Fake it ’til you make it

Someone once told me that, however bad you’re feeling, simply smiling will make you feel happier. It’s to do with the physical action of moving your face muscles triggering neural pathways involved in emotion. Or something. I don’t know whether it’s scientifically proven, anecdotal, or just bullshit.

Anyway, I wonder if the same can be said of looking like you’re in control? Coping. On top of things. If I behave every day – on the school run, at work, in all Benjamin’s appointments, when I’m changing shitty nappies, when I’m frantically suctioning his airway until he can breathe – as if this is all a walk in the park, then is it? If I keep putting one foot in front of the other and holding one tiny person by each hand instead of rolling on the floor and screaming like a toddler am I doing just fine? Or am I just kidding myself? Am I actually kidding anyone else?

I sure want to look like I’m coping. I want to be smart, svelte, smiling and on time, with matching socks and freshly brushed children like everyone else. Why? Because I’m proud (too proud). I’m not about to prove right those I overheard saying, “I don’t know how she’ll cope with three children so close together.” I’m not about to live up to their prediction that, “The eldest will be neglected.” I will bust a gut to show them that I am not only coping with my three children but that all of them are completely loved, cared for, listened to, engaged with, taught, and nurtured.

And because, actually, coping has always been something that gives me a little buzz. At school I loved to be the responsible one – the pupil the teachers could trust to run errands not just reliably but well. I like being the colleague that people can call upon to take on an extra task and know that it will be done excellently and on time. The more things I volunteer for, the more I can kid myself that I am useful, my life is meaningful and valuable, and that I am in control of what I do rather than simply responding to each demand as it arises.

And, because I have to. If I don’t keep on top of the childrens’ calendar and my work commitments and the shopping and the laundry and feeding the guinea pigs and mowing the lawn and making sure the church magazine is out on time who’s going to do it?

_20180502_145057.JPG
See, they get new shoes. She’d only gone up three sizes…

Yes, we are very lucky to have a ‘village’ that would do their best to step in in a crisis (and we probably wouldn’t have to cook for a month!) and yes, we have a social worker and six hours agency care a week, and yes, we can afford to pay for some day-care for the girls when we need it, but in the end the buck stops with me to organise and coordinate everything – to carry the ‘mental load.’ With school and nursery and reading practice and homework and swimming and music and ballet and a house and a car and all Benjamin’s appointments and prescriptions and equipment and a little bit of campaigning and a little bit of work and everybody outgrowing their shoes all the time, there are just so many balls to drop!

Are they starting to fall? How long have I got before people realise it’s all a façade? Where the professionals once said, “You’ve done so well with Benjamin!” Will they start realising that I should do so much more? Where friends once said, “You’re always on top of things!” Will they start noticing that my to-do list is so long things are dropping off the bottom? That the girls have been promised new curtains since I got my sewing machine, the Christmas before last… That I told a colleague I’d write a ‘topical’ paper two summers ago… Do my family notice that I’m less patient, my sense of humour has shrunk, I drink more wine, and we’re always out of salt and vinegar crisps?

Now that two out of the three children are mobile and talking but only one of them has any sense of danger or ability to understand reason, I am seriously outnumbered. Not to mention the fact that none of them sleep through the night… When I’m home alone with them I’m a nervous wreck: planning, imagining worst case scenarios, trying to second guess which one will need me next, how to keep the other two happy at the same time, and when it’s safe to go for a pee. And out of the house is worse.

Some weeks I feel like I’ve embarrassed myself, let everyone down, like I can’t do this at all; others I feel I have totally got this. Bizarrely, the latter is usually when things are busiest, Benjamin is poorliest, and I am most overstretched. It’s when we’re whiling away a sunny afternoon at the park because we don’t have to be anywhere particular that things seem to go properly tits-up. Perhaps I really do thrive under pressure? Or do I only realise what a car-crash my life is when I have time to think? And am I the only one? Is everyone else doing better? Or are they too just winging it, firefighting one crisis after another and relying on chocolate and a good mascara to face the world? Are we all swans, swimming serenly past one another as we paddle frantically under the surface to stay afloat? And if I keep faking being in control will it one day actually come true?

Advertisements

Not just a mum…

This post was written for the #SEND30daychallenge, day 9: ‘Not just a mum.’

I’m one of the (few) parents who actually don’t mind being called ‘mum’ by professionals. Yes, I do have a name, but in the context of Benjamin’s health, education or care I see being called ‘mum’ as an affirmation of status. I am his mum: the one who knows him better than anyone else; the one who loves him more than anyone else; the one who will stop at nothing to get what he needs and deserves. I’m not ashamed to be mum; I’m proud of it.

In fact, I was more shocked the other day when we had some men doing work on the house. One of them said to another (he didn’t know I could hear), ‘Is the woman there? We need to check something with her.’ Woman? I’d never thought of myself as a woman. I’m not old enough, not mature enough, not experienced enough to be a woman.

Anyway, here are a few of the other things I am, when I’m not being just a mum. Woman or not, no wonder I’m tired!

  1. Wife
  2. Daughter
  3. Granddaughter
  4. Sistergirl-2501089_1920
  5. Cousin
  6. Niece
  7. Aunt
  8. God daughter
  9. Friend
  10. Lover
  11. Employee
  12. Colleague
  13. Botanist
  14. Scientist
  15. Researcher
  16. Photographer
  17. Writeralphabet-2518264_1920
  18. Blogger
  19. Speaker
  20. Teacher
  21. Student
  22. Campaigner
  23. Benefit claimant
  24. Taxpayer
  25. Lender
  26. Borrower
  27. Christian
  28. Parishioner
  29. Voter
  30. Feminist
  31. Environmentalist
  32. European
  33. Human being
  34. Ape
  35. Animal
  36. Gardenerlawnmower-384589_1920
  37. Cleaner
  38. Cook
  39. Housemaid
  40. Laundrywoman
  41. Handywoman
  42. Hairdresser
  43. PA
  44. Accountant
  45. Secretary
  46. Tea lady
  47. Nurserubber-duck-1404369_1280
  48. Carer
  49. Doctor
  50. Pharmacist
  51. Physio
  52. Therapist
  53. Dietician
  54. Chauffeur
  55. Ambulance driver
  56. Advocate
  57. Cheerleader
  58. Interior designer
  59. Needlewoman
  60. Fixer
  61. Architect
  62. Challenger
  63. Defender
  64. Warrior
  65. Worrier
  66. Spender
  67. Saver
  68. Home-owner
  69. Guinea-pig-keeper
  70. Recycler
  71. Composter
  72. Breastfeeder
  73. Real nappy user
  74. Reader
  75. Viewer
  76. Listener
  77. Shoulder to cry on
  78. Decision maker
  79. Stake holder
  80. Pessimist
  81. Optimist
  82. Introvert
  83. Snob
  84. Slob
  85. Pedant
  86. Nag
  87. Sleeper
  88. Dreamer
  89. Hippy
  90. Sun worshipper
  91. Puddle jumper
  92. Channel surfer
  93. Dancer
  94. Hugger
  95. Kisser
  96. Giver
  97. Receiver
  98. Peacemaker
  99. But most of all I am mum…
  100. … and I’m a very lucky woman.

What would you add?

#send30daychallenge

A natural mother

I’ve never seen myself as a natural mother. I’m impatient, selfish, particular, ambitious. While I’m not exactly sure what a ‘natural mother’ should be, I’m pretty certain it’s none of those things.

Yet for nearly four years I have been, without a break, either pregnant or breastfeeding. Both came (surprisingly) easily, naturally, without much effort, thanks (I suppose) to the hormones produced by my body each time I drew my babies to the breast. Physically I have been very much a mother. “I can do this,” I thought.

Now, this physical phase of mothering has drawn to a close, at least for now. At sixteen months, and with an NG tube going in, it seemed an appropriate time to stop breastfeeding Benjamin. Instead of sitting and nursing him, with breast and bottle, for up to six hours each night, I just plug him into his pump and turn out the light. That’s a big shift – in lifestyle, and in hormones – to get used to. I know I’ve been dying to get my evenings back, to catch up on the ironing, the paperwork, to get out in the garden, but I’m going to miss that time of nurturing. It feels weird, disloyal, to be back in my lacy, underwired bras again; to wear dresses and jumpers after years in easy-access cardigans. It’s saddening to bleed again each month. I’m going to have to find a new way to mother, one that comes from the heart, not the body.

Fortunately, these four years have changed me emotionally as well as physically. I have never known such love, such fear, such responsibility, such joy (and yes, such exasperation) as I feel with my children. [My husband, I love you with all my heart too, but it’s a different kind of love, a kind that comes from finding, connecting and choosing, not bearing and birthing]. I am less easily embarrassed, less easily bored, less principled and, I hope, gentler.

I have no real desire to return to work, just yet, although I have already overrun the normal period of maternity leave. I want to be there 24/7 for my children, to walk them to and from school, to serve their breakfast and their tea, to hear about their day and help with their homework.

Am I just being lazy? Am I taking advantage of the fact that no-one expects a special needs mum to work, unlike her peers who are assumed to hop back into the high heels and onto the commuter train as soon as their six, nine or at most twelve months are up. Am I keeping up my lifestyle of lie-ins and coffee-mornings while my husband pays the bill? And will I grow to resent it longer-term? Is a line of nappies drying in the sunshine and a mass of splodgy paintings on the fridge enough for me to feel fulfilled? Will I spend more time telling my children off than listening to them? Am I going to go slowly mad playing imaginary tea parties and putting toy monkeys to bed?

I have no answers, yet. I am just finding my feet. I know that, practically, I can’t return to work until Benjamin is at least three and entitled to half-time one-to-one specialist childcare. I’m keeping my brain alive freelancing a little, blogging a little, reading a little. More important will be keeping my mothering instincts alive through this transition. I may no longer be a natural mother, but I hope I can still be a motherly one.

The unfortunate recipients of my attempts at mothering

The unfortunate recipients of my attempts at mothering