will refer to his autism and a little more often L does. Occasionally I have found it very useful in explaining J’s own behaviour to him, when he seems confused by his physical and emotional responses to different stimuli. But mostly no-one in our house mentions autism because no-one needs to.

I did not take the decision lightly to tell my children at such a young age that J has autism.

After I had done it I worried constantly about whether it had been the right thing to do. Their response reassured me to a certain degree. But it was a conversation we had today that finally left me in no doubt that I had done the right thing.

A little boy, B, has recently joined J and L’s class in nursery. B has autism. I know very little about him, but it is clear that he not at the same point of the spectrum as J. He is non-verbal and it seems that his autism is notably more severe than J’s. In the car on the way home from nursery today J suddenly said “Let’s talk about B!” I asked what he wanted to tell me about B and he said B had kept opening the classroom door today. I remarked that this was funny – B likes opening doors and J likes closing them. J said “Yes, B is like me!” A split second later came L’s inevitable question: “Is B autism?” “Yes” I replied, “I believe B has got autism”. “Oh!” said L. “That’s why he doesn’t talk!” Bearing in mind J’s verbal communication skills are excellent I was surprised she had made this connection. L went on to explain all the autistic traits B displays during an afternoon at nursery. I have to say her diagnostic observations are impressive.

Then L told me B had pinched her today. She said it hurt. I thought about my response before saying that I didn’t think B meant to hurt her or be naughty, but he still needed to learn that he mustn’t pinch people so L must tell the teacher if it happens again. Then L said something that brought tears to my eyes. I have reproduced her words as faithfully as my memory allows:

“Poor B” she said. “Maybe he wanted to be my friend but didn’t know how to tell me. I don’t mind that he pinched me. He probably knew that I would be kind to him because I know all about autism. If he does it again I will say ‘No B, pinching makes me sad. Do you want to play instead?’ Do you think that will make him happy Mummy? It must be very upsetting to not be able to talk or to tell people what you want. Maybe we should have a play date with him”.

Then J, who had been quiet for some time, added: “B has got autism like me. I will be his friend”.

If my children go on to climb Everest and win Nobel prizes, I can’t imagine ever being prouder of them than I was in that moment. At four years old they have openly understood and accepted difference and, through their own volition, considered ways to embrace it. They have shown empathy, compassion and kindness. The thought that B will grow up remembering the two children who offered to be his friend rather than shying away from him fills me with joy.

I have learned an important lesson today. I have been so busy trying to change the world so that everyone is loving and accepting and understanding towards J, I forgot that he has it in him to be all of that for another.

A year ago I could never have imagined being grateful for J’s autism. Now I am just starting to realise how many gifts it has given us. And the greatest of all is that it has made my children into the kind of people who wish to befriend a boy who might otherwise remain friendless. What parent could ever ask for more?