This parenting is a funny old thing. I'm consistently in awe (or rather more accurately slightly scared) of those uber Mummys who have everything under control. You know them, they have whisked up a freshly baked cake, done the ironing and not shouted at their children once that day. The sort of Mummy I'll never be. Well, I can do a cake but the ironing and not shouting thing is well beyond me.
I have however, come to a huge realisation which I feel is going to significantly affect the way I feel about the uber Mummy. Finally, I have realised that it is all about the presentation.
Let me give you an example of a day spent in the Brits household last week to illustrate what I mean.
Up at 7, I took the boys to nursery before settling down to a few hours work at home. Around about 12, I walked over to nursery to pick them up and chatted to the Bosnian Mummys at the nursery gates as the boys played in the playground. On our walk back home we made the most of the snow with snowballs and decided we would make a snow man later. After lunch we had a bit of 'quiet time' as Adam practiced some writing and Luke did some drawing and I prepared a marinade for their supper. Time then to take the dog for a walk in the park. We were out for about 90 minutes or so, the boys returning red cheeked and worn out from all the running about. Decided that we should bake some banana bread together before the boys sloped off to play pirates in the playroom as I cooked dinner. Dave came back from work just as they were finishing supper and he took them upstairs for a bit of a play, father son time type thing, a bath and they finished off the day all clean, tidy, watching a bit of TV in their pyjamas, sipping their milk. Quick story and they were all tucked up and fast asleep.
That's quite an uber Mummy sort of day isn't it? Everything is there: exercise and outdoor time, quiet time, individual play, some form of creativity, play with other children in the morning, cooking from scratch, good bedtime routine. All peaches and cream then in the Brit household.
But although we did indeed do all of the things above, the reality of the day was far more like this
Luke got up at 5.30am. I got into bed with him to try and keep him in bed until 7. It was a long 90 minutes, during which I was regularly battered over the head with a toy car and had to remove his fingers from my nose on more than one occasion. Once everyone was up, the battle to get everyone dressed for nursery commenced. Adam is supposed to be dressing himself now. He was more interested in running around like a looney trying to irritate his brother. First episode of shouting from me. Finally get them out of the door and towards nursery. Phew.
Come home and attempt to work. Faff around, read some blogs, realise that I've wasted the entire morning and have achieved nothing. My own fault, but irritating none the less, feel cross with myself. Walk over to nursery to pick them up, muttering positive mantras about how I will not shout today and be a better mother and generally less grumpy. Let the boys play for a bit in the little playground the nursery has. Within five minutes chaos has erupted, the boys are snatching each other's toys, trying to hit each other and crying. I attempt to withdraw gracefully, but they do not cooperate about putting on fleeces, coats, hats, boots and the other paraphernalia required to go outside in a Bosnian winter. Finally get out of the nursery, feel that my positive mantras have bitten the dust after a mere 5 minutes.
The walk home is slow, agonisingly, mind bendingly slow. Every pile of snow must be examined. Snowballs are thrown. Faces are hit. Tears are shed. Refusal to hold Mummys hand as we near the big road that must be crossed. They start getting silly, run around screaming. Second shouting episode from me. Tempers are lost and not just mine either.
Finally get the boys back home. Feed them lunch. Get them to sit quietly at the table as I try to make the marinade for dinner. Luke insists on using felt tip pens as missiles. Is really pleased when he remembers if he fires them at the wall when they don't have a cap on, they leave a mark. I stop that activity sharpish and he continues dumping all the pens onto the ground. Adam in the meantime is doing his writing nicely, right up until the point that Luke starts scribbling on his book. General fight. I stick them out of the kitchen, tell them to read a book or something, and finish up as fast as I can.
Head to the park having had yet another battle getting them ready to go out. We appear to be on a go slow by the boys. It takes us about 45 minutes to walk less than 100m. More snowballs thrown, more faces hit, more tears shed. The dog, bored senseless by the snail pace of the group takes off. Is last seen heading to the boundary of the park. I grab the boys and drag them along as we go to try and find her. Surely that isn't her? Breaking into someones house? Oh it is. Leave the boys with instructions to 'STAY THERE', and go and haul her out, apologising with everything I have to the old woman who is rightfully pretty cross at having a great big damp retriever piling into her front room. The boys are LOVING this. They start shouting 'bloody dog', obviously just learnt from me. I thank my lucky stars I was relatively refined with my language, it could have been a lot worse.
I drag everyone home. Am fed up. There are more snowballs, more tears. Everyone cold and wet and pretty miserable. Decide baking is the way forward. Get everything ready, the boys are fighting over who is going to play with Thomas. Leave them to it, rationalise this is all part of them learning how to negotiate. Eventually they come in. We pour out the ingredients. A wooden spoon is waved, a large amount of sticky mess hits the wall. As I pour the ingredients I realise that it doesn't look quite right. Realise too late that one of my little angels has switched the weighing thing from grams to lbs. What I weigh out to be 100g is actually 1.00 lbs which is not the same at all. This has been switched halfway through the process. I have no idea what is right and what isn't. Decide to lob a bit more of what I thought looked a little less than usual in. Stick the goo into the oven.
Too late, I remember that I need the oven to make their dinner. Look at my marinade. Stick it in the fridge for another day. Look in the fridge to see what else we have. Result, I can cobble together another dinner, but it is not one that Adam, a fussy eater to say the least, will eat without a fight. Wonder if I'm up for the fight. Decide that he doesn't have a choice we haven't got anything else to eat. I cook the dinner, they play (pretty nicely, bless them). Dinner is served. Anticipated fight begins and goes on for a while. I forget to take the banana bread out. The sticky goo is now burnt sticky goo. They have it for pudding anyway.
Just as they are finishing, Dave comes home. We all shout 'DADDY!' with relief. I hiss at him that I've had enough, he has to take them up for a bath RIGHT NOW. He gives me a look that says 'but they are being such angels'. I scowl, stick my hackles up and start growling. Besides, I still have to clean up the sticky goo mess.
Do the washing up in peace and quiet and listen to Radio 4. Feel a lot less stressed. Sounds like they are all having a wonderful time upstairs. Head up to join in stories. Realise that a tornado has hit. Every single bed has been stripped and the sheets are draped all over the cupboards. The question 'what are you doing???!!!' was met with a simple 'we're making camps'. I growl a bit more about the sense of doing this right before bedtime and remake all the beds. Then, at last, after what seems like the longest afternoon on earth, they are in bed and entering the land of nod.
Downstairs for a large glass of wine. And possibly another large glass of wine. And a reflection that this uber Mummy thing is probably all in the way that you present the activities. Spin it right and I too could look competent. So now, when I'm confronted with someone talking about all the amazing things that they do with their children all day everyday, I remember that from the outside, my days could look like that too. More importantly, I've realised that their days are probably very like mine in reality. Somehow that makes me feel a lot better.
Showing posts with label male toddlers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label male toddlers. Show all posts
Friday, 19 February 2010
Monday, 5 October 2009
A touch of parental jealousy
My two boys, as regular readers will know, are very much boys. They love to run, shout, climb, jump, shoot, wrestle, fight, bundle, cars and trains. They spend quite a lot of their time trying to work out how to shoot web out of their wrists in the mode of Spiderman and smashing their wrists in an attempt to turn into aliens, a la Ben Ten. They like nothing better than prodding sticks into holes to see what comes out, building bridges out of old planks and racing their cars down the incline and peeing into holes they have dug to make urine based mud pies. I'm loving that last game, it is really making my day - ah-hem. They are boisterous, loud and energetic. They aren't such fans of sitting down quietly and colouring in (although they occasionally surprise me).
By the end of the day, I'm absolutely exhausted. I've run about, been climbed on and had to chase errant children down. I've spent 95% of my time trying to stop someone getting hurt or separating warring toddlers. Most of the time I'm shouting 'NO!' 'Stop doing that, you will hurt yourself/your brother' 'I'm NOT a climbing frame' and other such helpful stuff. It does always seem quite negative, but I haven't quite worked out how to stop them running across the road by shouting something positive at them. Of course, the more tired I get, the less energy I have to come up with positive ways of distracting them from whatever they shouldn't be doing and the more I start shouting. I'm not proud of it, I'd rather not do it but I do.
Then, just when the whole situation is approaching total melt down, Daddy gets back home. The boys are thrilled. They rush over and leap into his arms. He, of the tired from a day at the office but not tired in the physical sense tired, then throws the boys up in the air, chases them down roaring like a dragon, bundles, wrestles and does all that sort of manly play. All the sort of the play that I either hate (I was never one for a big bundle) or haven't got the energy for.
The boys love it. They absolutely love it. Daddy coming home is one of the highlights of their day. And I have to admit that recently I've been struck down with a touch of jealousy. Mean Old Mummy is the one who says No. Mean Old Mummy is the one who doesn't allow things and applies discipline. That is not to say that Dave doesn't do it, but as I'm the one at home with them most of the time, I do the bulk of it. Then, of course, when Dave gets back, they are so thrilled that they behave far better than they were just 5 minutes earlier so less discipline is needed. Mean Old Mummy is grumpy, tired and bereft of ideas of more fun things to do, having exhausted all great plans earlier on in the week. Mean Old Mummy has also got to cook, get the laundry sorted, do the washing up, put things away, occasionally run some form of cleaning product over the house, yadda yadda yadda. Mean Old Mummy shouts and is just not much fun.
Now, I know that men and women interact with children differently, and that both ways of doing things are important for children to develop. I know that I offer a much calmer more realistic environment in which they can have their down time, calm time, gentle time which they need as much as they need their energetic Daddy time. I know that Dave couldn't keep up that level of energy all day (let alone all day every day) and that if he was at home with the kids and I was the one coming back from the office then the boys would be as excited to see me as they are to see Dave. But that doesn't stop me being jealous. Not all the time, I do often look on with a big old smile and think to myself how great it is that the boys have such a fantastic relationship with their Dad. But sometimes, just sometimes, I am.
Obviously I just need to grow up, put aside the tragic desire to be the popular one, and learn to appreciate that what I add to the mix is important, valuable and needed. I need to recognise that in as much as children, especially boys, gain much from their play with their Daddy, they also gain much from the way Mummy (even a Mean Old one like me) interacts with them too. And I do know that, truely I do. But just occasionally I forget it, just a little.
By the end of the day, I'm absolutely exhausted. I've run about, been climbed on and had to chase errant children down. I've spent 95% of my time trying to stop someone getting hurt or separating warring toddlers. Most of the time I'm shouting 'NO!' 'Stop doing that, you will hurt yourself/your brother' 'I'm NOT a climbing frame' and other such helpful stuff. It does always seem quite negative, but I haven't quite worked out how to stop them running across the road by shouting something positive at them. Of course, the more tired I get, the less energy I have to come up with positive ways of distracting them from whatever they shouldn't be doing and the more I start shouting. I'm not proud of it, I'd rather not do it but I do.
Then, just when the whole situation is approaching total melt down, Daddy gets back home. The boys are thrilled. They rush over and leap into his arms. He, of the tired from a day at the office but not tired in the physical sense tired, then throws the boys up in the air, chases them down roaring like a dragon, bundles, wrestles and does all that sort of manly play. All the sort of the play that I either hate (I was never one for a big bundle) or haven't got the energy for.
The boys love it. They absolutely love it. Daddy coming home is one of the highlights of their day. And I have to admit that recently I've been struck down with a touch of jealousy. Mean Old Mummy is the one who says No. Mean Old Mummy is the one who doesn't allow things and applies discipline. That is not to say that Dave doesn't do it, but as I'm the one at home with them most of the time, I do the bulk of it. Then, of course, when Dave gets back, they are so thrilled that they behave far better than they were just 5 minutes earlier so less discipline is needed. Mean Old Mummy is grumpy, tired and bereft of ideas of more fun things to do, having exhausted all great plans earlier on in the week. Mean Old Mummy has also got to cook, get the laundry sorted, do the washing up, put things away, occasionally run some form of cleaning product over the house, yadda yadda yadda. Mean Old Mummy shouts and is just not much fun.
Now, I know that men and women interact with children differently, and that both ways of doing things are important for children to develop. I know that I offer a much calmer more realistic environment in which they can have their down time, calm time, gentle time which they need as much as they need their energetic Daddy time. I know that Dave couldn't keep up that level of energy all day (let alone all day every day) and that if he was at home with the kids and I was the one coming back from the office then the boys would be as excited to see me as they are to see Dave. But that doesn't stop me being jealous. Not all the time, I do often look on with a big old smile and think to myself how great it is that the boys have such a fantastic relationship with their Dad. But sometimes, just sometimes, I am.
Obviously I just need to grow up, put aside the tragic desire to be the popular one, and learn to appreciate that what I add to the mix is important, valuable and needed. I need to recognise that in as much as children, especially boys, gain much from their play with their Daddy, they also gain much from the way Mummy (even a Mean Old one like me) interacts with them too. And I do know that, truely I do. But just occasionally I forget it, just a little.
Saturday, 1 August 2009
Building Roads and Driving Trains
Can life get more heavenly if you are male and under 5? All week the road outside our house has been being bulldozed, dug-up, squashed, stones added, flattened, tarmacked and smoothed. Gone are the disintegrating cobbles with their irritating potholes and dustpatches and in its place has appeared is a sleek, smooth road. Enormous machines have been working hard all week to complete their tasks.
We, on the other hand, have not been working hard at all. Instead we grabbed a sandwich and a couple of packs of Smokis and have spent large amounts of time in the afternoons camped out under a tree watching the action. Armed with a Richard Scary book that talks about making a road, we've watched the whole process from start to finish.
By the end of the week not only were we providing most of the workmen with coffees (I tried to give them a decent cup of tea but they were having none of it), but the boys had been invited up onto a few of the machines to have a go. They pressed buttons, they moved the steering wheel. They even got a decent go at the beeping the horn until I couldn't take it any longer. Needless to say, they were thrilled, absolutely eye poppingly, grin until your head might split in two thrilled. The chance to drive a real digger, help build a real road. What a treat.
Now they've finished I've had to come up with some new afternoon activities. So yesterday we shambled down to the train tracks to pick some blackberries and coincided with the arrival of the only train of the afternoon. Within minutes the engine driver had hopped down and the next thing I knew the boys were being shown how to drive the train. There are times that I love the less than strict enforcement of the health and safety laws here which gives little boys a chance to do stuff they could only dream of.
They've now decided that they would like to try being astronauts next so if I could just find where the local space programme is then we could go and have a go next week.
We, on the other hand, have not been working hard at all. Instead we grabbed a sandwich and a couple of packs of Smokis and have spent large amounts of time in the afternoons camped out under a tree watching the action. Armed with a Richard Scary book that talks about making a road, we've watched the whole process from start to finish.
By the end of the week not only were we providing most of the workmen with coffees (I tried to give them a decent cup of tea but they were having none of it), but the boys had been invited up onto a few of the machines to have a go. They pressed buttons, they moved the steering wheel. They even got a decent go at the beeping the horn until I couldn't take it any longer. Needless to say, they were thrilled, absolutely eye poppingly, grin until your head might split in two thrilled. The chance to drive a real digger, help build a real road. What a treat.
Now they've finished I've had to come up with some new afternoon activities. So yesterday we shambled down to the train tracks to pick some blackberries and coincided with the arrival of the only train of the afternoon. Within minutes the engine driver had hopped down and the next thing I knew the boys were being shown how to drive the train. There are times that I love the less than strict enforcement of the health and safety laws here which gives little boys a chance to do stuff they could only dream of.
They've now decided that they would like to try being astronauts next so if I could just find where the local space programme is then we could go and have a go next week.
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Gunning and shunning
Now that we've exhausted the next door neighbour's fruit trees, the boys and I trundled off down the market to pick up some more fruit. The markets here are amazing, full of fresh produce farmed from just down the road. I like to head there whenever I can, but it is more difficult when accompanied by children. Luke has taken to helping himself to handfuls of blueberries (the wild ones, picked from the mountains, much smaller than the ones we get in the UK and sooooo good) as we pass by stalls. Adam likes to examine the peaches, prodding and poking them into peach oblivion.
But, the biggest drama of going to the market is at the entrance. For there, beckoning like a siren to lovesick sailors, is a toy stall. They don't sell just any toys. Oh no, they sell toy guns. Can there be anything more enticing to boys aged 2 and 4? To pass this stall requires strength, dragging, screaming, pleading and general maternal trauma and perseverance. Last time we went Luke got hold of one stand, full of guns, and pulled it over. There were tears all round.
Like all good middle class families today, the boys don't have any toy guns. That is not to say that guns do not feature in the Brits household (and have posted before about this here). Everything that can possibly be made into a gun is. Sticks (ones with little nodules that can be used as triggers are especially prized). The broom. Lego. Meccano. Kifla (a sort of crescent shaped Bosnian bread roll). In fact anything that can be pointed is also capable of being fired, usually accompanied by some form of rat-a-tat-tat noise. Luke hasn't quite got the hang of rat-a-tat-tat yet, he sounds more like some form of farting bear with a stomach problem but I get his intent.
So having braved the gun stall and all its associated dramas yesterday afternoon we were wandering back through the car park when Adam spotted a toy gun on the ground. It was broken into quite a few pieces which he carefully picked up and secreted away in his pockets. When we got home he tucked in under a chair and spent most of the afternoon working out how he could put it back together. I was actually very impressed, he really had worked it out and pretty much fixed it, so I put some tape over it to keep it together for him and he is now the proud owner of his first gun.
I'm not looking forward to going back to England and being the one responsible for introducing all the other kids to guns. We're going to be ostracized for life.
In other news the latest Best of British Blogging Carnival is up over at Rebel Mothers, so head on over for more tales from the parenting frontline.
But, the biggest drama of going to the market is at the entrance. For there, beckoning like a siren to lovesick sailors, is a toy stall. They don't sell just any toys. Oh no, they sell toy guns. Can there be anything more enticing to boys aged 2 and 4? To pass this stall requires strength, dragging, screaming, pleading and general maternal trauma and perseverance. Last time we went Luke got hold of one stand, full of guns, and pulled it over. There were tears all round.
Like all good middle class families today, the boys don't have any toy guns. That is not to say that guns do not feature in the Brits household (and have posted before about this here). Everything that can possibly be made into a gun is. Sticks (ones with little nodules that can be used as triggers are especially prized). The broom. Lego. Meccano. Kifla (a sort of crescent shaped Bosnian bread roll). In fact anything that can be pointed is also capable of being fired, usually accompanied by some form of rat-a-tat-tat noise. Luke hasn't quite got the hang of rat-a-tat-tat yet, he sounds more like some form of farting bear with a stomach problem but I get his intent.
So having braved the gun stall and all its associated dramas yesterday afternoon we were wandering back through the car park when Adam spotted a toy gun on the ground. It was broken into quite a few pieces which he carefully picked up and secreted away in his pockets. When we got home he tucked in under a chair and spent most of the afternoon working out how he could put it back together. I was actually very impressed, he really had worked it out and pretty much fixed it, so I put some tape over it to keep it together for him and he is now the proud owner of his first gun.
I'm not looking forward to going back to England and being the one responsible for introducing all the other kids to guns. We're going to be ostracized for life.
In other news the latest Best of British Blogging Carnival is up over at Rebel Mothers, so head on over for more tales from the parenting frontline.
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
boys will be boys
Adam is newly obsessed with guns. Everything he has that can be pointed at someone is now a gun. Occasionally we branch out and it becomes a sword, but mainly it is a gun. Because Adam is obsessed with guns, Luke is too so I now have 2 small boys running around at full speed trying to shoot everything that they see.
Accompanying the shooting noises are shrieks of delight and screams of "oooby ooooby". For quite a long time I thought this was a part of the made-up language that Adam quite often uses when he is playing (which I do find quite interesting; he doesn't understand everything that is going on around him, so he makes up his own words and sounds instead). It was only yesterday that I actually listened to him and realised that ooooby oooby was in fact ubi! ubi! - Bosnian for Kill! Kill!
On the bright side he is undoubtedly talking to the other kids and learning Bosnian.
Accompanying the shooting noises are shrieks of delight and screams of "oooby ooooby". For quite a long time I thought this was a part of the made-up language that Adam quite often uses when he is playing (which I do find quite interesting; he doesn't understand everything that is going on around him, so he makes up his own words and sounds instead). It was only yesterday that I actually listened to him and realised that ooooby oooby was in fact ubi! ubi! - Bosnian for Kill! Kill!
On the bright side he is undoubtedly talking to the other kids and learning Bosnian.
Monday, 10 November 2008
fireworks and flowerpots
Our trip to Sarajevo, bright lights big city, was, in part, to give the boys a good dose of English culture. The British Embassy had organised a Guy Fawkes party and the chance to allow the boys to stand outside in the cold, eating jacket potatoes, watching fireworks was too good to miss. On the whole it was a huge success. The unusually warm Bosnian autumn continued and it wasn't cold at all. The British Ambassador's gardens are lovely with a stunning view over Sarajevo. Luke discovered jacket potatoes and Adam discovered that he could get hold of coca cola by asking the waiters. They found the fireworks quite frightening, but once the big bangs were over the boys had a terrific time.
The highlight of the evening came as D and I were being introduced to the (newly arrived) British Ambassador. Trying to pull ourselves together and raise our conversation to adult level, we noticed out of the corner of our eyes a small white bottom and realised that, with immaculate timing, Adam was peeing into the Ambassador's flower pots. Leaving very shortly afterwards in fits of giggles, we started fantasising about moments in Adam's life when we would be able to gain our revenge by dropping this story into casual conversation. At the introduction of a new girlfriend for example. Or maybe her parents. This game kept us occupied for the whole of the long drive back to Tuzla.
The highlight of the evening came as D and I were being introduced to the (newly arrived) British Ambassador. Trying to pull ourselves together and raise our conversation to adult level, we noticed out of the corner of our eyes a small white bottom and realised that, with immaculate timing, Adam was peeing into the Ambassador's flower pots. Leaving very shortly afterwards in fits of giggles, we started fantasising about moments in Adam's life when we would be able to gain our revenge by dropping this story into casual conversation. At the introduction of a new girlfriend for example. Or maybe her parents. This game kept us occupied for the whole of the long drive back to Tuzla.
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Admin is the key
Slowly we crawl towards the emigrating status. D has returned triumphant, already morphing the memories of a long, hot car trip with grumpy people into an epic journey, memories of which will be embroidered over late night beers for years to come. More importantly he also brings with him our notarised document with a proper looking red sealed stamp and everything which states that I have his permission to travel on my own with the kids. The appointment with the vet to get the last minute health checks for the dog is drawing near. I'm repacking various bags to try and get rid of some of the rubbish I seem to think is indispensable.
We actually leave on Friday, and are driving out with the dog, but leaving the boys in London with my Mum before I fly back in 10 days or so to pick them up. Mum, very sensibly, has looked at the prospect of 10 days with 2 rampaging toddlers shouting 'poo poo face' and (newly today - oh the joys - and annoyingly this time it is me who is guilty) 'bollocks' and has hired a nanny. The lovely Nalge, who has spent years working with a family in Hongkong is arriving on Thursday. I'm just hoping her lovely HK family weren't too beautifully behaved and she's used to the delights of male toddlers and won't be too embarrassed by A's latest favourite discussion about whether willies should be inside or outside of pants.
We actually leave on Friday, and are driving out with the dog, but leaving the boys in London with my Mum before I fly back in 10 days or so to pick them up. Mum, very sensibly, has looked at the prospect of 10 days with 2 rampaging toddlers shouting 'poo poo face' and (newly today - oh the joys - and annoyingly this time it is me who is guilty) 'bollocks' and has hired a nanny. The lovely Nalge, who has spent years working with a family in Hongkong is arriving on Thursday. I'm just hoping her lovely HK family weren't too beautifully behaved and she's used to the delights of male toddlers and won't be too embarrassed by A's latest favourite discussion about whether willies should be inside or outside of pants.
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