Author: Alison

Give and take

On my birthday morning, I was jumped on in bed by two big, hairy males. That made three big, hairy males in my bed. They were all warming me up. I felt loved. Two of them started licking me, ferociously – ‘a little too loved,’ I told them. One of them then got the hiccups and with each of his breaths, I felt as if I was being knocked a little bit sideways.

As I lay there all loved up and having been woken prematurely by two of them I had time on my side, I set off thinking about the similarities between toddlers and dogs. Because years ago, it wouldn’t have been dogs jumping on me rather too early in the morning, it would have been kids.

We got the dogs at a time when our lives had settled into a very pleasant routine of weekend lie-ins and leisurely baths. Wine in front of the fire, sprawled out on a shaggy, cream carpet. Teenagers who happily stay in bed and don’t start demanding anything until about midday. No more baby shit to clean up, projectile vomit was a thing of the past and a thing of the future. The here and now was pretty easy.

The thing is, I don’t do, ‘easy’. I need to have constant challenges in my life. Three kids just wasn’t enough and I was fortunate enough to have four. Four kids under 5 satiated me for a while, but then I was on the prowl for something else. Competing in Taekwon-do for England hit the spot. Now, years later, it’s dogs.

Dogs and toddlers wake you up too early. Dogs and toddlers piss on the carpet. Dogs and toddlers interfere with sex. I can no longer lounge on a cream carpet, casually putting my wine glass down on the floor. My bowl of nibbles is not my own. I have a pair of soulful eyes looking at the crisps and then at me, and when I turn my back, bam the crisps are gone.

Life is suddenly a bit of a challenge again.

But just as I learnt some tricks on how to deal with the demanding toddlers, so I am using the exact same survival techniques with the dogs. Put them in the car 5 minutes before you intend to leave – it’s all about head space. No squeaky toys for the same reason. Make sure there are toys in their beds for them to play with first thing. Take them out of the house and exhaust them – there should be soft play for dogs.

Of course, just like the toddlers, I wouldn’t be without them. The unconditional love they give, is worth the challenges they provide. We all need a purpose and without these constant little challenges in our lives, we would flounder in an abyss. I do wonder, however, how parents of toddlers and dogs cope. There’s a challenge I am happy that I never have to face.

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The Art of Communication

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Whilst chatting to number 1 friend about communication the other day, I realised just how bloody complicated the art of communication actually is. No wonder it’s called an, ‘art’. It certainly deserves that accolade.

Recently I’ve read a few, ‘what not to say’ posts by other bloggers: what not to say to parents who adopt, what not to say to parents of an autistic child and so on. Personally, I find these blogs very useful, because I’m one of those people that may well just say one of those: what not to says. These sorts of blogs have, however, made me slightly paranoid when talking to other parents now. As I’m talking to someone, I may be so busy thinking: can I say this or that, I feel like I’m jumping around like a cat on a hot tin roof. If I think that I may have said the wrong thing, I always recount it to number one friend, who communicates with me via her facial expressions, before any words need to be uttered. ‘Oh shit!’ I often think to myself, as her face contorts into a, ‘you shouldn’t have said that’ sort of gurn.

Anyway, back to our chat the other day and we were discussing the fact that if someone asks your opinion, then of course you are free to give it and they understand that you may not agree and are happy to accept the consequences of this. Conversely, if someone is simply telling you about a situation, then take the time to listen. Gauge how you think they feel and respond accordingly, in a supportive manner. If you disagree with what they are saying, then gently put your point across using non-inflammatory language. If not, they may become defensive and this only serves to close down any further communication. Jeez, complicated huh?

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I think that we get most defensive with the people closest to us: our parents and our partners. We’re far more tolerant, generally, of other people’s views. There are some days when I can’t complete a single conversation with one of my daughters, because her defensiveness keeps shutting them down. This is one of the most frustrating aspects of teenage behaviour. There are basically only two viable solutions: hitting a wall and wine. Yes, hitting both, hard.

So, considering that a large part of teenage communication is via a screen, are their communication skills going to suffer? I think that it is vital that we ensure that our kids are brought up to value social interaction and to understand its importance. But what about when they are parents themselves? I wasn’t stuck to a screen the way my kids are and so my values will not reflect theirs. How much importance will they put on their own children’s communication skills? Time will tell. The art of communication may not die, but it will certainly continue to take on new aspects, just as any form of art does over time.

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It’s only banter, right?

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“She’s got a fit body – if you put a paper bag over her head.”

Just a bit of banter. Laugh it off, even though it kicked you in the stomach and made you feel sick. Your friends are all laughing, so it must be ok.

Right?

You want to throw something back. You’ve got a split second to think, but the pressure of those laughing faces is stifling your humour. So you let it go.

Again.

“Shorty won’t be served.” “Get short arse a stool.” “Are their dwarfs in your family?”

He’s only joking.

Always joking. But you don’t find it funny any more. In fact, you never did. He’s the lad. He’s the prankster of the class and he makes people laugh.

So he must be funny.

But you can’t laugh it off. You must be weird for not getting his bants. You can’t take a joke. Perhaps you’re stuck up like he tells you that you are. You thought he was a mate, but he makes you feel like shit.

Everyday.

“He’s a prick” your other friends tell you. “Just ignore him and he’ll leave it.”

But he doesn’t.

You want to be witty and give the banter back. The trouble is, you’re just not feeling it. His comments aren’t making you feel like a laugh. They aren’t exactly cracking you up.

Just cracking you up inside.

His banter is making you feel like the smallest person in the world. The person he is telling you that you are. You are small and ugly and you can’t see anything else.

You ARE small AND ugly.

“Fuck off, you twat!”

Now you’re an attention seeker for daring to answer back. You’re a loser and you wish you’d kept your mouth shut.

It’s easier that way.

It’s easier for him. It’s easier for you, but you are a victim and you’re carrying that everywhere inside.

“Stop being a victim” your mum tells you. “Stand up to him'” she says.

But you haven’t got the banter, or the will to or the strength. You are usually strong, but not today. Not any day. Not with him.

You never feel strong with him. He’s a bully. You’re not giving it back. You are being targeted. It’s personal.

It hurts.

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Lionize the nice girl

We all want our daughters to be nice, right? Polite and agreeable. We want our teenagers to tow the line, because it makes our lives a whole lot more pleasant. We want them to think of others and not be the one causing upsets. We want them to dress appropriately – pull that skirt down a little and less of the cleavage. Basically, as parents we want them to be accepting and tolerant and that way we have a happy home.

The trouble is, that being nice is curtailing their potential and limiting their superpowers and let’s face it, if Wonder Woman is deemed appropriate as the UN’s Honorary Ambassador for the Empowerment of Women and Girls, then they are all going to need to don their capes and, as Rachel Simmons talks about in her book: ‘The Curse of the Good Girl’, ‘lionize the nice girl’.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaasss More:

So here’s my problem as their mum. A lion is a force to be reckoned with. I want to empower my daughters, but I don’t want them to be wild and uncontrollable. I want them to have an opinion, but I also want to teach them to listen. I want them to stand their ground, but I want them to be able to accept that they aren’t always right – even if they are a lion. A lion is king of the jungle, but I am still queen of this house.

Being a nice girl is a high standard to live up to and when they fail to keep it up they can become hampered by self-criticism. Add to this the pressures of having to look a certain way in order to achieve those all important ‘likes’ and you suddenly realise why so many girls suffer from depression and anxiety.

I had naively thought that by the time my girls were adults, the genders would be pretty much equal. I am still shocked that they aren’t. What’s going on? Why can’t we have equal pay? Why are we still subject to high levels of gender-based violence and sexual abuse? Why is there still inequality in sport? Why is there still discrimination and harassment in the work place? Why aren’t women’s voices being heard?

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I want my daughters to be heard. Right now, I just really want them to have an opinion. I want to cut though their apathy on issues that affect them and their future. So I will keep asking their opinions, even if, for now, I get little back. They have time on their side, but I must lay the groundwork. I must put in the hard graft and get it right, now.

I must focus on how they are doing at school and not on their appearance. I must encourage them to try new things and make them aware of strong female role models. I need to tell my daughters that they don’t need to be liked by everyone, but that the right types of friendship are important. I’m not going to make decisions for them and they must take responsibility for their actions. I will help them to solve problems, but ultimately they must solve them themselves.

Does all this turn my girls into lions? I still want them to be what they are: girls.

Strong and sassy girls, who know how to challenge authority in a way that produces results. I want them to have the confidence to make waves.

I have my own mantras as a mum. They help. I think that these mantras, mentioned by clinical psychologist Barbara Greenberg, are fantastic for our daughters and of course for sons too:

  • Make a decision from a place of power, not pressure
  • In most situations you aren’t the subject of scrutiny, so be less self-conscious
  • Kindness is the best form of communication
  • Remember who you are

I will embrace who you are and I will prepare you as best I can for the challenges ahead.

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A Cacophony of women

Yesterday, I was at Blogfest16 which is organised by Mumsnet, the UK’s biggest parenting network. The day consisted of various discussion groups with panels made up of some extremely inspirational and successful women: in politics, comediennes, authors, campaigners and the day was rounded up with a keynote speech from Davina McCall. It was a day that was rich in women. The audience was packed with them – most bloggers are female and I counted 4 men. As I listened to the speakers, I thought to myself how uncomfortable it must be to be a man in the audience. Themes began to emerge and repeat themselves. As the panels changed and a new group of women spoke about an entirely different subject, the same issues were being said over and over again and what was being voiced was just how much woman struggle in the face of men. Even these wonderfully intelligent and incredibly strong women were telling us that they have to fight because of men, again and again. I use the word ‘fight’, because from where I was sitting it sounded as if it was a daily battle to deal with the overbearing strength of the males in our society. Women’s voices aren’t heard, they were saying. We have to shout, but men don’t like us shouting because we are supposed to be happy and when we shout we don’t appear happy and when we don’t appear happy the foundations of society are rocked. Shouts of complaint are referred to as ‘moans’. Haters on line are always male, one panelist said. Ignore, ignore, ignore was the repeated advice. Sexism in the workplace is still rife, particularly in certain sectors – commercial radio didn’t get good press. Women must support each other, was another emerging and recurring theme. I sat and listened and I sat and thought: but we are not supporting each other. I read comments where women are judging women on line every day. Forty two per cent of Trump’s voters were women. Women who would rather vote for a man who demeaned them and bragged about sexual assault, than support a woman’s bid to be the first female president. I have recently been thinking about how there are still huge inequalities between men and women and as I spent the whole day listening to these strong women, it really brought it home to me, when I saw that even they seem to be struggling to be heard on the same grounds as men. Venus and Mars are still miles apart. “Women, support each other” they said, but the truth is: we don’t.

I suddenly felt a huge responsibility, as I have 5 daughters I can influence. I questioned whether I am doing enough to make them realise the task that lies ahead for them. How can I best equip them to be able to fight these battles? I don’t want them to be afraid of what the future holds, but I want them to be aware of these divides: forewarned is forearmed. Yet teenagers don’t seem ready for this fight, or particularly interested or bothered. This worries me. There is a palpable apathy that comes from their attentions being drawn on line to other things: to a celebrity, selfie, body-obsessed culture. A culture where fighting male dominance is irrelevant, but rather grabbing their attention is key. Just getting attention, anyone’s. It’s less about supporting other girls than comparing. It’s less about ignoring the haters, than letting them affect you and allowing them to drive you to being someone you are not.

I thought about my teenage years. I remembered the abuse I got from male friends through banter and how I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I took it. Harmless right? But it hurt. It confused me. Because I never learnt how to deal with it, I carried this confusion through my 20’s and 30’s – accepting that the male voice is louder. Expecting to be talked over. Expecting my voice to be the smallest in the company of men. 

Last night in the post-Blogfest bar, partner said to me suddenly: “listen.” There was a cacophony of female voices. Loud, deliberate, intelligent and strong. “This is how I want our daughters to be,” I said to partner and it is my responsibility as their mother and their most influential voice, to get it right.

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Oh Shit!

I’m having one of those weeks where you watch your hard-earned cash slowly but surely, being pissed down the toilet.

My trusty Previa, fondly known as: Aunty Al’s Bus for the past many a year, died in quite a dramatic fashion, on the way to work last week. As I watched the smoke bellowing from the bonnet and I was warning my fellow passenger to evacuate with me for fear that it would explode, I thought to myself two things: the first was, ‘oh shit!’ and the second was: ‘this is going to be expensive’. Any minute now I am going to watch it being hauled onto a tow truck and driven to the scrap yard. I think I will run down the road after it, waving a white flag and scattering petals – we’ve been through a lot together.

Trump being elected as President on Wednesday, has done nothing to make this week any better. At the ladies’ Taekwon-do class that I teach on Wednesday morning, our two American students gave each other a hug. I suspect they were exchanging whispers of what alternative accent they should adopt for the rest of the week. It can’t feel good to be American right now. It feels bad enough being English and wondering: how the…? What the…? Why the…? Who the…?

As I sat in total shock that morning, clutching onto my third mug of tea and listening to his victory speech, I thought to myself that the discomfort his son was obviously feeling, standing next to his Dad in full view of millions, was equal to about one thousandth of how many of the viewers were feeling. Uncomfortable would be a terrible understatement. I looked at his family standing on the stage and all I could see were spray tans, Botox, over-coiffured hair and the air of ‘fake’ hung heavily around them. It’s a reality show that has just got horribly real – with all the narcissism  that goes with it. There is a man, I thought to myself, who doesn’t like being told: ‘no’. There is a little boy who is dressed like a man. There is the President of the United States of America and for the second time in a matter of days, I thought: ‘oh shit!’.

Still in shock, daughter 1 caught me off guard last night and I found myself sitting next to her in the car, as she attempted to pull out of our driveway – she’s only had four driving lessons thus far and up until now I have resolutely refused. As we careered around the industrial estate in the pitch dark, I remembered why. ‘Break!’ I screeched at her, as we sped towards a corrugated iron structure at several miles an hour. “Why didn’t you brake sooner?” I asked, once we’d come to a stop, inches from the wall. “Because I had to check my mirror first” she replied, with the voice of someone who is new to something and doggedly follows the rules. ‘Oh shit!’ I thought, not for the first time this week and I have a niggling feeling, as the aroma of cat’s piss is wafting down the stairs, that it won’t be the last.

img_2933There goes Aunty Al’s Bus…oh shit!

 

 

 

Girls…

The Bigger One’s Tag

Jo of Mother of Teenagers tagged me to ask my daughters some questions. ‘Oh no, not another tag post to do,’ I thought to myself – they seem to take me so much longer to write than any other post! However, I thought it would be interesting to hear their answers and when I read Catie’s reasons behind starting this tag, I was even more intrigued. This is what she said about it:

‘I went on the hunt for questions and came across this article in the Telegraph 25 questions to ask your child. This was just what I was looking for…

For an intriguing and often entertaining insight into how your children see the world, take a look at these 25 questions for kids…The answers might just surprise you…

Perhaps 25 questions would be too much for my boys? I decide to condense them to 10. Would I be surprised by the answers? Read on and find out in my #BiggerOnes Tag…’
She wanted to gain more of an insight into her sons’ minds – particularly that of her son who has autism. You can find her at: Diary of an Imperfect Mum
I asked my eldest and youngest to answer the questions. The youngest was keen to, the eldest not so! Here are their answers:
Daughter 4, aged 12 years


Who is your best friend?

Yasmin Dodd. We’ve been friends since we were babies, because our mums are best friends. (So we didn’t have a choice, haha!)

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Singer, vet, radiologist, a dentist or an actress

If you could have one superpower what would it be and why?

To be able to fly, because then you can get around much easier

What are the 3 best things about being you?

I have a great family, I’m generally happy and I have lots of pets

What are the best and worst things about mum?

The best thing is she’s always loving and always looking after us and there for me. The worst thing is that when she shouts, she shouts

Can you name one thing that scares you?

Spiders

What’s the nicest thing a friend has ever done for you?

It’s not one thing, but Yasmin has always been there for me

How do you describe me to your friends?

I always say you are reasonable and that I love you

If you could go anywhere in the world for a day where would you go?

Ariana Grande’s house, in LA

Which 3 words best describe you?

Loud, sociable, an animal lover

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Daughter 1, aged 17 years

Who is your best friend?

Multiples

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Alive

If you could have one superpower what would it be and why?

To know what people are thinking and to be able to go wherever I want to go easily. (I did point out that she was only allowed ONE superpower, but in true teenage fashion, she insisted on more and refused to give her reasons why!)

What are the 3 best things about being you?

I find these questions really hard to answer…(that was her answer…)

What are the best and worst things about mum?

The best things are that you make a dead good chicken dish and you haven’t got a saggy bum and the worst is that you have a go at me for no reason

Can you name one thing that scares you?

UCAS

What’s the nicest thing a friend has ever done for you?

A surprise visit on my birthday

How do you describe me to your friends?

Oh God, what’s she done now?

If you could go anywhere in the world for a day where would you go?

New York

Which 3 words best describe you?

Fun, chatty, sociable

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So there you have it. I’m not sure that I got a great insight into my girls, but at least I now know that I haven’t got a saggy bum…

I tag the following lovely bloggers to bribe their kids/step kids into doing it, if they have the inclination and haven’t done so already:

Trista at Domesticated Momster
Bridget at Bridie by the Sea
Prabs at Absolutely Prabulous

Check out their blogs too 🙂

 

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Shit will still happen

I have come to the conclusion that there comes a point in our children’s lives, when you have to step back and trust and hope. Instinctively, I have known this for a while, but it is only now that I am allowing myself to openly admit it.

You see the thing is, shit will happen. Whether you are a parent who hovers or a parent who doesn’t have the time and/or the inclination to, shit will still go down.

Daughter 2 is 15. She’s the third 15 year old who I have parented. It’s taken me this long to acknowledge that sometimes their take on life is ok. Sometimes, when I judge their perspective on things, I am wrong to do so. Not always, but sometimes and probably a lot more than I ever thought.

Teenagers don’t use desks. Some do, of course, but many don’t. It is quite normal for you to come home and find your teenager wrapped up in their fluffiest of dressing gowns, in bed, duvet pulled up with a laptop positioned precariously on their knees…at 2pm on a Sunday. No, they are not still in bed from the previous night. Under their dressing gown they are fully clothed and have been for a while. This used to make me mad. “What are you doing in bed?” I’d holler. Then I noticed a sister was doing it and then a cousin. Now, it may well be that it’s genetic, but I suspect it’s a teenage ‘thing’. I don’t like it, because it seems slovenly. They do it because it makes them feel comfortable and cosy. Does it affect whether they get that required level 6 in GCSE Maths? Probably not. Perhaps I should step back and let it go.

You certainly have to pick your battles with the teens. You can’t be a one-man army, firing shots in all directions at every thing you don’t like or agree with. Those teens will be off like a shot – jumping into the nearest fluffy dressing gown and diving under the duvet for cover.

When Daughter 1 was revising for her GCSE’s, she announced that she was going to revise with a friend – on Face time. “No way!” I responded. “You will never get any work done!” She dismissed my worry and did it anyway. I decided to step back and observe, rather than to keep piling in. It’s not how I could ever have imagined revising, but she’s not me. She got fantastic grades. She attributes this partly to her working with her friend. I couldn’t argue.

Music was blaring out of her bedroom last night. I went to investigate and there was daughter 1 at her desk. The only reason being, that daughter 3 was on her bed, surrounded by maths books. “Why aren’t you working?” I shouted (over the noise of Will Joseph Cook). They both looked at me incredulously. “We are!” they chorused, as a Snap chat buzzed through. I was skeptical. I hovered. Do I turf daughter 3 out? Or, do I trust them? Do I step back and tell myself that their world isn’t my world, or do I take the hard parental line? I left them to it. Because you know what? They know what my expectations of them are. I’ve laid the ground rules over the years. I continue to be interested in their grades and their progress at school. I make sure that I still involve myself with how the personal statement is shaping up and how the math’s test went. But at the end of the day a large part of being a teenager is learning how to do things their way. Yes, shit will happen. It will happen at some point whether we are there or not and this is the step to independence, resilience and ultimately, success.

So, my new parent mantra is: don’t worry, hope. Stand back, take a breath and hope.

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Why Worry?

There’s nothing quite like a conversation with your mum to make you realise that you have fucked up as a parent…again.

My latest fuck-up was allowing daughter 2 to watch a band in Camden last night.

“What! On a school night? How old is she? 15?” Yes mum, you know that already (and actually she’s 3 weeks off being 16, which doesn’t sound nearly as bad). “I would never have let you do that on a school night!” Erm, well actually you did – remember, I went to see ‘The Bolshoi’ and when I told my teachers the next day, they all thought I’d been to see a ballet. “I don’t remember that.”

No, I sighed. You never do.

The thing is, I had felt as if I’d fucked-up when daughter 2 reminded me 2 nights previously that she was going. “You’re doing what?” I asked incredulously, confident that I would never have agreed to such a thing – especially on a school night. “Yes, you remember Mum. I bought the tickets ages ago.” I searched my brain for a glimpse of a recollection…nothing. “I thought it was tomorrow, but actually it’s the day after.” Ah, now the penny dropped. She had told me that it was on the night she stays with her Dad, so I had relinquished all responsibility for the decision. Now, with 2 days to go, she tells me it’s on my watch. Shit. Suddenly it’s left to me to explain to the police, if anything were to go wrong, that I allowed my 15 but nearly 16 year old daughter out on a school night, with only her 15 year old friend as a chaperone. I falter. I’m stuck. Partner shoots me ‘one of those’ looks, that says: she’s taking the piss. I’m thinking: she can’t let her friend down now. It’s too late to stop her. What’s the worst that can happen? At which point I just switch off.

Until the morning of the night of the concert, when I suddenly panic that I don’t know the name of the band she’s going to see, let alone the name of the club. I march into her room and demand details. She’s too busy getting ready for school to be able to pay me much attention, she just waves her hand towards her bag where the tickets are. I take a photo of the ticket. This makes me feel a bit better. What I actually achieved by this, I have no idea, but it did make me feel a little more responsible.

I spend all morning worrying that I’m a really bad mother, then her friend’s mum rings me and reassures me that they’ll be ok. I feel fine again. Anyway, I have other things to worry about, so I’m more than happy to put this one to bed. I text daughter 2 to tell her that I’ve spoken to her friend’s mum and she’s to ring me when she leaves the venue. ‘I haven’t got any credit’, she texts back. Shit, I think to myself and start worrying all over again. I ring her: “you can’t go to London with no credit on your phone. What if you get lost? Separated from your friend?” I’m back to imagining various scenarios that involve young males and police. “I’ll be fine mum,” she says, adding reassuringly, “I can still text.”

She sends me a photo: ‘we’re right at the front’. The text doesn’t serve to reassure. I can see the barrier. I envisage her getting squashed up against it. ‘You’re in the mosh pit’ I text back. ‘Don’t get trampled on.’ ‘Hahahaha we won’t it will be fine’ was her text back.

And with that, I let go of my worry. I cooked, I blogged, I stared mindlessly at Facebook. I periodically told the kids to get on with homework and I watched TV. Then I went to bed.

Shit! I woke-up at midnight. I’d forgotten to worry. I grabbed for my phone – nothing. I did a quick calculation of timings. How could I have forgotten she was travelling home? How the bloody hell could I have forgotten to worry? I sent a text: ‘you back yet?’ and waited…

‘Yeah. It was soooo good xxxxxx’.

Another worry put to bed, until the next one.

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