Author: Alison

Daughter 1 has never, in her 16 and a half years of life, ever been sick and by that I mean thrown up. When she reminded me of this fact the other day, I could hardly believe it. However, having had enough time on my hands this half term to actually clean my kitchen cupboards, I can now completely understand why. They were filthy! I have been feeding my family food from bowls and plates that are kept in these cupboards for the best part of five years and they are utterly disgusting. Which is great, because it means that all the kids have developed an iron constitution and it is for this reason, I have definitely decided, that daughter 1 has never puked. Nevertheless, I did give them a cursory wipe and then turned my attentions to the fridge. Now, since the fateful morning that step son’s bright red fishing maggots, yes, the whole stork margarine container full of them, escaped from the fridge and into every corner of the kitchen, the fridge has never, ever been the same…and neither have I. 

I came downstairs early one Sunday, to find daughters 3 and 4 on their knees with a dustpan and brush, desperately trying to sweep the maggots up in their hundreds, as a pool of red wriggling creatures slid, on mass, out of the top shelf of the fridge, across the kitchen floor and under the skirting boards, leaving a trail of red dye behind them. Today, a good two years later, there are still traces of that red dye in the fridge that simply will not be scrubbed away. It’s only food colouring, step son had told me at the time. I wasn’t impressed. 

Bearing all of this in mind, the likelihood is that daughter 1’s first chundering experience is going to be self (alcohol) induced and neither I, nor the state of my cupboards, will have any influence over it whatsoever. 

To Mothers of daughters

Tell your daughter that you love her every day
But expect a few, ‘I hate you’s’ in return
Tell her that she is beautiful just the way she is
But let her dye her hair anyway
Tell her that it doesn’t matter whether she is tall or short
But if she is short, accept that she will use fake id
Tell her that it doesn’t matter if her hips are wide,
But still support her periodic healthy eating campaigns by buying quinoa and dates
Tell her that what really makes her beautiful cannot be seen in the hundreds of selfies that she takes every day
But ‘like’ them anyway
Tell her that what is important is in her heart
But expect it to be broken several times and be there to piece it together again and again and again.

I have decided, that since they were about three months old, I have been a fairly awful mother. I have let them get away with things that they shouldn’t have been allowed to get away with, I have not followed threats through and I have tried to be their friend – big mistake. The annoying thing is that I know exactly what I have done wrong, but they seem to be able to wind me around their little…paws. 

The worst bit about it, is that with the girls I developed a bit of a reputation amongst friends and sisters and I was frequently used as a threat: if you don’t eat your broccoli I will send you to your Aunty – the wicked witch. I ran the house like an army boot camp, as it was the only way I felt I could maintain any degree of control with four so young and so determined. 

Then the dogs come along, with their cute, wet button noses and big doey eyes and I find myself giving in. Dog 1 is on the bed as we speak – what is the matter with me? 

Number 1 friend was at the dentist today with her eldest son, who was having two teeth removed. She has a phobia of needles and nearly fainted. She was no support whatsoever, as she sat with her head between her legs. This reminded me of daughter 2’s teeth extraction experience, which started in a similar way, with me perched at the end of the couch, back towards her, muttering the words: you know I’m here if you need me – just wave your right foot. This prompted me to reflect upon the top 5 bad things I have done as a mother, that the girls remind me of fairly frequently and that no doubt they will be in therapy for in years to come:

Sent daughter 2 to school on the train, with open, bleeding gums and feeling faint after tooth extraction, because I was feeling too queasy to deal with her 

Made daughters 1 and 2 share the same pack of 2 school shirts up to years 11 and 9 respectively. I finally gave in and bought a new twin pack for daughter 1’s final year in uniform – which they shared

Made daughter 4 walk through a hospital  and into school without any shoes on and in holey tights (see Shoe Storm). Apparently, the sixth formers who were in the classroom where her trainers were stored found it very amusing. She, as a small year 7, didn’t. 

Kept daughter 1’s dead hamster in the freezer for a few days, while I worked out what what to do with a dead hamster

Put all daughter 4’s cuddly toys in a bin bag and took them to Oxfam – where she discovered them for sale and bought two of them back with her pocket money

So, I am resolving that from now on, I am going to be firmer with the dogs, in the same way that I have always tried to be with the girls. I would never have let the girls sleep in our bed, for example, as I would have been too worried that it would become a habit. 

That said, I’m looking at dog 1 lying on the bed now, curled up in a large fluffy ball, keeping partner’s side warm and I just can’t bring myself to do anything about it. I’ll be a better mother tomorrow, I tell myself, just as I have often told myself, lying in bed at this time of night and with that thought, I turn out the light. 

Partner picked up yet another fake nail from the carpet and identified the owner by colour. The girls are off to their dad’s for a few days and it is stressful as they get ready. This is not helped by the fact that daughter 2 stayed with FaceTime friend last night and so has ordered her sisters to pack a bag for her too. We need to do it via video call, she told daughter 1, as I need to try a few different tops. This sounded to me like a very long winded approach to packing and daughter 1 obviously agrees, as they are due to leave in 5 minutes and, as yet, no call has taken place and nothing has been packed for her. 

You are all very stressed this morning, I comment to daughter 1. It’s because we’re wearing fake nails, she replied. Everything is made so much harder with fake nails. It’s true, daughter 4 pipes up, fake nails make life a lot more stressful. 

My god, I thought, as I picked one out of dog 2’s fur. If removing the stresses in my life were as simple as taking off my nails, life would be so much easier. 

The familiar, ‘beep, beep’ thunders from ex’s car and ricochets off every house around our estate.  Nothing is packed for daughter 2, their rooms look like a hurricane has whipped through – which isn’t far from the truth and there is a distinct aroma of acetone in the air. I am not going to see them for a week, so rather than letting rip in my usual manner, I take a deep breath, give them all big hugs and watch them stagger down the path with their bags. 

I come back in and survey the scene. I sit on daughter 1’s bed. I do miss them when they are gone. My phone rings. It’s daughter 2 on FaceTime. Mum, please can you help me pack, they’re on their way back to pick up my things. Please put on my black polo neck jumper and then try on the cropped grey one with no sleeves…I get up from the bed, tread on a nail and wince. 

We’re back in the Previa on the way to my sisters to pick up the chest of drawers. One man’s shite is another man who lives in a house with lots of girls who have lots of clothes’ gold. 

Look at my Mr Potato Head, daughter 3 says. I have no idea what she’s talking about, until I look round to see her pointing at the plastic on the inside of the car door. Do you remember when I drew my Mr Potato Heads in crayon over everything? And this gets me thinking about all the awful things my kids did as toddlers, that I have resigned to my distant memory. The top 5:

Daughter 1 cutting daughter 2’s hair with the kitchen scissors and we’re not just talking a trim here. It was a good 6 inches, without any formal training. 

Daughter 3 cutting her seat belt completely on a journey to Heathrow, using only plastic craft scissors. That cost £180 to get fixed. 

Daughter 4 getting her head stuck in railings, causing a sports event to come to a halt while she was freed.

Daughter 2 getting her finger stuck in wooden chairs on at least two occasions and having to be sawn out (must have been attention seeking).

And the drawing of Mr Potato Heads (who was Mr Potato Head anyway?)

Obviously, this list is far from exhaustive and doesn’t even touch upon incidents that caused or had the potential to cause major physical injury, of which there have been a few, including daughter 4 drinking white spirit, then 2 weeks later dislocating her elbow. Same A&E, seen by the same doctor who said: shall I give you a different colour teddy bear this week? Four kids under 5, we accumulated a good collection of hospital teddy bears. 

Of course, now that they are nearly all teenagers, these incidents, that caused huge stress at the time, can be laughed about at their expense. That faded Mr Potato Head serves as a reminder, that even on the most disastrous of days, we all pulled through.

Arriving at my sister’s, my niece is home alone. I’ve taken the drawers out for you, she says with a smile. The chest of drawers is huge. Definitely bigger than average and partner and I man handle it down the stairs. In a manoeuvre that, in my defence, is to save the kitten’s life, the chest of drawers makes a slight swerve left into the newly painted banisters. My niece looks horrified, my brother in law is a house proud perfectionist. Don’t worry, I say to her, as we all look at the scratch through the barely dry Dulux White. That will fade, I continue knowledgeably, just like all those Mr Potato Heads and one day, he will even laugh about it.  

Postscript
Social Services were never involved.