Thursday 15 September 2011

Gene Karma

There are lots of differences between me and my little boy. I’ve already mentioned that’s he cool, and clever and most glaringly he doesn’t seem to like shoes. Whereas I don’t think there are enough days in the week to wear all the shoes I’d like to, Xavier tries to not wear shoes at all. He takes them off, he tries to lose them, and I’m pretty sure he hides them as well. Not like his mother at all.
And as much as I adore my child, there are times (I know this might come as a surprise to every parent out there), that he tries me somewhat. There are days when my patience, which isn’t great at the best of times, is severely tested, and although I feel guilty thinking it, let alone typing it, I long for bedtime (his and mine).
He is incredibly strong willed. If he really wants something then God help me. When I tell him off he either ignores me, throws a tantrum or looks at me as if I was the devil. Whichever it always serves to make me feel bad.
His tantrums are quite amusing sometimes. He literally throws himself on the floor, kicking his legs and making some kind of wailing noise which makes me wonder briefly if he is having a spiritual encounter. But no, it’s his way of trying to convince me of his utter distress. He’s such a drama queen.
And boy he is stubborn. For example, he will go to the fridge and take something out, I’ll put it back, he’ll go back and take it out, and so on. This game can run and run until someone breaks. Invariably it’s me. I’m getting no prizes for endurance. My toddler, however, could win a gold medal.
Sometimes, after his afternoon nap he often wakes up whinging. It’s such a horrible noise, normally only stopped by resorting to CBeebies, which then makes me want to whinge but of course I try to pacify him, because of the endurance thing again. Of course he’s not like this when he wakes at six in the morning or earlier, oh no then it’s all jazz hands and singing at the top of his voice, but his post nap grumps are something to behold.
Finally he is very good at using the word ‘no,’ but when I use it to him he has mastered a look of total miscomprehension. There are days when it feels like the only word I say is ‘no.’
Now before you think I’m having a big moan, I will say that most of the time I find my son totally adorable, and  most of my complaints are pretty standard among parents of toddlers I’m sure.
After a particularly difficult day, my mother phoned.
‘What was I like as a child?’ I asked her.
‘You were lovely,’ she replied.
‘So I didn’t give you much of a hard time?’ I was feeling a little smug.
‘Well you were strong-willed, and your tantrums were legendary and God help us if you didn’t get your own way.’
‘Not always lovely then?’
‘Oh and you were so stubborn. Impatient. And bossy-‘
‘OK Mum, I get the picture. Actually Xavier is like me then.’
‘Oh no, he’s much better behaved.’ Well Grandmothers are bound to say that aren’t they?
When I thought about it I realised that in many ways, my son was like me; and I couldn’t help but wonder if Gene Karma existed. I was difficult to my mother; my child difficult to me. Great. That should teach me to have been a delightful, pliable child. What worries me is that as far as my mother is concerned I might not have changed too much.
My child is far from a monster. He is pretty well behaved most of the time and a joy to be around but when he does play up you definitely know about it. Just like his mother. As I couldn’t go back in time and fix it I wondered how it would develop as he got older. Thankfully I was well behaved at school.
I decided to think about the good sides of genetic karma. We are also similar in many lovely ways. Xavier is very funny and I like to think I am funny sometimes. He is also very loving when he wants to be, he’s pretty smart he is just the most gorgeous child ever (ha, just like me).
However, it seemed that in my ponderings of gene karma I had unleashed a monster. My mother and everyone else who knew me as a child, now felt it appropriate to bring up all my childhood faults. How I would never sleep and there was no way of getting me to bed on time. How I had most of the family wrapped round my little finger because they didn’t want to have to endure my horrid and long running tantrums. How I was incredibly bossy and a little manipulator. The list went on and on and on.
After a long think about how my boy’s difficult behaviour was perhaps payback, I had to concede that it wasn’t. There was no way that genetic karma was in play here or my parental life would be much harder. I shudder to think about it.
In actual fact it seems that I’ve got off pretty lightly.

Thursday 1 September 2011

Holiday Romance

As we unpacked my entire house I felt incredibly excited. Not only at seeing my lovely friend and her family but also because Xavier and I were having a traditional seaside holiday. Which has a charm all of its own.
I know we lived by the sea but this was a different seaside. Scarborough makes me think of childhood seaside holidays. Not quite ‘kiss me quick’ hats but nearly, and I love that. Anyway, I’ve visited often; and even once years ago played bingo in one of the big neon lighted amusement arcades that are dotted along the seafront. I think I won a tin of Spam actually. But yes, I am a fan of going back to basics.
Because it reminds me of when I was young and I like the idea that in this age of technology (blah blah I’m showing my age), some things are almost the same.

Xavier had many firsts in our week away. He rode his first donkey (Samuel, and he cried when the ride finished). We took him to his first circus, one with no animals of course, and my little boy sat mesmerised for over two hours. He had his first glimpse of Morris Dancers in Whitby Bay, and have to say that he seemed to like them, which is good because I have a bit of a soft spot for Morris dancers, I think it’s the knee bells. He had his first Scarborough fish & chips, which he enjoyed although was a little blasé because we do get decent fish & chips here.
However the most significant first, for me anyway is that he had his first holiday romance. Honestly, my little ‘treat them mean, keep them keen’ fell in love with not one but with two older ladies.
My friend’s daughters were eight and ten years old. They are both beautiful girls and they both took a fancy to Xavier, carting him around wherever they went, carrying he when he would allow it, playing with him on their big trampoline and sitting with him when he ate, basically they hardly left his side.
And Xavier lapped up the attention and actually returned the affection. On one occasion, he was with the older girl in the playroom watching his bedtime programme. I walked in to find Xavier giving her the biggest hug. She explained to me that he’d given her hair a little tug (well that is the first way he ever flirted), and she had said ‘ow’ so he’d leant over and given her a big cuddle. With the younger girl he snuggled into her and kept giving her his foot so she could blow raspberries on it. Which she did again and again. Who said romance was dead?

I had never seen Xav quite so keen on any children before, but he went off happily with them wherever they would take him and before the week was out there were a lot more cuddles and hugs bestowed. He allowed himself to be totally manhandled and I couldn’t help but think that he had already developed a preference for blondes.
What I came away with was a desire for an older child. Of course I’m not promoting child labour, I don’t think, but for the first time ever with Xavier I had this freedom of knowing that he was alright (it took a bit of getting used to), as the girls took him to play. Not only that but he was enjoying himself. If I needed to take a shower, or prepare tea for him they would come and play with him and well we both felt pretty indulged at the end of the week.
I did think about taking one of the girls home with me but let’s face it, there was no room in the car.

While Xavier was having his holiday romance I was struggling with my limited holiday wardrobe. I had packed for every eventuality for Xavier but hadn’t been quite so sensible for me. Apparently I thought it would be hot in Yorkshire in August and had taken clothes accordingly. I’d got jeans with me but only one cardigan and no coat. I mean who needs a coat in August?
I had only one pair of shoes without open toes and they were ballet shoes so I couldn’t really wear socks with them. Basically my feet were frozen for a week. I had bought some socks in case it was cold in bed (really I am an old lady), and so in the evening I could be found wandering around in those, but they were too thick to cram inside my dainty ballet shoes. Let’s not even think about the way that would have looked.
On the one day we went to the beach the sun was shining so I came downstairs in my sun dress, and flip flops. My friend did give me an odd look but I ignored it. However later, sat on the beach wrapped in both a towel and a beach blanket, with my feet buried in the sand trying to warm them I understood. I underestimated the biting wind.
On the bright side it did remind me of a typical English summer beach scene, even if I looked like Grumpy Great Auntie Edna. So for the rest of the week, although it was sunny it was cold and my feet were suffering. I kept asking my friend if I could go and buy some boots but she said that was a waste of money, instead she came up witha a solution.
‘Oh, one of the girls’ friends left some trainers here and I think they’re a size 4,’ she declared and I felt hope rise within me. Lucy went to get them. My hope turned to horror as I looked at them.
‘They’re Heelys,’ I said, recognising the trainers with wheels. My friend started laughing hysterically. The girls and Xavier joined in (he didn’t understand but he would laugh when the girls laughed, that’s how much he adored them).  Yet another lesson learnt; cold feet are preferable to a broken neck.

After a day of being back at home Xavier woke up very upset, crying and looking miserable. I did all the usual things, taking his temperature etc but there was nothing obvious.
‘I think he’s love sick,’ I concluded.
My baby was missing his two older ladies, and I just hoped that this wasn’t a sign of things to come.

Wednesday 24 August 2011

Jam Making for Beginners: Road Trip.

Jam Making for Beginners: Road Trip.: It was time for our summer holiday. Were we going to a lovely sunny resort, flying off on a jet plane? No, we were going to Scarborough to s...

Road Trip.

It was time for our summer holiday. Were we going to a lovely sunny resort, flying off on a jet plane? No, we were going to Scarborough to see one of my favourite people, or peoples. From Devon seaside to Yorkshire seaside.

I’ve been to Scarborough often, and I took Xavier when he was a baby. We got the train then; the whole journey took 7 hours in total. Xavier and I were a bit crazy by the time we arrived and the entire train staff needed to be engaged to help with the ridiculous amount of stuff I’d packed. So this time I decided that I would drive; there was no way that Xavier would sit still on a train anymore.
According to an internet route planner it would take about six and a half hours to drive there. Who in their right mind would do that with a 2 ½ yr old? Well no one ever accuses me of being in her right mind. At first I thought I would stop off on the way and stay overnight, but when I looked into it, it would mean staying in a hotel attached to a motorway services somewhere like Tamworth and that didn’t sound like fun. After a bit of soul searching I decided to just do it all in one go. Our first proper road trip.
I was more worried about Xavier than I was doing the driving. It didn’t seem fair for him to be sat in a car seat for that long. My mother suggested (insisted) we get him a DVD to attach to the headrest. I’m not a huge fan of encouraging my child to watch TV but he loves it, (remember Girls of the Playboy Mansion), so as it would be just the two of us I though this indulgence would be best all round. After a bit of coercion from my mother.
And at least I haven’t got him a mobile phone or a games consol yet.

I packed up. It took me about 3 days and I ended up with most of my house in the car. Actually it was almost like moving house. I had every eventuality covered for Xav. His clothes (all of them), his toys (most of them), food, chair, travel cot, pushchair, books, everything I could fit in went in.
And despite having printed out the route I also put the address in the Sat Nav.
A word about Sat Navs. I don’t trust them. When I lived in London me and my girlfriends booked a cab to go to a party and the driver insisted on using his Sat NAv. It a Porn-star voice and despite my friends’ vociferous objections he followed her breathy instructions to the letter. Porn Sat Nav woman took us to a council estate in Tottenham, which clearly wasn’t our destination. And if you remember when I took mum on the Orient Express mine took me to a roundabout instead of the train station. But I decided to use it with my route planner as back up.
 My Sat Nav has school teacher voice, not porn, if you ignore her, even if you know she’s wrong you expect her to give you a detention. However the good news was that according to my Sat Nav the journey would only take 5 ½ hours which was an hour less than the planner.

So with a car full of all our belongings, a very happy child watching a DVD, and my school teacher Sat Nav directing us we set off on our holiday. Almost immediately school teacher woman got a bit ticked off with me because we have this new bridge (I think it’s been there for more than 5yrs), and the Sat Nav thinks you’re driving into the river; then I had to stop for petrol which annoyed my woman no end. So much so that when we set off after that she kept telling me to turn round, and when I looked it said we had only ten minutes left of our journey. Seeing as we’d only been going for ten minutes I think she’d given up and tried to go home. So I had to stop again to reset her. Then we set off yet again.
It wasn’t until I joined the motorway that I realised my passenger wing mirror was in. Either I hadn’t noticed and set off like that (surely not), or it had been knocked in when I stopped for petrol. It made motorway driving was dangerous as I couldn’t see to my left. So I pulled off to the first services to sort it. Sat nav woman didn’t like that either. Honestly did she need to be so stern? I’ve never felt so chastised in my life.
Anyway, after three stops before we’d even driven for an hour we were properly on our way. We stopped off for lunch after a couple of hours. The motorway service place was packed. Frighteningly so. We queued for over half an hour to get something to eat. Xav spent the whole time trying to run off, and I had my huge handbag (no one can accuse me of travelling light) and him to juggle. It was a little stressful but we managed and were fed and ready to continue our journey.
This time there was no DVD as it was time for Xav to have a nap. So I put his story CD on (quite weird story about a magic porridge bowl and a greedy woman who manages to flood her entire village with porridge), which sent Xav to sleep but not me or my Sat nav friend.
Before I knew it we had reached the end of our motorway driving and were on an ‘A’ road toward York. We were nearly there. Xavier woke up and I thought I ought to warn my friend we were close so I pulled into a lay-by and called her. I also set up the DVD for the last leg of the journey.

Within an hour we were there. The Sat Nav actually got us to the door this time.
As you know I often fell a bit pleased with myself when I do something that I never really thought I would but in just over five hours, (not counting stoppages), I had driven from Devon to Scarborough which was pretty good. My boy had been a dream passenger and not complained once. It all worked out brilliantly.
My friend and her two daughters greeted us excitedly. Then they all looked at the car.
‘How long are you staying Auntie Faith?’ one of the girls asked. My friend looked a little scared.
‘Yeah because it looks like you might be moving in,’ the other added before I could reply.

Wednesday 10 August 2011

Self-sufficient single mum

I like to think of myself as pretty self-sufficient. I’ve shared my domestic ambitions with you already although we’re all still waiting for my first jar of home made jam. But being a single mum means that I can’t just swan about the kitchen in my heels, and little frilly apron with perfect hair. No, I also need to do practical jobs too.

I don’t believe in gender stereotypes (not that I’m going to admit to anyway), but in my last relationship my ex would do anything practical. He would get very masculine about certain jobs, and of course I would play the helpless princess, which I happened to be very good at. We did have a wobble when our new flat needed painting and he expected me to help, so after an hour I developed an allergy to paint, and hung up my paintbrush.
However now, the house, the car, the shopping and everything else in my life I am solely in charge of.  And until Xavier is old enough (when can a child cook me dinner and make me coffee?), I will continue to do so. I even have to deal with spiders and I’m so terrified of them that I look at them, and ask them nicely to leave. They generally do so actually.

I think I have adjusted to this role quite well. I have a tool box, and my own screwdrivers, (I know he difference between a Phillips head and a flat), and so on. I built furniture, I painted furniture, (funny how I am no longer allergic), I put up pictures almost straight, and although I don’t yet own a drill I harbour ambitions of not only owning one but knowing how to use it. I am also wondering if Vivienne Westwood designs a tool belt.
Since having Xavier I have done many things that I thought I never would and things that in the past I would have pretended I couldn’t; but the thing about being a single mum is that you have to get on with it, and when you (I) want to be dramatic about it there is no one but an unsympathetic child to listen to you. So instead of moaning (oh I love a good moan), I get on with it. Or more accurately I do get on with it but I moan a lot afterwards.

This week I had a lot of tasks to do. In fact so many that I’m wasn’t sure there would be any energy left to complain afterwards.
The pushchair had a squeaky wheel; no problem I got out my DW40 and fixed it. I built a house for Xavier. OK, so it was a playhouse for the garden but it needed lots of screwdrivering and I got calluses and a broken nail as a result. But I was ever so pleased with myself when Xav went in it and it didn’t fall down.  I also cleaned out the shed, and organised for a friend to take the rubbish to the tip (but only because my car wasn’t big enough).
I painted a vintage child’s chair a lovely bright blue for Xavier’s room, (something I’d been meaning to do for ages), and bought some wire wool so I could rub down an old metal trunk ready for painting.  
And with every task I completed the more smug I became. See how (nearly) self-sufficient I was.
But my work was not done. Oh no. I had to do stuff with the car. We’re going on a long journey next week so I needed to fill up the screen wash, check the tyre pressure, and clean it inside and out. No problem for someone as capable as me.
I filled up the screen wash, easy. I cleaned the inside, easy. But then I needed to take it to the carwash. I’m a tiny bit scared of car washes. Not quite on the same scale as escalators or spiders but I have a slight fear of getting stuck in one with those vicious looking brush things blocking out the light and crushing me to death. I could have used a jet wash but they look like hard work so I took a deep breath and decided to bite the bullet.
I bought my ticket from the garage and proceeded. I can’t really remember the last time I’d been in a carwash but I put my fears aside and when the display told me to move forward I did. When it told me to stop I did. Then the vicious washing began. I took many deep breaths, it was soon over. Then it told me to move forward, I did. Then it told me to stop, I did.
There seemed to be a few more things going on and then the brushes lifted, but the display was still on STOP. So I sat there. I turned up the radio, I decicded  the carwash was doing an invisible drying thing or something.  I wondered if it would wax my car. Would the wheels be nice and shiny? After a while I saw a man staring at me. He came over and I put down the window, worried that he might get injured in the scary carwash.
‘Have you broken down?’ He asked.
‘I’m in a carwash.’
‘I know but it’s washed your car,’ he laughed.
‘Yes it has but it says ‘stop’ so I stopped.’ He laughed at me again, not unkindly, and said he’d seen me sitting here for ages and was a bit concerned. Apparently (he explained very slowly), once your car was washed that was it. The invisible magic I was expecting didn’t exist.
I thanked him for his help, feeling less smug, less self-sufficient and much more like an idiot. I drove off, resolving to find another garage to check my tyres in once I’d recovered from the humiliation. And next time I’ll use the jet wash. It might take more work but I’m never going in a car wash again.


Tuesday 2 August 2011

Treat them mean, keep them keen

Babies and small children can be fascinating. They can also be highly irritating but let’s save that for a later date. For now let’s just say that I think watching their characters develop can be endlessly enjoyable if you pay close attention. I believe that Xavier began developing his character pretty much from day one and what a character it  is.
I remember when he was tiny and we were trying to encourage him to crawl (why? Why? Why?), and I would put his toys at the opposite side of the play blanket to him. Instead of moving he would pick the blanket up and pull the toys to him. This ‘lazy’ trend has continued, for example to feeding. He’ll eat one spoonful all by himself before giving the spoon to me and opening his mouth. And of course I told you about ‘flamingo foot’ last week.
There are many similarities between me and my boy, he’s definitely his mother’s son, but again I’m saving that for a later blog, because today I want to concentrate on the differences between us. Or to be specific the one glaring difference.
It seems that my son is cool.

I’m not totally un-cool I don’t think, I hope I’m not anyway, and I wouldn’t say that I’m a complete people pleaser but growing up it was important to me to fit in (my mother reminds me of this constantly). Therefore although I wasn’t unpopular I was more of a follower than a leader. Now I think I’m pretty much my own person, and I have quite a strong personality but I’m still following. Only this time I’m following my child.
My son, at the grand old age of two and a half is definitely a leader. He has mastered the skill I would love to have; he doesn’t seem to care what other people think or what they’re doing. He treats other children with a kind of aloofness that I can only dream of.
At nursery he walks in and children stop what they’re doing to see what Xavier will do. He surveys the room, and takes his time before deciding which toy to play with, and when he does some of the other children come back to life and join him. They all greet him with a chorus of ‘Xavier’s’ and he looks at them calmly before deciding whether he has time to say ‘hello.’ (Often he does not).
When he wakes up from his afternoon nap he’s normally in a terrible mood. At home I try to bribe him into cheering up with food, or CBeebies, or whatever, and at nursery the other children try to cheer him up by bringing him toys. And Xavier swats them all away like flies, but still they persevere. He has already mastered the art of treating them mean and keeping them keen.

Not that he’s mean, I’m not saying that he’s going to turn into a bully, (actually he definitely won’t turn into a bully) but he seems to have mastered this disinterest in other children which they can’t get enough of. I was worried that he didn’t play with anyone but he does apparently, but only if they’re doing something he likes the look of. And if anyone wants to join him in playing he lets them, on his terms of course. And he has a particular friend he likes to get up to mischief with. However sometimes he just looks at people as if they were invisible, and this has made my child popular already, (he gets invited to far more parties than I do).
He’s especially popular with the little ladies. There are quite a number that talk about him at home according to their parents, and they flock around him at nursery too. I have a friend who has a girl his age who we’ve hung out with from since the children were tiny. She always wanted to engage with him but he would ignore her, giving her his brilliant ‘you’re invisible’ look (I wish I could bottle that look, I’d make a fortune), anyway, when they were both about one she tried to kiss him. He put his hand up and pushed her face away (a move that he uses still to this day). This just made her want to kiss him more and as her mother and I laughed at the exchange she kept trying. Finally, she managed to catch Xavier in a weak movement and she licked his face. He burst into tears.

You see I marvel at his coolness because I certainly don’t possess it with the opposite sex. Especially if I find them attractive (luckily doesn’t happen often). Instead of treating them as if they didn’t exist, I usually drink too much, flirt really badly and then throw myself at them. If I’m being especially classy I might also fall over.  Oh my God, I’m the grown up version of the face licker. 
I think I need to lie down.
Before I go for said lie down, I don’t want you to think my child is cold. He’s very affectionate (when he wants to be), he smiles and laughs a lot and he does have friends that he sometimes will even play with. He still won’t let them kiss him if he can help it. He’s like it with adults too I guess. He can shower me with cuddles but at times he even pushes me away. Of course it only makes me, as his mum, even more keen too.
I went to pick him up from nursery yesterday. The children flocked round to tell me that Xavier had been playing football. He would kick the ball then stop and look at everyone expecting a round of applause. Although he’s hardly David Beckham they all obliged. He does this a lot, apparently.
Before we went his lovely nursery lady stopped me.
‘He gave me lots of cuddles today,’ she said. See my boy isn’t cold at all.
‘Oh how lovely,’ I said, as I picked my little boy up ready to tell him what a good boy he was.
‘The thing is that he only did it when I told him off.’

Yes, it seems that my son is not only cooler than me but he’s smarter than me too.

Tuesday 26 July 2011

Sun, sea, sand & sunburn?

I moved back to North Devon just before Xavier was born. As much as I loved London there were a few logistical issues with me there on my own with a baby. Firstly it would be doubtful that I could afford a flat big enough for myself, my baby, his pram and my shoes. Secondly, I would never go out because I couldn’t afford a babysitter. And also I have a phobia of escalators so there was no way I could cope with the pushchair on the tube, and I didn’t want to wear a sling. So, there were many reasons for my move back to North Devon, and not least because I needed my mummy.
Two and a half years on I am now beginning to settle in. I seem to have decided that my son will have this idyllic Enid Blyton-esque childhood; countryside, lashings of ginger beer, and of course the beach.
Undoubtedly one of the best things about North Devon is the selection of lovely beaches with their nice surf; although one of the worst is the weather. I quickly learnt that the minute the sun comes out we pack up the car and head to the beach.

That in itself is no mean feat; especially on my own. One hot Saturday I got us both ready. We headed for the beach. I had to carry a bag which held our beach blanket, buckets and spades, swimming stuff, towels, wetsuit, picnic lunch, sunscreen, nappies, wipes and probably the kitchen sink, as well as Xavier’s bodyboard. He of course would walk nicely beside me down the long steps to the beach. Except he wouldn’t.
When Xavier doesn’t want to walk he has developed the ‘Flamingo foot.’ He lifts one of his feet and holds it up. When he first did this with my mother she nearly took him to A&E as she assumed something was very wrong. The first time he did it with me I knew exactly what he was up to and we had a bit of a stand off. It turns out my child is as stubborn as his mother, as he held that foot up for ages. Of course, I caved in first.
So, off I struggled, wishing that there was such a thing as a beach Sherpa (is there? If there is please get in touch), trying and failing to coax my child to save me from injury by walking. We arrived on the sand, totally exhausted, and suddenly ‘Flamingo Foot’ is no more as Xavier ran off and dived into the nearest rock pool, fully clothed. Luckily my kitchen sink bag did contain a change of clothes.
I dragged him out of the rock pool to put his swimming stuff on (better late than never), and reapplied his sunscreen. He ran back to the rock pool with his toys settling down for the duration. I lay out the blanket and although it was a sunny day there was quite a strong wind so I had to collect rocks to stop it blowing away. I thought back to when going to the beach was relaxing; I would read a book or doze off. Oh those days were long gone.
Now, I was a lifeguard, rock collector, suntan lotion applier, the sandcastle builder, (and of course Xav looked disdainfully at my efforts and carried on eating seaweed despite me taking sandcastle building very seriously) and feeder. I gave him his lunch, before realising I hadn’t  brought anything for me.
I looked on enviously at the perfect families that surrounded me with their full picnic baskets and more than one adult to carry things, as I nibbled on raisins and organic crisp-like snacks that tasted of air.
After our lunch ( Xav’s lunch), I poured him into his wetsuit and headed down to the surf with him and the bodyboard. He decided once again not to walk as he sat on the bodyboard and expected me to pull him. And it was a long way to the sea. Once there, Xav dragged me straight into the waves. He loved it, and his shrieks of laughter made me forget my tiredness, my hunger and my lack of wetsuit.
In my swimsuit (which to be honest was more suited to the South of France and a bit too skimpy for a windy beach in North Devon) I jumped into the waves with him, and it was a little tiny bit cold. We stayed in for what seemed like hours, me shivering as I held on tightly to my fearless child, before unable to endure more I dragged my child and his bodyboard back to the beach. Xav was kicking and screaming and I knew exactly how he felt.
After a bit more playing in the rock pool I repacked our big bag, got Xavier dried, and changed ready to go home for tea. He was tired now so I had no chance of making him walk. Like a worn out pack horse I lugged everything back to the car and home.
Later that night, after I’d put Xavier to bed, I showered wearily thinking about wine. As I dried off I wondered why my back was agony but when I looked in the mirror I saw the reason. It was angrily red; there had been no sunscreen on my back. A two and a half year old wasn’t going to apply it for me after all. Another thing I hadn't thought about. I tried to contort myself to rub some aftersun on, before giving up and just heading for the wine to numb all my aches and pain.

My trip to the beach might sound like a bit of a nightmare, and actually in many ways it was. I ached from all the carrying, I was still recovering from standing for hours in the sea and it was going to take about three weeks to get rid of the sand which was everywhere. On top of that I was hungry, and sunburnt. But Xavier had such a lovely time that I knew I would do it over and over again (British weather permitting). I am just hoping, that like everything else, I’ll get better and better at it. Otherwise I’m moving back to the city.

Monday 18 July 2011

Jam Making for Beginners: Toddler Group Survival Guide

Jam Making for Beginners: Toddler Group Survival Guide: "Motherhood, parenthood, is a battlefield and I am usually on the losing side. But there’s one place where it literally is a battlefield; tod..."

Toddler Group Survival Guide

Motherhood, parenthood, is a battlefield and I am usually on the losing side. But there’s one place where it literally is a battlefield; toddler group.
When Xavier was tiny and we went to baby groups it was great. He would either sleep, or sit in a ball pit or play on a mat while I looked on, drinking coffee and gossiping with friends. But then something happened. My baby was no longer a baby, we graduated to toddler group and those words imbue fear and have me quaking in my nice shoes.
So, to be brief, why should a room full of toddlers be scary? Not just because toddlers are scary, not just because of the noise levels, but it helps to have studied Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’ before venturing inside.
One Toddler group I went to was particularly terrifying. Not only were there a number of thuggish toddlers (they made the Mitchell brothers look soft), but some of the parents were particularly good at not noticing. I didn’t expect these little girls and boys to be well behaved. Goodness knows mine isn’t. He went through a phase of relentless hair pulling. He was like the slickest hair puller ever, managing to pull hair where there didn’t even seem to be any. But the point was that if he did it before I could stop him, I would tell him off. And I was mortified at him making another child cry.
Typical Toddler group: a child was pushed from the top of a slide while the mother watched; a couple of little boys had a full on fist fight over a train and a gentle voice piped up, ‘don’t do that, that’s not very nice,’ from the sidelines, whilst not actually parting the fighters; one boy threw things at my friend’s little girl, while his mother wasn’t watching, and she managed not to watch for nearly the whole two hours;  a bigger girl came up to Xavier and deliberately shoved him sending him flying. I heard myself saying, ‘why did you do that?’ to her, and her mother came over, picked her child up and shot me a filthy look, as if I was the devil. Of course I apologised profusely.
Interestingly, there was a sign up at this group saying ‘No stilettos or spurs to be worn.’ I had accidentally worn stilettos, but at the time I wondered what parent would wear spurs to a toddler group; in hindsight they could have come in handy.

Back to the point, toddlers are toddlers and are learning, testing boundaries; they don’t understand sharing (actually thinking about it I’m not sure I do either), but of course they aren’t inherently bad. I’m hardly the poster girl for the perfect mum but when it comes to teaching my child right from wrong I have tried to do it from the word go.
Now we go to a less hazardous toddler group. There is no need for a sign banning spurs that’s for sure. Here my child happily plays while I drink coffee and gossip with my lovely friends.  The problem is that although it is still noisy and there are incidents, it’s kind of made me put my ‘Art of War’ to one side, in favour of an extra cup of coffee and a chocolate digestive.
Last week we went there as usual. I was wearing a black and white striped dress; Xavier was in his new red and white striped Ralph Lauren polo shirt. This place has a craft area with a little sink. Xavier loves the sink but doesn’t really seem interested in the craft. Anyway, I kept a bit of an eye on him and when he went off to the craft area I dashed off after him. He was just standing at the sink trying to turn the taps on, but I took him back into the main room where I could see him. However, he kept going back and I kept getting him and to be honest, I was getting a little fed up.
‘Don’t worry, drink your coffee for five minutes,’ my friend said. So I did and started to talk about something or other when I heard a mother call for me to come. I bolted over, (wearing wedge heels); worried and feeling like the worst mother for leaving him alone for two minutes. Then I saw what he’d done.
He stood at the sink, covered, head to toe in red paint that he had managed to get from a sponge. It was in his hair, on his face, all over his top, even in his mouth. Oh and on the walls and floor. I grabbed him and started the clean up; the mother who had called me helped. We cleaned the wall, got the worst off him, (it was on his feet for goodness sake), and sponged down his clothes. By now the red paint had also transferred itself to my dress. I finally carried him back round the corner, having severely learnt my lesson. Sometimes coffee just isn’t meant to be drunk and Ralph Lauren isn’t meant to be worn.
‘Look,’ I said, to my friend.
‘Oh if I’d known he was wearing Ralph Lauren I’d never had told you to leave him,’ she replied. I laughed at the absurd sight we both made.
We got home. I put Xav in the bath. It took a few days before the red was completely gone from his tummy. And as for the clothes, well the red and white polo shirt is now red, white and a bit of pink and my black and white striped dress has met the same fate. I’ve learnt my lesson; I will never leave him even for a minute, and I might not attend the thuggish toddler group anymore, but the battlefield will follow me wherever I go.

Monday 11 July 2011

When I remember that I am a daughter

I take my mother for granted.  She’s amazing; an unpaid babysitter who does my ironing and a lot, lot more. I can’t list it all because not only would it take too long but also the guilt might fall on me like the sky.
I moan to her. I cry about sleepless nights, teething, tantrums (the toddlers and mine), and I get sympathy and help. I don’t take into account that I did all this to her back in the day, oh no, I am of course the only person allowed to go through all I am going through.
She had a special birthday coming up and we knew that she really wanted to go on the Orient Express. It was something she hoped to do with my father but unfortunately they didn’t before he passed away. So, my brother and I booked a lunch on the Orient Express from Plymouth. We couldn’t quite manage Venice.
It wasn’t really my brother’s thing and being a huge fan of Agatha Christie I was the chosen one to go with her.

My mother burst into tears on her birthday when presented with the gift. She was so excited, talking outfits, getting her hair done and I felt so glad that we had actually made her cry with happiness for once.
On the day we set out early. I fed Xavier breakfast in my vintage dress (luckily no porridge damage), and then when his babysitter arrived we drove to the station. I wasn’t worried about my boy; he was in great hands with a lovely lady who looked after him at nursery, so I could concentrate on making the day magical for my mother. I vowed not to be cross with her or impatient; I would be nice Faith for the whole day.

We arrived after a wobble with the sat nav, which took us to a main roundabout and declared, (rather smugly I thought) that we had reached our destination. We had to stop and ask someone, who to I thought was drunk but mum said was very nice, and we did get there in the end.
After parking the car I changed my shoes and my mother immediately made friends with a couple smoking outside the station having correctly guessed due to their attire (he was wearing a bow tie), that they were on our train.  When I joined them, they immediately fell in love with my handbag. This handbag is vintage, brown with a watch fob attached to the front, and I adore it. They adored it too, asking all sorts of questions. I clutched it a bit tighter.
I needed coffee and we sat in the station surrounded by a lot of men in bow ties and women in floral frocks. I tried not to panic despite my brother always saying that men who wore bow ties nearly always turned out to be serial killers.
Pushing that aside we made our way to the train which was as magnificent as we hoped; I immediately felt transported back in time as the staff took our photos and mum beamed excitedly.
On boarding the train we were shown to our table; mum had been given a birthday card and the table was dressed beautifully, with promises of Champagne, food and wine. We set off and both mum and I were giggly with the sense of occasion. We were given a glass of Champagne whilst the menu was explained. Basically we were pretty much going to eat for five hours which is genius. The train interior was stunning, and I especially admired the loo which I wanted in my home.
Just before the starters were served my mother went to ‘freshen up’ and I waited. And waited. The food arrived. I waited. I went to the loo which was only a short walk away and it was empty. Finally I had to send the steward off in search of my mother.
‘This happens a lot,’ he said. She was escorted back having taken a wrong turning and ended up at the wrong end of the very long train.
She had also met up with her friends from the station. The woman also had a birthday card and mum noticed it was addressed to Lady –; she said ‘goodness you’re titled.’ They smiled and told her that they’d bought their titles off the internet for £30.00. They then tried to buy my handbag.
We had a gorgeous meal. My mother had the lion’s share of the wine because I was driving. She nodded off at one point and I had to wake her and remind her that it was rude to fall asleep at the lunch table. I refrained from reminding her how much it bloody well cost.
The ‘titled’ couple came to visit us before the journey ended to try to negotiate again the sale of my bag. I was resolutely refusing to sell.
When we arrived back at the station, there had been no murder despite the plethora of bow ties, which wasn’t terribly disappointing; not only for moral reasons but my babysitter was charging by the hour so I couldn’t have afforded the delay.

So one day of being a great daughter, was all I gave, but I took away so much more. I remembered how wonderful my mother was and how she deserved to be spoilt more often. I thought as I hugged my child that I wanted him to want to spend time with me when I was older. So I made a vow that I would appreciate my mother more. I would remember how much my mother went through with me. Not only am I now trying to be the perfect mother but also the perfect daughter too.

Or at least a bit more perfect than I clearly am. My to-do list just keeps growing...

Monday 27 June 2011

The Perfect Mummy

When I found out I was pregnant I vowed to be the perfect mummy. I got off to a good start. I was the perfect pregnant woman; ate healthily, didn’t drink alcohol, rested a lot and talked to my bump about important world events, (EastEnders and Heat magazine). I wasn’t planning on becoming mumsy; I would be the modern day perfect mum. I would be loving and kind, well-dressed with good hair and nice shoes. I would of course be a whiz in the kitchen, cooking delicious home-made fare, and of course, hence the title of this blog, I would not only bake but make jam, chutney and aim to reach the heady heights of Marmalade.
When I found out I was having a boy my quest for perfection continued. I would give him a good name (I think I managed that with Xavier, although there are variants on how it’s pronounced so that could be debateable); I would learn how to play football if necessary and I would dress him very well. For example my mother wanted to buy him dungarees.
‘Oh no,’ I replied, ‘he’s not a 70s Feminist.’
Although of course he would be a modern feminist, like his mother, the perfect mummy would not bring up a chauvinist.
I built his cot and changing table all by myself, chose a pram (which drove me to tears), and I was sure I was the perfect mummy. I just didn’t actually have a baby yet.

Any actual parent will tell you that it’s probably not as easy being perfect when you have a real live baby. Because you say a lot before you actually have a child and then most of it flies out of the window. For example, I said that I wouldn’t be one of those mothers who put the TV on all the time. Well I don’t actually but when I was feeding my baby in the night we did both get a bit addicted to ‘Girls of the Playboy Mansion,’ which I’m guessing isn’t really appropriate.
Parts of being the perfect mum came easily to me. I loved my baby unconditionally and hugs and cuddles and laughter weren’t a problem but on a practical level, perfection took a bit of a dive. When my baby wouldn’t sleep, when my breast milk dried up (I was never very good at breastfeeding which I found devastating), when he cried, it was all my fault. When I left the house with odd shoes on or my top on inside out. When I took my baby out with his bottle ready, but forgot to put the teat in so it leaked everywhere and I couldn’t feed him. Oh I could go on but I won’t.
As he got older, my focus changed. This was where I would really come into my own. I started feeding him real food (well pureed vegetables and fruit), so in the kitchen I would become the perfect mum.
I spent hours in the kitchen armed with my Annabel Karmel cookbook, looking perfect, wearing heels, a cute little apron and a full face of make-up. I was like the archetypal 50s housewife without the husband. Well that was how I was in my mind anyway. Some things shouldn’t be ruined with reality.
To cut a very long story short, my boy mainly rejected my cooking and on advice I tried jars (at least they were organic), which he devoured. As I threw my ice cube trays into the bin I thought I was throwing my perfect mummy status in there with it. 

Two years on I’m still chasing perfection. I have learnt how to dress with my clothes on the right way round and I never go out of the house without make-up, (although that’s more to do with scaring people). I still moan about tiredness but after a bad night I try to make my grumpy toddler laugh, despite my lack of energy. I still cook most of his meals from scratch; I still throw a lot of it away.
I have started baking. Xav and I make biscuits and cupcakes and although they look a bit strange, sometimes they taste good. I still do the DIY (well most of it) in our house, he has a gorgeous room and oh yes, he is a very well-dressed toddler, not that he cares of course.
I work, so there is guilt; surely a perfect mother would spend every waking hour with her child? No, actually we have much more fun because I get the chance to miss him a bit and the time we spend together is ‘quality’, apart from when I do just stick the TV on. Which he would say makes me perfect because he loves television, (I blame Hugh Hefner).
It might have taken me two and a half years to fully realise that perfect I am not. Although it might take a lot more years before I actually stop chasing it. But if there is one thing I’ve learnt about motherhood it’s this; there’s no such thing as the perfect mum, or parent, just lots of people trying their damn best.

Although, of course, my jam making dream continues.

Thursday 16 June 2011

My glamorous life

I decided to start writing this whilst in London visiting my closest girlfriends. We were in the heavenly Gilbert Scott bar in the relatively new St Pancras Renaissance hotel, decadently sipping British ‘Champagne’ Nyetimber as we admired the chandeliers. We reminisced about when I lived in London (not all my friends approved of my moving to Devon and one even thought Devon was in Cornwall) and wrote a dating column among other things. We laughed about how much fun we (they) had through my disastrous dating escapades. Then I reminded them that times had changed.

Oh how times had changed. If you were looking at this snapshot of my life you would think it was quite glamorous. The venue definitely was. My friends certainly were, even I was; dressing well was important to me at all times so in my frock, heels and red lipstick I didn’t look too shabby. But this was a temporary thing (apart from my appearance); this weekend I was taking a break from my busy, permanent job as a single mum. I had left my child in the safe and doting hands of my mother, and taken myself off to catch up with friends and quite simply have fun. Something every hard working parent deserves.

And fun was in abundance. I was with my inner circle:  a TV personality, an Interior designer, two Writers (including me), an Artist, an Astrologer and an Actress. And what was interesting was that we were all single. Among my gorgeous, talented, successful friends not one man by their side was to be had. And while we didn’t dwell on this all night or even seem bothered by it to be honest, we inevitably discussed dating and what we were looking for in a man.
‘I just want a man to put the rubbish out,’ I said.
They all looked at me as if I was insane but actually it was pretty much true. I could have wanted a man to take me to gorgeous dinners, a lover to whisk me away to hotels such as the one we were in, or someone to escort me to plays or the Opera. I could have asked for a man so handsome he took my breath away or made me laugh until it hurt, but no, I just wanted someone to give me a break from putting my rubbish out. Oh it would be great if they also cooked, did the laundry, loved DIY, and did the supermarket shopping.

Because since becoming a mother, since moving to a little cottage in North Devon with my little boy, I had done all of the above. And so much more (I even have my own tool box, which at least is pink). My closest friends would vouch for the fact that I wasn’t known for my practical abilities. I used to frequent supermarkets so rarely that I actually found them exciting. I could mix a Martini, but not make a cake. My freezer used to house a bottle of Vodka and a bag of frozen sweet corn that I put on my ankle when I hurt it (after a few of Vodkas). My idea of having friends round for dinner was ordering a pizza delivery. Domestic I was not.
So whilst we laughed about my lack of ambition when it came to men (I should have at least asked for a rich man who also put the rubbish out), I was so busy in my new found domesticity, and so tired of never getting on top of my chores, that I had forgotten about those lovely things like companionship and passion. Basically I wanted a handyman rather than a boyfriend.
My day to day existence was anything but glamorous. As I said, how times had changed.

When I left the bright lights and my lovely friends I was a little bit sad but more excited to see my little boy again. And when I arrived at my mum’s house and he gave me the biggest smile and the biggest cuddle, I realised that despite everything I had to do this was the only man and all the glamour I needed right now.