daddy lessons

There's no hiding away from this. My Dad was a strict dad.

A 'you better get your tail back home on time' kinda Dad.

A sit down and listen to me lecture if you know what's good for you type of Dad.

A jokes that will make you groan Dad.

A never got my mates names right Dad.

There was the time he took to riding his motorbike during my athletic training runs because he couldn't keep up.

There were the times he told me to take down my Adam Ant / Madness / Duran Duran posters so often that when I left home, I blue-tacked wall-to-wall posters that it seemed I had a heaven of popstars watching over me like Greek Gods - Britpop style.

There were the Christmas Eves where he baked bread loaves in the shape of plaits and bread buns with our initials on, then left the kitchen looking like a flour hurricane had swept through. His work was done.

There were the nights I would sit on the stairs listening to him talk with his custom officer colleagues on their way to / back from a drug raid. For those tiny moments I was an extra on Juliet Bravo.

There was the year he turned 40 and I was the cassette DJ forced to play The Clash's 'I fought the Law' over and over again.

He was the Dad my mates' mums (and my PE teacher) fancied.

He was the Dad who tried so very hard to instill a sense of my ancestry in me.

He was the Dad who drove us the length and breadth of Britain so we would know our home country.

He was the Dad who  caught me reading my football magazine instead of revising for my Biology GCSE.

He was the Dad who bought me baby dummies for my 30th birthday as a gentle reminder of what he was waiting for.

He's the Dad who would make me tea and toast and sit for hours watching box sets of 24 when I was on my first maternity leave.

He's the Dad that will discuss politics, race, racism, parenting, aging, football and Doctor Who in just one phone call.

He's the Dad who climbs mountains, swims in oceans and still insists on jumping over walls even though he's passed the Beatles age-related hit song.

He's the Dad who is greeted by his grand-daughters, like Norm from Cheers, with a 'Grandpa!'

He's the Dad who isn't strict anymore.

He's the Dad who became the Grandpa who still tells jokes that make you groan.

This post was inspired by The Photographer's Gallery: familyphotographynow.net:My Dad

the way we were

The older I get, the more I throw a rose-coloured spectacled glance back to my childhood. The 3G are always having a shared chuckle when I regale them of 'the good old days'. 

"Do you mean in the olden days?" they ask behind youth and cheek.

Well, maybe they are, since they are also the days before the internet, mobile phones, electric cars and a gazillion TV channels. But these are also the days from whence tradition comes.

When I initially considered a tradition I'd like to see carried on I contemplated my childhood Christmas - the day of the Long Road To Opening Presents. Christmas in my house would actually start with the soaking of Christmas Cake Fruits in March before the baking of said fruits at the crack of a December dawn.  The kitchen would swell with the baking of Christmas Eve bread, including the special plaited bread (!) and a bun with our initials on. No amount of protest would move the Christmas morning any faster as the ritual of opening presents did not begin until we had finished every scrap of saltfish and bakes, fried plantain and cocoa tea and then washed every speckle of every plate. It would seriously feel like Christmas Day had disappeared before even the first shred of wrapping paper came off.

And whilst I try and keep as much of those traditions as I can with my own family, it gets a little harder when you are also part of someone else's family therefore sharing in someone else's family traditions. Throw in a little cultural diversity and things can get a little busy. We cope by amalgamating and creating new rituals which can sometimes result in customs getting lost or feelings being hurt.

So I thought of a tradition transcending all the branches of my family tree which, by its very nature, will grow and blossom with each generation and it cannot be remain the same or cast in stone.

I bring you the family 'do'.

Sitting free of seatbelts in our orange Vauxhall Viva, I would excitedly watch the 1980s London - in all its greyness - cascade around me until the our arrival at one of three West London estates would thrust my parents back into the warmth of who they once were and us into this strange yet pleasurable temporary existence.  Enveloped in the beat of Lovers Rock, any attempt to conceal my lanky presence in the kitchen would fail miserably as West Indian fingers, fresh from cooking pig trotter sous, would pinch my cheeks forcing me to extrapolate myself and disappear into the melee of cousins.  The rumble and explosion of  West Indian laughs above tales of 'he and she' or the thumps of dominoes on the tiniest table ever made linger in my veins and the strains of the reggae forever remain.

My girls may not be submerged into the sounds and smells of my yesterday but  they have experienced what will be their versions of  family do's across the country; from the rolling hills of the North East to Midland dales to coastal towns to Caribbean villages to city dwellings and one thing is constant; the welcome.

Other constants follow swiftly: the hugs, the food, the laughter. And still more: the new recruits (babies or lovers), the music, the little ones getting taller, the older ones getting greyer. We exchange seats at the table as our generation mourns the loss of those ahead and welcome those who follow behind.

There was a time in my teens when it seemed family dos didn't happen or maybe they did and we just weren't there. The splinters from this time have healed in some branches, not so in others, so I am thankful of the dos that remain and those that we are welcomed to join. And I relish those moments when aging fingers pinch the cheeks of my girls making them scurry for the safety of cousins across the country.

This post is in response to a Post40Bloggers: Writing Prompt No.103 : a tradition you would like to see carried on 

a question of time

The role of the parent is a powerful thing. Do we ever stop and think how much our behaviour, mindset, welfare, skills, religion and beliefs play a part in our child's life? This may all seem very obvious but when reconsidering an answer and a conversation about two things last week, I also realised how my answers shape the world my daughters see.

First. The Trump. When his last bit of stuff and nonsense entered our homes via the media and indeed the backlash from figures such as Michelle Obama, one evening's dinner was accompanied by question after question about why people are getting so angry about this guy. It would have been very easy for me to denounce this man as a tail-swinging, pitch-fork carrying member of the human race but I decided not to. A discussion ensued with the facts we could find - my favourite place for the girls being The Week news magazine for children - and I threw their questions back at them about why people might have positive or negative views about both American candidates. I didn't believe it was my place to dump my opinions about Trump or anyone else, for that matter, into the impressionable ears of my daughters.

And second, motherhood. Mid phone conversation I became aware of the many overheard comments highlighting the not-so-starry-eyed side of being a mum. You know, the locking yourself in the loo to drink a hot cup of coffee bit. Or those moments when you have scoured the recipe books to create a healthy, fun, colourful, tasty meal only to get three sets of curled lips of disgust in return. Or the moans and grumps about what they've done again and how I have to this, that, the other, save the world because I'm a mum and who the hell else will do it?  Whilst I will not shy away from the downsides of motherhood, I have to admit I may have forgotten to counteract it by talking openly about the good bits.  Is it fair for me to be so derisive of the role that they know they are directly responsible for? And may one day choose to take on?

There are things we may give high status to in our daily parenting: not breaking the law, not littering in the street, being respectful to people.  But I'm discovering that I may have to step back in other things, offer guidance and alternatives to my views when the questions come in.

half the world away

I'm not a big fan of the sleepover. BigL has been on a few only because the parents of her friends have been my very good friends too. The other two whinge about this so I often spend my time repeating the fact that I won't be letting the most precious things in my life be out of my care overnight in a house where I only know the owners to wave hello at on the school run. I try the analogy of not leaving my gorgeous car in a foreboding car park but they soon point out that I think all car parks are scary looking so my argument falls on its knees and I'm forced to pull out the look mummy just says no right now filibuster.

But then I go and have the grand idea of introducing Brownies and Guides to my 3G. Never an option when I was full time working, when time constraints finally allowed it I grabbed the opportunity with both hands to shove BigL in the (fashonista) blue and red polo shirt of the Guides, and MiddleS and LittleE into the funky brown and yellow (yes it's retro now) hoodies of the Brownies and muck in with girls their own age outside of the school environment.

I did it in the 80s and loved it. Despite the yellow Brownie tie thing and blue Guide beret. I learnt loads, made new friends, got chosen to carry the heavy flag and yes, went on lots of overnight visits.

My parents rarely let me go on sleepovers either but camping or staying in a dorm with The Girl Guiding Association was different. It was educational. I was outdoors fixing run down old houses with a toothbrush or making living quarters out of a rope and some leaves. Just think of all the badges we could earn!

So I could hardly say no could I when BigL wanted to go off to camp recently, especially when she's survived the SATs without scarring.

In the two nights that I felt my house had tipped on its side with the unevenness of one of my children not in their bed and out of reach and WiFi reception, she was foraging in the woods, cooking outdoors, staying up 'til late and avoiding spiders in the loo with an extra shoe just in case one got too close (like I told her).

We met each other on the Sunday morning with bleary, weary eyes. Mine acquired from the lack of sleep - I never do when one of the offspring is away. She, exhausted from the chat-infested two nights of freedom.

She's away with them again in two months.

we close our eyes

Parents: let’s talk about sext-ing. We parents really need to get a grip with this subject. It's all well and good that investigations happen, reports are written, the powers that be tell other powers what to do, infomercials / sex ed / e-safety classes are taught.

But now it's our turn to step up before all these authorities get involved.  Under age sexual violence is a thing: child on child assaults are happening in our schools; sexual harassment, sexual bullying, sharing of sexual imagery.

With the rise of kids easily accessing the internet and all its evils, there has been an incredibly quick shift of knowledge among the young.  The sneaky top shelf peeks that were dared in days gone by are now on a screen in a pocket being shared on the way to school.  The embarrassment of hiding your private parts in changing rooms is replaced by the desire to send pics of your bits over the WWW.  Porn is no longer taboo.  A quick fumble behind the bike sheds has gravitated to a graphic, violent act.

Look I don't have solutions for this problem. My eldest is leaving primary school and we’re only now on the daily 'will she or won't she get a mobile' debate.

What I don’t get is why? Why? Why? Why?  They have the learning, knowledge, expertise (more than most of us parents) to understand the dangers and the potential repercussions. So why don’t they seem to realize that the photos of their penises and vaginas can be viewed by the whole damn world? And that when they grow up and apply for jobs that those penis and vagina pics will still be there?

Is this the equivalent of us, back in the day, doing the unprotected shuffle and praying for the monthly visitor? Or waking up in the morning with a foggy head from the night before vowing never to touch that ‘stuff’ again?

So what do we do? Some parents say trust your child.  Some parents vow never to give their daughters a phone again after discovering they’ve been sending naked photos to a strange man in a strange country.  Is it simple enough to just hope that we have raised a kid well enough and leave the rest to the schools?

I don’t believe it is.  I know we can’t wrap them in cotton wool but just as I choose not to let my pre-teen daughters stay up watching telly after the watershed, I have to make a choice about their current access to the internet.  If that means they’re the only one with a crappy brick of a phone or they have to use any devices in downstairs rooms with mum or dad in it until the dangers are explained and consequences understood.

An honest look at the real consequences is shown on ITV’s police drama: Scott & Bailey which depicts an officer’s 16 year old daughter being arrested, charged and possibly placed on the sex offenders register for taking consensual sexual photos of her 15 year old boyfriend.  If it wasn’t after 9pm I’d consider letting my eldest watch the relevant bits but I guess she’ll have to put up with some mum truths instead and that’s before she gets a mobile in her hand.

do you know where you're going to?

I wrote a couple of weeks ago on the thoughts as the family took tentative steps onto new ground : visiting schools during open evening season. Fired up I was determined to search and destroy through every school in order to ensure our first born was given what she deserved. 

After a trip to the first school  I noticed BigL hanging back behind me; questions posed by highly enthusiastic teachers were bounced to me via her anxious eyes. This wasn't like her at all - the usual defiance and independence had somehow disappeared.  I thought little of it until GeordieLad took her to the next school open evening and was pleased to be regaled with tales aplenty of gruesome science experiments and the like. Completely different he said - couldn't hold her back, asking questions, getting involved. 

It became apparent that I was the difference between the two visits. Without meaning to, my stress levels and teacher-parent angst was spilling over into her experience. Friends may not have agreed with my decision to leave the rest of the school visits to GeordieLad and BigL (after all as a teacher surely I would recognise the signs of a good school vs a bad one?); but I realised that this wasn't about me. Look at my second sentence at the start of this post - there was absolutely no way I could hold back those feelings - that's who I am (no apologies - it comes in so very useful at other times) but I needed to back down and let these evenings be BigL's event. I think being teacher-me, somehow, got in the way of being parent-me; for her and for me. Plus I could check out the schools myself on open mornings. 

Anyhoo six rounds of schools visited and laden down with a forest full of prospectus packs she was done. Decisions discussed and ranked in order. So off she went to France with the school and here we were stuck with the online application.

The primary school process seemed a doddle so I thought I'll knock this out in half an hour ready for a glass of wine in front of the telly before I knew it.

Not so.

What a palaver. I can't even bear to relive it here. Suffice to say here are some nuggets of advice from my experience.

1. Keep your username and password close by - it's not something you'll ever remember and the amount of times the damn thing logs you out, you'll be calling it out in your sleep.

2. Save and save and save. Every time you stop to have a think about anything. Save. After re-reading and retyping our reasons for preferring the chosen school (optional) the system had kicked us out without warning and we lost all our prose.

3. Read each school's admission guidelines prior to starting the application and don't be naive enough to think each school within a borough or city would be as daft enough to have the same guidelines. Ha. We didn't - and hour one online passed slowly.

4. Have any arguments about which school should go at number 3 and 4 (or 5 and 6) before you log in. School admission systems do not wait for parental conflict, they just log you out. Wine was now poured despite being mid-application.

5. Hire a writer to scribe your (optional) reasons for choosing preferred school. That way you won't sound like a crawling licky-bum type arty-farty parent who will bully their way onto the school governors' board, when all you want to say is - "look you have a great school, my kid's great and I think they'll do really well at your school so please, please, please take her". Failing that type it out on a word document, save it, leave it a day, come back to it, pop it on the application form, SAVE it and forget about it until March.

By the way this whole October application, response in March deal. I wonder if I can apply for compensation for the amount of wine and chocolate I will consume in that time in order to 'forget' about said process?

since you've been gone

Amber hazard lights flicker against the dusky Monday morning whilst lines of autumn attired parents stand waving to a blacked out window. Somewhere behind those windows are our offspring, bound excitedly for foreign shores, with trusted proficient teachers.

Days of re-packing and packing her suitcase BigL has been more than ready for this trip awhile. She's researched the venue, regaled us with their curriculum of activities, probably organized who is wearing what on which day with her friends and brushed away my concerns about hygiene, safety and behaviour.

The morning check-in of bagged up medication and passports came and went in a flash, and then suddenly with a cursive kiss amongst a hug that I didn't want to end - she was gone.

GeordieLad is a big fan of the school journey; he was fortunate enough to go on many trips so believes them to be a brilliant experience - one that will aid confidence and happiness. I'd like to wholeheartedly agree - and I guess deep down I do - but I also hate the way that I miss her terribly, the way I worry that some awful event will take place on the ferry or the coach or the hostel and I hate the way that I somehow feel off kilter until she returns. Like I'm walking sideways or the house is tipped on edge.

I admit this to few as responses are often to placate me. And I don't want to sound like some crazed mother with apron strings for arms. I do indeed want to send the girls on these type of holidays - where they venture and discover themselves, practise languages, abseil, canoe, run riot and huddle in dorms chatting themselves hoarse 'til the early hours. 

But it's times like this when I regret every time I've told her off, moaned at her to redo the chore that she has half-done, hassled her about pushing herself more on the rugby pitch, sent her back upstairs to clean her face properly, stropped when she doesn't kiss me or say goodbye audibly in the playground. All of this suddenly means nothing when I don't know where she is or have no control of what she's doing.

And there it is. Control. That motherly need to know what, where, when, why, who and how. So as much as this is a great opportunity for BigL to be independent and experience freedom; it's also an opportunity for me to trust, let go and have faith in the grounding that we've given her. 

Dunno who said it but this is getting me by just now:

There are two gifts we should give our children:

one is roots and 

the other is wings.

...until it's their birthday/Christmas and I'm mainlining Amazon because roots and wings won't wrap that easy.

weight of my mistakes

My morning ritual starts with a cacophony of groans followed by a facial search. The groans may fluctuate depending on the exercise that has been partaken the night before and the facial search... well let's just say that MiddleS asked if I was able to grow a beard like Santa's . Sigh.

MiddleS is great at that; letting me know my foibles and flaws. Luckily I adore her so she gets away with it - for now anyway. But I'll admit some of the aspects of me or my mothering that she likes to comment get me thinking and sometimes re-evaluating.

I'm now used to her preamble starting with 'When I'm a mummy I'm going to let my children do..." and this is followed with a range of allowances that she is currently deprived of; such as being allowed to have her ears pierced, wearing crop tops, having a mobile phone, the list is endless. I know there will come a time when we'll have to start negotiations of Cold War proportions because there are very few boundaries that I haven't crossed in my own youth. I can hardly belittle or bad mouth mistakes of my yesterday simply because I don't want my kids to repeat them. We all know that if you keep telling the young 'no'it just makes the 'yes' seem more exciting.

AWOLMum always told me to never start plucking my eyebrows whilst she tweezered her own.  So, like, that message got through! But I get it now. Hiding my tweezers is easy though (plus I always intend to make that threading appointment) but as for my piercings and tattoos - not so discreet. Many of my piercings are long gone and my tattoos are usually hidden from view but this all got me thinking about how I communicate that certain actions or choices I may have made in the past are now huge regrets of mine. AWOLMum had me when she was very young but I don't recall her ever telling me when I should or shouldn't have kids - the focus in our home was getting an education. However she was horrified when I kept 'putting holes in my body' and shaved all my hair off at uni but I did it anyway, and then some. There was some of my own sadness and insecurity that had me piercing, painting and pretending I wasn't me back there in my 20s and 30s.

When the girls ask me about my tattoos I say that they hurt really badly and I wish I didn't have them any more. When they ask about my piercings I say that they hurt and it costs lots of money to keep buying earrings when you lose them. When they ask about my historical hair disasters I say that the damage to my hair can never be undone. See a pattern here? Who knows? Maybe they'll develop an aversion for all things not natural to the body and I won't have to worry at all. Or maybe these are just rites of youthful passage that they will go through and look back on with a cringe in the same way I do.

Until then I'll tweezer in secret and pass on the message about how lovely they are as they are and hope that something sticks. Hopefully they won't have to wait until their 40s to realise it.

stop

Whilst heavy with my first child, in the heady days after our honeymoon, past the gruesome everything-makes-me-want-to-puke-phase, I remember a feeling of contentment. Everyone was partaking in guess the gender, rubbing the bump without permission, wondering if said child will be early or late, and listening to countless experienced mothers sharing their birth stories. It was all so... sublime.

Waiting-for-baby-days involved me sitting around with my bump and my feet up, colour-coding birth plans and creating painstaking playlists to breathe to when the moment finally arrived.

Fast forward a few years, a house move, a career promotion and two more offspring and sublime is a word I've now taken to understanding is a description of the measurement of my after work gin before you put any feature of fruit on top of it. I think I have been screaming 'who the hell forgot to tell me how damn difficult this is?' inside my head every since BigL took her first earthly breath.

This could be a recount about the humorous debacles pertaining to motherhood, but there have been many not so funny moments that make me wonder how I should prepare the 3G for the road ahead.

It seems that people are so caught up on telling parents-to-be how natural everything is; being pregnant, giving birth, breastfeeding, being a working mum. I constantly get asked by newbie mums back in the workplace - how do you do it with three, I can barely do it with one? My answer is usually a wry smile and a mumble about how I can't leave one child in a handbag so I just get on with it. And of course, most mothers / parents do. This is what we signed up for, after all.

But after reading Rachel Kelly's article in The Sunday Times about how  "modern female lifestyles are to blame" for the ratio of anti-depressants being higher with women than men, I noticed how many of her points ran true with my experience and that of other working mums I have known.

The article confessed the pitfalls of trying to have it all and how our minds sometimes feel like their drowning and wave frantically for pills to help them climb ashore. Kelly highlights one of the main factors that women find themselves in this situation is that 'they are overwhelmed, tired and lonely'. I found this bit really poignant:

"The constraints that had held back our mothers were not for us: we would be career girls and mothers, as well as sisters, daughters, wives , friends, home-makers and care-givers, and still fit into our skinny jeans.  No one warned us that in our keeness to embrace so many roles, and in my case with an added desire to please and be approved of others, our health might give way."  

Unfortunately hers did. And I have met so many women who are trying to juggle the role they worked for prior to having children; then become the earth mother / tiger parent / working mum trying to tapdance her way through a glass ceiling. More like a glass mirror reflecting back a bredraggled yet organised exhausted trying to keep it together crisis in a pencil skirt.

Whilst in the grip of stress factor ten (working full time in middle management in charge of a large department in a high achieving school and being the picker upper and dropper off person for three children under 5) I came across an article about a mother with three girls of similar ages to mine who had jumped off a bridge very close to where I live, because it seemed the struggle with balancing motherhood and being a full time lawyer just became too much. My heart broke for the family left with all the questions and the void that losing her must have created.

But for a few moments I nodded gravely in empathy. The thought processes that can escalate a mind, body and soul into serious problems may start very small and very innocently. You can't work showing your imperfections, because that would be letting people down, this is your job and people rely on you and well you get paid; and isn't this what people expect of working mums anyway - their focus is not on the job anymore. So you battle harder, push leaving work until the very last minute, do catch up  on emails on the loo, shove the kids into bed with a fleeting kiss because 'mummy has work to do'.  But on the other hand you can't mother imperfectly either, because these are your children who didn't ask to be born, and who look to you to get things right, and be an exemplar on how to read, learn, speak, play, laugh, cook, dress - if you don't get it right now, it'll be too late when they're older; they will blame you. So you plan meticulous birthday celebrations, drag children, exhausted from breakfast and after school clubs, round free museums because 'we're so lucky to live in the capital city and have all this on our doorstep', create homework and chore timetables to ensure that every single minute is accounted for.

And these are just your own priorities, because there is usually a husband that needs to be wifed, parents that need to be remembered, family members that need your attention, friends that need to be called because goodness knows that you have leant on them since time began. Then it's out to the peripheries - neighbours to be considered, invitations to be made, dinners to be five-a-day proofed, days out to be planned,  clubs to be driven to. Chuck in a house, clothes, pets, car, and post-baby weight (can we still call it that after five years?)  that needs stuff doing to it; and suddenly there are not enough seconds in the day. 

Lists become longer, schedules become tighter, every single atom of movement is planned and plotted for, leaving no time for improvisation, spontaneity or a smile. 

Until one day. Some of us cannot keep all those responsibilities up in the air at the same time. I always predicted that it would be a small thing that would cause me to explode one day. A lost sock or burnt toast, I thought, would maybe cause me to spit nails in anger as all of the pressures that enabled me to get things just right gave way in volcanic proportions. But no, it was not a small thing at all - it was a big thing that finally didn't cause me to explode; instead I crumbled. The painted smile, confident stride and shrugs of denial that had plastered over the stress cracks disappeared in the middle of a sleepless night. Sitting on the edge of my bed I cried begging for it all to stop. I couldn't see my way out of this predicament: I wasn't performing at the high standard that I had always maintained, and I was certainly not winning any prizes for mum of the year. Is there anyone who can manage 100% at work and 100% at home?

I want to be able to have the answer in case the 3G find themselves in my position. I want to be able to answer friends who still are. It's not always simple enough to say that we should just stop or that the children will be okay. We may not have the finances to step down or step off. Our children might be responding negatively to the early mornings and late evenings. 

So what is the answer? How do we raise our daughters to manage it all? As a mother raising three girls to women, a sister to a mother raising her three daughters, and a sister in law to a mother raising another two girls; somehow we need to find a solution.

No money exchanged hands for the creation of this masterpiece...honest!

breathe

It's pretty widely accepted that the moment your babies arrive, you are left breathless..with relief, love and joy. But life with children is full of breath-taking moments.

There have been proud moments when my heart could burst; watching BigL walk out on the pitch at Twickenham as the mascot for England Women's rugby this year; being surprised to walk in and see LittleE as the emergency (!) Mary in the Nativity last year; and seeing MiddleS getting moved up to the next swimming category after we didn't even think she was bothered about learning to swim in the first place. And of course the precious days when they have all walked into their reception classes in September kitted out in perfect uniform.

And there are moments I may have forgotten, only to remember them when a photo zooms past on the digital photo frame, and catches my eye .

Three moments I needed to remember to breathe.

May 2014. As mentioned before MiddleS can sometimes not be bothered about things. Or so we are led to believe. Walking? Sat down for 13 months and then sauntered into the living room one day. Reading? Seemed to be struggling as wonderful nursery staff tried to challenge her in the run up to starting school, then skips through four reading levels in her Reception Year. This is just how she is. She'll do things when she's ready. Bike riding was not for her. Oh she may have wanted a sparkly pink bike with dolly basket to boot - but actually getting on it. Nope. No way. Nada. Until one surprisingly sunny Sunday, after watching her little sister attempting to ride without stabilisers, MiddleS takes it upon herself to try a bit of pedalling. She's a bit nervous at first so I quietly suggest trying the path rather than the grass. And off she goes...we give encouraging cheers as she wobbles in front of us, then we stand up to watch her successfully turn a small corner, followed by unbridled panic as she speeds downhill towards the local river, weaving in and out of smiling Sunday strollers. My screams of 'Use your brakes" were lost to MiddleS as she expertly rounded another corner and completed the cycling circuit beaming from ear to ear. 

And breathe, mama elsie, breathe.

France 2013. Nearing the end of a wonderful holiday with the extended family on both sides - Children 7 Parents 6 - we passed one of those bungee type things on the side of a beach, and BigL said she wanted to go. Before this story continues, let's settle a couple of things. I am a coward of the highest degree. And BigL isn't usually that far behind me. So we were a little surprised and pleased. Of course she could go. Then as I considered checking the owner's past history and credentials as he secured BigL to what looked like Houdiniesque harnesses, I was overcome with fear and self loathing that I was sending my first born to a horrible fate. What on earth was I doing? My basic French was surely not sufficient to communicate what I would do to him if anything untoward happened to this beauty I had nurtured for 8 years, and I would strike him down in great vengeance and furious anger...yes I was feeling like getting a little Sam L J on his sandy beach bungee ass. However once I was able to pry my fingers out of GeordieLad's arms, I looked up and saw the biggest smile across a French, coastal, evening sky accompanied by a thumbs up. She jumped, spun, and even allowed him to bounce her higher. 

And breathe, mama elsie, breathe.

Olympic summer 2012. To be honest, this tale still leaves me choked and with a tightness in my chest. I am pretty sure my heart stopped on this day. Full of Olympic spirit the 3G followed the torch around most of West London. Along with some family and good friends we eagerly awaited the arrival of Boris Becker and his golden flame. Ever prepared, each child had a wrist band with my phone number on it, and back then I was still able to dictate that the girls wore samey clothes in case they got separated from me in London crowds. You know, so I could inform helpful police offcers that said missing child looked like this one - points to one or two un-missing children - but bigger / smaller (delete as appropriate). You see I have all these things worked out. To cut a painful story short I lost LittleE. She was prancing around with her sisters one minute. And then she was gone the next. The family mantra of 'What do you do if you get lost? Stand still and shout Mummy very loudly had obviously been ignored.  So now there was a 40 something woman reduced to a sniffling wreck shouting across a United Nations sea of flags for FantasticoDad to find her baby. For then LittleE was only 3. As the crowds surged to see BB carrying the torch down towards us, I was convinced she was gone. Out of the park and into the depths of the city. Until after a few moments carefully disguised as hours, there was a woman's cry of 'There's a little girl crying here' which brought every emotion surging through me. Prodigal daughter was delivered to me and we both cried into our ice creams for the rest of the afternoon. Well I did, coz this is the 3G about five minutes after she was found. Not a care.

And breathe, mama elsie, breath.

Something tells me it ain't over yet!


This post is linked up with Photo Gallery 189 - Sticky Fingers

altogether now

The 3G are starting to argue. Now I know this snippet of family life will not hold front pages but it's becoming a regular occurrence at Twickers Towers. And it's making me sad.

There was a reason I knew I always wanted to have babies close together; there are seven years between me and SuperSis so we only got really close once we older. Don't get me wrong, I adored my likkle sister and I have photographic evidence that she once looked up to me. But there was never that rolling around on the floor, sharing clothes, discovering new experiences together kind of sisterness. I appreciate I may be looking through rose coloured specs here but that's what I thought would happen if we had children of a similar age.

I am now hoping that this will materialize, but at the moment I can't see any sewing of sisterly quilts happening in this household. Rather, who can break glass first with the high pitched screams of indignation because someone has dared to stick their tongue out at someone else. And all before breakfast!

When BigL first met MiddleS she was overjoyed, we planned very carefully how the two would be introduced to each other - read up on how new baby should 'buy' big sibling a present, and never utter the phrase ' don't go near the baby'. And it worked. BigL was so helpful with baths, getting nappies, helping cool down the milk, and she was ever so proud when her little sister joined her at nursery. Lovely.

With the arrival of LittleE, we started all over again - involving the girls as we settled her into our family.  And there was even more love going around. MiddleS was hanging out with her at nursery and BigL was chuffed when I brought LittleE into her Reception class to talk about how we look after babies. Lovelier.

So what the hell happened to all the love? Mornings are spent listening to them argue about who gets which colour bowl. Car journeys seem to bring out the worst in them as they fight over which song on the CD they listen to for the whole 10 minutes spent on the way to school...and this is then repeated on the way home. Weekends result in a Cold Wars caused by disagreements about who is using the iPad, choosing the next Horrible History Song, getting the bath first - or last, sitting next to mummy at the dinner table. I swear I could make a dance track based on the slamming doors, humphs and stomping feet we witness on a daily basis. And they are only in primary school - sob! I was all geared up for this behaviour at about, say, 14/15...but not yet, for goodness sake. I hadn't finished making daisy chains for their hair.

Having said all of this, there are moments we seem to get it right. Like the time when I had gone up to their bedroom for the millionth time to tell the to go to sleep and as I walked away I heard MiddleS do my voice telling them off and the other two giggled their heads off. I couldn't go back in to tell her off because I was laughing too much outside their door. And the time when they learnt the words to 'Let it go' and would sing it in their bedroom over and over again with the door shut and stop if I walked up the stairs.

And this moment when there had been a morning of arguing about iPads and whatnot, and this mama had had enough, so sent them in the garden to enjoy the sunshine. 

They may grow with contrasting personalities, interests, strengths and foibles. But moments like this will remind me, and them, of easier days when dressing up was all it took to get along.

This post is linked up with The Photo Gallery 188 - Sticky Fingers

cats in the cradle

In 1984 had you told me that I'd love nothing more than having a good old chat and hanging out with my Fantastico Dad, I'd have shot you down in flames. I'm not going to lie to you - things weren't always so good. Let's just say Fantastico Dad was pretty strict. Homework as soon as I got in, early bedtimes, not allowed to watch soap operas (this was at the dawn of Eastenders and Neighbours was riding high!), relentless curfews, and no posters of white bands on my wall.  That is so another blogpost. Believe. Dad was the law and DadLaw won. Everytime.

My life as a teenager didn't compute with FD - I knew what I wanted (to play football, marry Bryan Robson, and hang out with my bezzy all day), he wanted me to be the first Black orchestral pianist, the female Daley Thompson, and to be the first one in our family to go to University.  Well 1 out of 3 ain't bad. I go to Uni...I know, dull, right. ages 14-19 I don't think I was easy to be around, especially for ma and pa.

Then of course mater disappeared. Please don't think I'm being crass about the passing of my mother - she is (I presume) creating merry hell somewhere, just not on this side of her life. Yeah, that's another blogspot too...someday.

But as always with Mother Nature playing her generation game tricks, along comes motherhood and suddenly I get it. Raising the 3G I'm already planning the curfew talks, installing security lights all around the house - especially outside upstairs bedroom window exits, and hasn't anyone invented the child microchip yet?  Short of buying a shot gun, I am well prepared for horny trouser pests in the form of spotty teeny boys.  It's not just being a mama; I was a teacher first and those kids need reigning in. I'm all for developing confidence and independence, but they have no idea what scents they give off at all.  And that's where the trouble starts.

So now I get it FD, I get it. My heart sinks when MiddleS tells me she wants to be Barbie when she grows up - not the brown Barbies I hunt across eBay to find, oh no the thin, blond, sapphire eyed, pouty, too much leg on show Barbie.  So out come the brown dolls by the barrel. Suddenly the Caribbean heritage that I had shunned in my youth is now paramount our family life - in conjunction with GeordieLad's Northern roots, I appreciate and understand why we need to know who we are.  The plans for world domination with the 3G are being drawn as we speak, maybe this is where I pick up where FD got down?

My fight is a little different though. The world is more culture savvy now. London can handle a bit of mixed heritage and the 3G will grow up with role models who look like them. And best of all, they have 3 Grandparents around them who will provide a fortress around the one that we have built. They are doubly loved - something I didn't have.

Every Christmas or family gathering we go to, it sinks in that little bit deeper that we are no longer the playing generation; the generation that get to run around the kitchen table and open the most presents. That's passed on. We are now the hosting generation; the generation who take the coats and make cups of tea when people arrive. And like FantasticoDad, I am trying my best to raise these women - I won't get it right but through talking with GeordieLad and others, we'll muddle through with the understanding that things will keep changing (and probably gonna get worse for a while there).

The big lesson I have learnt from the FD and I hope I can hang on and remember when the time comes is that parents aren't always right, and that children are not ours to keep. And if we loosen the apron strings at the right time, they are more likely to return to the fold more often than if we keep tight reins for too long.

Goodnight London, wherever you are.