Perfect on Paper

So, I realised that if I post just one more message this year, then 2010 will have exactly the same number of messages as 2009.
This is a rather disconcerting observation, and I wonder what it might mean?
I am effortlessly perfect?
Subconsciously symmetrical in all that I undertake?
No more and no less chatty this year than last?

Anyway, so be it.
147 messages in 2010... of which this shall be the last.
A message without a clear message: a message that skims across the surface of a period filled with doubt, unexplained anger and a pinch of gloom.

BB and I went to Marseille, and all was well. Then we came back, and the feeling that daily life requires slightly more effort than I can give returned.
Now I am packing the various bags for our holiday travels (Paris, Ile de Ré...) and trying to reduce the whole exploit to the bare essentials, both physical and mental.

Last night, an acquaintance with whom I spoke briefly after the theatre told me, just before we parted: "Remember this one word: demands."
"Demands...?" I faltered.
"Fewer of them," she nodded. "On yourself. Be less demanding. Just remember that, if you remember nothing else."

So this is the single thought I will slip into the suitcase alongside the eight pairs of tiny underpants, the boots, coats, gloves, etc.
I will meditate on it during those lost moments on trains and in the midst of holiday cheer... as we wait for midnight to strike in a picture perfect setting.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL!

Concentration Span

Call me intolerant, call me a mobile phone novice... but there's something that really shocks me.

We are a group of parents gathered in the school cantine. Opposite us, our three-year old children form a straggling, bouncy line admidst the homemade Christmas decorations.
It is their very first Christmas "concert", and they have a few short songs they wish to dazzle us with.

As the sweet jangle of three-year old singing fills the room, I am suddenly aware of the fact that every single mother (there is only one dad, and he is behind me) other than me is clutching her mobile phone. Granted, some of them are using it to take photos, observing the whole thing through the minuscule eye of a flat screen, but some of them are simply doing what I call the "mobile phone caressing routine": stroking it, staring at it, willing it to ring.

Then, of course (I'm sure you can see where this is heading...), a phone rings. Loudly and insistently. Every mother scrabbles to check whether the ringing phone is her own (not,as you might expect, out of embarrassment, but rather, to make sure they aren't missing anything important).
The lucky recipient identifies the call as her own... and answers.
Just like that: a cheery "Allo?" boomed out right there in the midst of our three-year-olds' first Christmas concert.

There is a general shuffling. You can tell people are distracted. And yes, by "people", I mean the parents, not the kids.
The magic fails to materialise: there is no wonderment, no involvement, no sense of calm.

We worry about the attention span of our kids. As far as I can see, it's the parents we should really be concerned about.

The Revenge of Christmas

And on a more positive note...
If you have a decent memory, you may recall that Christmas is not really my thing. Actually, that is a euphemism for "I am grumpy and negative about Christmas".
However, startling changes are afoot in this household. The (r)evolution is undeniable:

Two years ago, my first blog account of the Christmas season was far from cheery.

One year ago, the situation had improved dramatically... but my words still belied an underlying resistance.

This year... BB is three, and he LOVES Christmas. Egged on by school, and its obsession with decorations, trees, Father Christmas, chocolates and everything else you could possibly associate with the Yuletide ritual (right down to the toilet roll Santa and homemade foil stars...), he wants it all.
And so endearing is is wide-eyed capacity to believe, that he has won me over.
This year... our tree is no artificial, token nod to festive duty. Oh no, no, no! This year, our tree is a big, cheery, natural affair, complete with shedding pine needles and... and... tinsel.
Yes, we now have tinsel (see last year's pledge never to stoop to tinsel, and gasp).

So this is veritably the revenge of Christmas. All it took was a little boy and a couple of years: and Christmas is most definitely in the bag and here to stay.

Meltdown

Actually, it turned out not to be "spa or bust" but rather "spa AND bust"!
So much for my flippancy, hum.

So I found myself in the slightly disconcerting situation of feeling VERY low, and at the same time VERY protected (in the muted ambiance of a deserted spa resort, far from the Christmas shopping frenzy, in the company of two wonderful friends who rose to the occasion so brilliantly that one might have thought they'd been serving up herbal teas and good advice most of their lives!).

It was as though my subconscious had glimpsed the tiniest opportunity for a major meltdown - far from family obligations and wide-eyed children - .... and I duly flung myself body and soul into that opening.

Ah well. The first few days were terrible: the days since then have been a lot better.
I am overtaken by the wave of relief that comes from finally letting go, facing the fact you are not perfect and drawing up a tentative action plan (with spouse) to address all the malfunctioning elements that have softly snowballed throughout the year.

Overcoming all my natural, hardworking instincts in one quick move, I hauled myself down to the doctor's on Tuesday and got myself signed off sick for the week. The doctor suggested that perhaps I didn't so much require medication as rest and a few big boxes of chocolate? He winked as he wrote the presecription for "top quality chocolate", and I smiled in relief: my diagnosis was the same as his, but it's always nice to have one's instincts confirmed by a professional.

So here I am. I have much to learn; we have much to learn as a family. The first step is meltdown. The second is kindness. And indulgence. We'll see how the rest takes shape.

Therapy

A few weeks ago, when two fellow mothers and I booked a weekend's "retreat" here, it all seemed rather frivolous and... expensive.

But, now that the countdown to departure time has begun (2 hours to go! Freedom calls!), the whole exploit appears not frivolous but.... vital.

Massage or meltdown?
Pampering or prozac?
Spa or bust?

Looks like we made a wise choice.

The Recipe

I would like to be the kind of mother who knows how to rustle up a homemade chocolate cake for tea. The kind of mother who always has the right ingredients in stock, in the proper place, in a neatly ordered kitchen cupboard.

I would like to be the kind of mother who doesn't get impatient with a whingy child. The kind of mother who always knows exactly how to deliver the right dose of tenderness and firmness: the kind who doesn't shout.

I would like to be the kind of mother who never runs out of nappies - so never has to cross her fingers and hope the baby doesn't dirty himself for a few hours while squeezed into the very last "emergency" nappy.

I would like to be the kind of mother who teaches the alphabet to her kids after work. The kind of mother who always has energy and a bunch of creative ideas to implement.
I would like to be the kind of mother who doesn't daydream while playing with her kids.

I would like to be the kind of mother who already has a beautifully decorated tree up and glittering by December 7th. Plus a pile of thoughtful presents: wrapped and labelled and enticing.

I would like to be the kind of mother who doesn't feel overwhelmed 90% of the time.


But instead, I am the kind of mother who invites a couple of kids over for tea, starts to make her (first ever) chocolate cake... and realises she forgot to buy the chocolate.
I am the kind of mother who sends her husband out in a panic at 3 pm to buy a slab of chocolate.
The kind who measures out her ingredients according to the Estimate principle, because she doesn't possess any weighing scales.

I am the kind of mother who turns her face away to hide her tears when the cake turns out just fine and everyone loves it.

I am the kind of mother who scrapes by and hopes it will all turn out OK.
But when I see them tucking into the succulent cake I have somehow managed to produce, I think there must be a metaphor in there somewhere... and with a pinch of good luck, my life might turn out fluffy and sweet and heart-warming like this randomly perfect cake.

Off Balance

Imagine our enthusiasm: a rare opportunity for a night out, made possible thanks to the fortuitous combination of
1/ A group of friends
2/ A kind-hearted babysitter
3/ A good restaurant

So, the evening was fun, the food was OK - but brazenly over-priced - the break from routine was invaluable.

FH started to look a little wobbly on the bike ride home.
Once home, he quickly excused himself and went to bed, while I made tea and had an hour-long debriefing session with the kind-hearted babysitter.

Then, the OK meal removed itself from FH's stomach and deposited itself all over the bedroom, hallway and bathroom in three stages (4 am, 5 am, 6 am) that seemed to roughly correspond to the three courses in which it was served.

No pretty sight, no pretty odour, let me tell you.

A bit of a kick in the teeth for an overwrought couple with few, treasured opportunities for nights out "à deux".

Stumbling out of bed after a sleepless night, thinking of the rather large credit card payment made only a few hours ago, that scene from Fawlty Towers replayed itself in my mind's eye:
Basil's dinner has made one of the snooty guests sick. When the snooty guest's husband asks Basil for a refund - in view of the circumstances - Basil is typically mean-spirited.
"If it was off, why did she eat the other half?"
"Fine!" snaps snooty husband, "in that case, you can refund half now... and if my wife brings up the other half in the night, we'll claim the balance in the morning!"

Classic

Touchy Feely

Partly, of course, it's because he's the second child.

And second children - although they get a rough deal in some respects - have one major intrinsic advantage over firstborns: they are treated with more indulgence.
I'm sorry, but it's true.

Standards slip, principles slide. In the tumult of daily life with more than one child to tend to, firmly held parenting ideas tend to get watered down: a biscuit is given more readily (please stop moaning for two minutes!), a bit of naughtiness strategically overlooked (I haven't got time to deal with this!), a cry for attention more indulgently received (oh, for a bit of peace!).

And yet partly, it's because it's him.
LB is a curious character. The more I get to know him (and it is about getting to know him - with all his qualities and foibles - and not just about "bringing him up"), the more I realise what an affectionate, sensitive boy he is.
Fits of shouting, when answered with a hug, seem to twindle to nothing.
An extra 5 minutes spent cuddling him in the morning do a happy boy make.
Keeping him tight on my knee for the first 15 minutes in new surroundings make him reassured and sociable: forcing him to join in immediately makes him howl.

Maybe because BB is so different - or perhaps because I am not a major hugger myself - it's taken me a while to understand his modus operandi.
But now that I've cottoned on, I'm adapting.
See, who knew that I could be the kind of mother who would allow her boy to sleep ALL NIGHT in her arms? (and by "in her arms", I mean literally snuggled as tightly up to my belly as he could possibly be without ending up back on the inside...).
BB never did this. Maybe he thought it was not allowed? More likely: he just didn't need to.

But last night, when LB firmly and vocally refused to settle anywhere else but snuggled up to me, I gave in. Something told me to go with this particular flow, and accept that it was something he needed.

And my instinct appears to have been right. Tonight, he's back in his own bed: no fuss, no tears.

There really is no parenting "manual", it seems. But finding the answers through trial, error and sensitivity are somehow more rewarding all round.