Time After Time

Two things hit me when I became a mother.  The first one was what on earth did I do with my time BC? (Before Children).  And the second, more alarming one was, this is hard!

Depending on what stage you are at in your mothering journey, you will have different answers, and indeed, different perspectives along the way.  I also think it is fair to say that whatever else might change, the demands on both you and your time, will not.

Your little baby starts by going longer in between feeds, and maybe even sleeping at night.  It is time to become reacquainted with showers that last longer than three minutes.  Maybe even a phone call whilst you are enjoying a cup of coffee.  Bliss!

Don’t get too comfortable, however.  There are a lot more stages to come.  Least of all the crawling and walking stages.  It’s all onwards and upwards for growing little people who are intent on exploring this fascinating world that is just one big playground as far as they are concerned.

It is hard.  It is hard when little ones have no concept whatsoever of time. No concept whatsoever of your time.  It won’t matter to them that Mummy has a much longed for and well deserved night out planned with Daddy.  Teething, unexplained high temperatures followed by fevers are their scissors to your paper. 

Your precious night out is cancelled. 

It’s all a phase and this too shall pass will become regular mantras. 

What can be of great help through these challenging times is a good support network.   

No-one can know how you are feeling unless you tell them and there is nothing wrong in asking for help.  Even a walk to the shop for a pint of milk has its advantages.  Least of all for some much needed fresh air and a break from the confines of the house.

On the way there, you will always see someone with a line of kids in tow, looking fantastic and totally unfazed by the modern pressures of parenthood.  Think of the swan gliding serenely on the river with not a feather out of place.  Now look closely under the surface of the water and watch the frantic paddle paddle movement of her feet.

We all have a little bit of that going on inside.  Some of us are better at hiding it than others.

Many a banal and trite conversation has taken place beside the ride-on machines in the supermarket.  Those conversations can be a life saver.  A little light in an otherwise dark day. 

They certainly helped me.

Sometimes it can be easier to talk to a complete stranger over the heads of your children.   

And it can be music to your ears to learn that you are not alone.

It is nice to know, in fact it is important to know, that even on your worst day, someone else has been there and come through it.

And guess what?  You will too.

I Didn't Enjoy It.

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The other morning there was a slight fracas in the park.  Smallest boy has a bubble lawn mower, one he likes to take everywhere.

The struggle happened about a half hour before we left when Lovely Liam decided he “wanted a go” of the lawn mower.  

Smallest Boy wasn’t for turning.

My pathetic attempts at mediation were not working and the boys were getting louder.  So was I. 

I was doing that loud, hissy, growl whisper thing through gritted teeth.  The one that goes a little like this:  “Listen to me.  I sssssssaid, lisssssssten to meeeeee.  Give your brother a turn.  Do you hearrrrrrr meeeeeee?”  

Then I felt a hand on my upper arm and I turned at the touch to see a man smiling at me.  “You have your hands full there.” 

You don’t know the half of it, I thought as he kept walking and I continued to untie the dog leash from around my legs and snarl at the kids.

On the way home I remembered a conversation I had with my mother in law when Oldest Boy made it through his first year.  I was chatting about how hard it was “at times,” how relentless it could all be. 

Then I added “but I enjoyed it.”

I stuck it in there as an affirmation; to take the sting out of sounding like I was complaining.

It was a lie.

A big, stonking lie.

I didn’t enjoy it.

And I don’t think I really knew it at the time. 

I thought I was enjoying it.  Because all the damn magazines and all the books said I would. 

And of course I had nothing to compare it to.

When the next baby came along, whaddya know?  Nothing much changed.  It was still kind of boring, still relentless, still lonely and still exhausting.  With one exception, however.

This time there was double the work and the baby was a crap sleeper, had a horrible time with teeth and was a bad patient.

I still didn’t enjoy it.

Third baby later it was as if his predecessor had set the bar and this new baby just had to raise it. 

Three kids to look after now.  I’d had a crash section, a tricky start with breast feeding and it became obvious pretty early in the day this baby was another shite sleeper but with bad eczema thrown in for good measure.

I didn’t bloody enjoy it that time either.

In fact, I hated every minute of it.

I love, absolutely love the newborn squishy stage.  Not so keen on the wobbler months and once they hit their first birthday, the next year and a half can’t go quickly enough for me.

Maybe I’m crazy but I prefer the three plus age.  They’ve got words.  They’re more fun. They can feed themselves.  There’s no nappies, no buggies, no extras.  They can strap on their own belts in the car.  Even let themselves out.  With a bit of luck, they sleep for nine hours at night.       

This stage I enjoy.  I’m good at this stage.  I even enjoy the backchat.  (Sometimes)  This I can handle.  This is the future. This is when I can see with some clarity what they are going to be like in the next few years.   

This is the stage I plan to enjoy before it all goes horribly pear shaped during the teenage years.

But I did not enjoy the crazy that was sleep deprivation and those days of loneliness.

I can admit and acknowledge it now.  And move on to greater and better things. 

I have arrived.

In case you were wondering how I solved the lawn mower fracas, I got all three of them to the car, two kids and a dog, flung Smallest Boy and the dog in the back and as I was doing up seat belts, I told Lovely Liam to go for a little walk around the car park.  And to be quick about it.

Suddenly, all the fight went out of him and he declared he didn’t want to any more.

Didn’t want to because he was told he could, I suspected.

A Mid-Week Treat. And a Hug.

Malted Double Chocolate Marshmallow Brownies

When oldest Boy was but a toddler, I despaired of him ever eating anything.  He lived on some yogurt and a litre of milk a day.

And cardboard.  Of any description.  Newspapers. Magazines and bits of tissue paper were also eaten with alarming enjoyment.

Of course, he “grew out of it” and even if his appetite isn’t amazing today, he eats most everything. 

Ok, not everything, he hates some things but so do we all.

Lots of people believe hunger is a good sauce.  I’ve even uttered those words myself whilst knowing in my heart of hearts, if I was keeling over with starvation, there is no way on this earth you could get me to eat certain things. 

Porridge.  Butter.  Milk.  To name but a few.

One day this week I made a batch of brownies because the boys saw some in the café.  It was a while since I made them and even as I added the chopped walnuts a little voice said “they’ll give out about those.”

I threw them in.  The bag was opened and I wanted to use them up. 

They wouldn’t eat them.  They gave out.  “I don’t like those nuts.”  “It would be gorgeous if there were no nuts.”  “That’s disgusting!”

Ho hum.  All the more for me.  Unfortunately.

So when I saw a bag of Princess marshmallows in Lidl for a song I snapped them up to use in a recipe I knew they would like. 

I also had a tub of Horlicks and this will not get used for anything else except the same recipe.

The first problem was trying to prevent Smallest Boy and Lovely Liam scoffing the marshmallows so I allowed them to “stud” the top of the mix when it was poured in the tin.

They were very generous with their studding.

The cake went into the oven. 

“When will it be ready?  Will it be ready now?”

“Not for a little while and then we have to let it cool right down before we cut it.”

I distracted them by taking them upstairs to “help me” change the beds.

“Is it ready now?  When will it be ready?  It’s been three days!”

Three beds maybe. 

The rule was (dontcha just hate rules?) dinner before dessert.  They swallowed down some roast chicken and veg and then launched at the goo-ey treat on the counter top.

Silence was heard.  Mixed in with the licking of fingers and the odd “mmmmmmnnnnn.”

Afterwards Lovely Liam ran at me and almost knocked me over with one of his rugby tackle hugs.  I “ooof-ed” as usual.

He looked up at me, chocolate and melty marshmallow all over his face.

“Know what I hug-ded you for?  Coz you made-ed that good!”

Link to the Malted Double Chocolate Marshmallow Brownies mix is here and you can thank wholesomeireland.ie for the deliciousness.

It Worked!

Some things work and some things just don’t.  Absolutely everything looks great on paper and in theory but the practising of it can tell a very different story.  Like taking deep breaths.

Counting to 10 (or 100!) taking a step back and choosing our battles.

For me taking deep breaths does not work.  The opposite in fact.  It’s almost as if by inhaling deeply I am providing more oxygen for my already glowing fire to rage out of control.

Counting to 100 is out of the question.  That just allows them to continue to fight amongst themselves and buys them more get out of doing homework/changing their clothes time.

Sometimes taking a step back works.  I’ve often made a coffee, closed the kitchen door behind me and sat on the decking with Juno for company.  All in the time it would have taken me to count to the aforementioned 100.

I’m still working on choosing my battles. 

But something that does work, worked beautifully for me just this morning.

Lovely Liam seems to be having a bit of difficulty finding himself at the moment.  I jest he waited until he turned four to try the terrible two’s.

There have been a few power struggles since he started back in Montessori after summer break.  He loves it there so I know this is not the problem.

He has begun waking at night again and experimenting with a bit of sleep walking which makes me uneasy as I fear the stairs. 

This morning we were in the café where the boys love to go after the school run.  Ok, where I love to go.  The café where I love to go after the school run.

As you are all well aware, it was bucketing down rain and we were experiencing proper rain gear weather. 

Lovely Liam had a moment just as we were finishing up and firm words were exchanged.   

To no avail.

I was left with him and the ensuing struggle with his rain coat.  There was a bit of a walk back to the car and he would have been soaked through so there was no question of him not putting it on.

The dilemma was, how did I go about this without stoking his fire into a full on screaming fit in the café where I love to go after the school run.

“Can you put your coat on?”

“No!”  Had he been a serpent, he would have been swaying in front of me, exhibiting very strong stay away signals.

 “Look, I’ll help.”

“Don’t want it on!”

Looking back, I was automatically taking in deep breaths and beginning to count.

“Right, you have a choice.”  All the books say to do this; give them an option but make sure they pick the outcome you want them to pick.  Again, on paper it all sounds wonderfully feasible. 

“You don’t have to wear it but you will get soaked out there.  And I am not changing your clothes when we get home.”  I let that one sink in for a moment.  Lovely Liam cannot abide even one single droplet of water on his clothes when he is supposed to be dry.

“The choice is yours:  Wear your coat and keep dry or get wet and sit in uncomfortable clothes all morning.  What’s it to be?”

“Oh-KAY!”  Eyeballs to match the ‘tude.  But he put on the coat. And we walked back to the car.

Where there was a monumental struggle to stop him from splashing through every single large puddle on the way.

But I’d already picked my battle so I let him have his fun.