My girls took part in the dance open day at the weekend. Every couple of years, our dance school hires a stage and spends an afternoon showcasing what each class has been learning. It's all very relaxed. You drop in, find a seat, watch your child's class and maybe a couple of others and then leave.
Obviously we have three girls and the big ones do three types of dance, so I was there for the long haul. I arrived at 12.45 and left at 5.15 having watched my own children and many others perform.
When we first went to one of these shows, the eldest two were 3 and 4. They were excited by the stage, slightly in awe of the audience and delighted in the lipstick. I watched them with pride in my heart and was swept along on the tide of fussing, pre-school mothers. When small dancers skip on to the stage, the whole theatre says " Aah!" simultaneously. There are lots of parents and grandparents all craning their necks to get a better view and there is the whirr of cameras and video cameras throughout the performance. The children either do what they are supposed to do or don't. It doesn't really matter. Some of them wave unashamedly at familiar faces in the audience but as it is not a show it is overlooked. The performance finishes and the parents go home with a keen sense of money being well spent on ballet lessons.
But now I have both older and younger children to watch I see something different. By the time they hit the higher grades, you can see which of the children have a natural aptitude for the dance and who has the confidence to be on the stage without embarrassment. There is also real skill in what they do. I no longer stay to watch dance classes so their progress from year to year always takes me by surprise.
But by far the most rewarding part of the day is watching the older students. Those that are 16 and 17. Their level of competence is remarkable and whilst some have more natural talent than others they all perform the steps with style and confidence. But what is more incredible is that the dance teacher has maintained the interest of these girls throughout the mid teen wilderness years and despite the distractions of boys and make up. The senior classes are as well attended as the junior ones. Anyone can attract little girls who want to wear pink and dance like Angelina Ballerina but it takes a very special kind of teacher to engage with and encourage young women until they leave school.
And so it was with a great sense of awe that I watched these classes on Sunday, hoping that in the fullness of time my girls will attend them and take from them the beauty and poise and sense of belonging and the current students clearly have and that, until then, they will look up to them and look forward to their own time at the top of the school.
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
Friday, 3 July 2009
SPORTS' DAY
As the end of the summer term approaches, the minds of parents with primary school children turn to Sports' Day. Most schools seem to have one in some guise or other and parents appear to be drawn to them by a well acknowledged sense of compulsion even though very few will confess to wanting to go.
I have been to 10 sports' days so far (obviously not including the ones in which I participated as a child.) And if my calculations are correct, I have another 7 to go which is a somewhat daunting prospect. As a complete aside, I once calculated how many more days I would have to do the walk to school, filled myself with horror and have tried to resist the urge to make similar calculations since.
My enjoyment of sports' day seems to depend on which child it is that is participating. My eldest two were keen and involved and relatively successful. Consequently, it was fun to watch them. I could cheer for them and their friends in the knowledge that they would be placed and would leave with plenty of stickers and a sense of having achieved something. I could bask in their reflected glory. It doesn't matter how many times the Headmaster says that each child has a talent and that it's not the winning it's the taking part. Everyone, including the children, know that it is all about winning and succeeding is immeasurably important.
This year was no different. At the Key Stage 2 day ( formerly known as Juniors), my key stage two child romped in first in her events and celebrated without any hint of modesty or decorum with lots of air punching and chanting of " I am amazing!" This really isn't my style, although it is clearly hers, and so I tried to ignore her extravagant display. However, back in Key Stage 1 ( formerly known as Infants), my youngest was entering his first event. He was worried and looked nervous. He has a history of coming last having had a couple of goes at cross country in the winter. And now he knows enough about it to know that this isn't something to be proud of. He came second to last in his running and whilst he smiled as he crossed the line, he held on to me longer than was necessary before he went back to his place. It broke my heart. I can think of little worse than not being able to win on a day that is all about winning.
But more difficult than seeing the children deal with their sporting prowess or lack of it, is seeing the parents in their race. Despite all the guff about it being the taking part that counts, the parents have to do a straight running race. No mucking about with eggs and spoons or three legged races with their kids. This is all about competition. All those issues that have been niggling in the playground all year are dealt with in that ten seconds on the track. This year there were heats, so keen was everyone to run. The determination to win at all costs causes casualties and woe betide anyone who gets in the way of the flying elbows. And that's just the men. The mothers' race has to be seen to be believed. Needless to say, I do not participate. I was pregnant a fair few times and then had preschoolers to look after and now I declare that I am too old. But actually, I am just not competitive enough to want to have a go and risk life and limb.
And so it is all over for another year. My youngest came second in the hopping race (although there was more scampering than hopping) so his day was made and I can put the photos in the album and then forget about it all for another year.
I have been to 10 sports' days so far (obviously not including the ones in which I participated as a child.) And if my calculations are correct, I have another 7 to go which is a somewhat daunting prospect. As a complete aside, I once calculated how many more days I would have to do the walk to school, filled myself with horror and have tried to resist the urge to make similar calculations since.
My enjoyment of sports' day seems to depend on which child it is that is participating. My eldest two were keen and involved and relatively successful. Consequently, it was fun to watch them. I could cheer for them and their friends in the knowledge that they would be placed and would leave with plenty of stickers and a sense of having achieved something. I could bask in their reflected glory. It doesn't matter how many times the Headmaster says that each child has a talent and that it's not the winning it's the taking part. Everyone, including the children, know that it is all about winning and succeeding is immeasurably important.
This year was no different. At the Key Stage 2 day ( formerly known as Juniors), my key stage two child romped in first in her events and celebrated without any hint of modesty or decorum with lots of air punching and chanting of " I am amazing!" This really isn't my style, although it is clearly hers, and so I tried to ignore her extravagant display. However, back in Key Stage 1 ( formerly known as Infants), my youngest was entering his first event. He was worried and looked nervous. He has a history of coming last having had a couple of goes at cross country in the winter. And now he knows enough about it to know that this isn't something to be proud of. He came second to last in his running and whilst he smiled as he crossed the line, he held on to me longer than was necessary before he went back to his place. It broke my heart. I can think of little worse than not being able to win on a day that is all about winning.
But more difficult than seeing the children deal with their sporting prowess or lack of it, is seeing the parents in their race. Despite all the guff about it being the taking part that counts, the parents have to do a straight running race. No mucking about with eggs and spoons or three legged races with their kids. This is all about competition. All those issues that have been niggling in the playground all year are dealt with in that ten seconds on the track. This year there were heats, so keen was everyone to run. The determination to win at all costs causes casualties and woe betide anyone who gets in the way of the flying elbows. And that's just the men. The mothers' race has to be seen to be believed. Needless to say, I do not participate. I was pregnant a fair few times and then had preschoolers to look after and now I declare that I am too old. But actually, I am just not competitive enough to want to have a go and risk life and limb.
And so it is all over for another year. My youngest came second in the hopping race (although there was more scampering than hopping) so his day was made and I can put the photos in the album and then forget about it all for another year.
Sunday, 28 June 2009
MY COMFORT ZONE
Someone once told me that you should try and do something that scares you every day. I don't suppose that means that I should drive down a busy street at 60mph with my eyes shut or watch "The Blair Witch Project" in the dark, on my own, in a spooky place. I have interpreted it to mean that I should try and take myself out of my comfort zone as often as I can. I should do things that I would rather not or attempt things to which my first reaction is a definite no.
I think my comfort zone is a pretty big place these days. I rarely seem to leave it. My life tootles along in a fairly structured pattern with a comforting kind of regularity and routine about it. If it's Tuesday it must be Rainbows kind of existence. I would like to think that as I have matured I am able to take more things in my stride, don't get as nervous or worried as I did when I had less experience and, as a result, it is more difficult to leave my comfort zone behind.
But actually I know that to be untrue. My life has contracted and the opportunities that I have to worry myself are fewer and further between. When I worked full time I had a big Nobo planner on my office wall on which I marked deadlines for filing court papers and hearing dates for cases in the Employment Tribunal. The idea was to ensure that I never missed any important dates or got my client's case struck out for failing to take action, obviously every solicitor's nightmare. And it worked. I was disciplined both about marking things on the chart and then checking to see what was coming up.
The downside of this system for me was that I invariably had a knot in my stomach when I looked at it because it reminded me which big case I had coming up and how long I had left to prepare. An advocate, in my experience, is a bit like an actress. If you are not nervous before you go on then you probably won't do your best. Nerves and adrenalin ensure that the brain can respond with the necessary speed and rapier like accuracy when you are in full flow on your cross examination. If there were no cases looming then I could relax in one sense but then would be in bother with my boss for not having enough work. And so my comfort zone was quite decidedly abandoned on a regular basis.
And now I am there again but this time on a considerably more mundane level. About two years ago our decorator was repainting my kitchen. He had recently got engaged and was in the throws of planning his wedding. He was complaining that the wedding cake was going to cost about £600. " Oh don't spend that," I said. " I can do it for considerably less." I hadn't completely lost the plot. I have been learning cake decorating skills for about ten years and have done plenty of cakes, including wedding cakes, for friends and family. But even as I heard the words coming out of my mouth I was having a conversation with myself. "Why did you say that? You will hate putting yourself under pressure to do it. But it will be good for you. You might enjoy it. You can do it. Just get on with it." You know the kind of thing.
And so now the cake is needed in just under four weeks. It's not too complicated. Three tiers. Fruit. Square off-set cakes in pink, white and black with polka dots and crystals. Not difficult really. But it has been hanging over me for months. I couldn't start too soon because cakes are hard to store but then the end of term is always busy and I had to build in time to get it done. The good weather doesn't help either! But finally I bought the ingredients and the fruit is soaking in brandy as I type. Over the next couple of days I will make the cakes and then I just have to ice them. Plenty of time. No problems. Easy. But that old familiar knot it back. It seems that what takes me out of my comfort zone is relative to what else is going on in my life. But I suppose as long as I keep challenging myself with stuff that I would rather not be doing then I will continue to grow. Even if those things have changed from a case in the House of Lords to making a cake.
I think my comfort zone is a pretty big place these days. I rarely seem to leave it. My life tootles along in a fairly structured pattern with a comforting kind of regularity and routine about it. If it's Tuesday it must be Rainbows kind of existence. I would like to think that as I have matured I am able to take more things in my stride, don't get as nervous or worried as I did when I had less experience and, as a result, it is more difficult to leave my comfort zone behind.
But actually I know that to be untrue. My life has contracted and the opportunities that I have to worry myself are fewer and further between. When I worked full time I had a big Nobo planner on my office wall on which I marked deadlines for filing court papers and hearing dates for cases in the Employment Tribunal. The idea was to ensure that I never missed any important dates or got my client's case struck out for failing to take action, obviously every solicitor's nightmare. And it worked. I was disciplined both about marking things on the chart and then checking to see what was coming up.
The downside of this system for me was that I invariably had a knot in my stomach when I looked at it because it reminded me which big case I had coming up and how long I had left to prepare. An advocate, in my experience, is a bit like an actress. If you are not nervous before you go on then you probably won't do your best. Nerves and adrenalin ensure that the brain can respond with the necessary speed and rapier like accuracy when you are in full flow on your cross examination. If there were no cases looming then I could relax in one sense but then would be in bother with my boss for not having enough work. And so my comfort zone was quite decidedly abandoned on a regular basis.
And now I am there again but this time on a considerably more mundane level. About two years ago our decorator was repainting my kitchen. He had recently got engaged and was in the throws of planning his wedding. He was complaining that the wedding cake was going to cost about £600. " Oh don't spend that," I said. " I can do it for considerably less." I hadn't completely lost the plot. I have been learning cake decorating skills for about ten years and have done plenty of cakes, including wedding cakes, for friends and family. But even as I heard the words coming out of my mouth I was having a conversation with myself. "Why did you say that? You will hate putting yourself under pressure to do it. But it will be good for you. You might enjoy it. You can do it. Just get on with it." You know the kind of thing.
And so now the cake is needed in just under four weeks. It's not too complicated. Three tiers. Fruit. Square off-set cakes in pink, white and black with polka dots and crystals. Not difficult really. But it has been hanging over me for months. I couldn't start too soon because cakes are hard to store but then the end of term is always busy and I had to build in time to get it done. The good weather doesn't help either! But finally I bought the ingredients and the fruit is soaking in brandy as I type. Over the next couple of days I will make the cakes and then I just have to ice them. Plenty of time. No problems. Easy. But that old familiar knot it back. It seems that what takes me out of my comfort zone is relative to what else is going on in my life. But I suppose as long as I keep challenging myself with stuff that I would rather not be doing then I will continue to grow. Even if those things have changed from a case in the House of Lords to making a cake.
Thursday, 25 June 2009
SCHOOL DINNERS
I had my lunch at school today. It was roast pork with Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes, peas, cauliflower and gravy and not bad for £1.70. I sat at a trestle table on a narrow bench with a rabble of 6 year olds and drank my water out of a plastic cup.
Every term, an invitation to have a school lunch with my child comes home in the book bag. Three children - three invitations. School is very proud of its food and rightly so. Worthy parents did the Jamie Oliver thing before Jamie did it. When the school was built seven years ago, the only kitchen facilities included were for reheating processed food. So, the PTA got together, elected a committee and raised funds to buy real kitchen equipment, sourced local produce and drew up a menu of food that was both tasty and nutritious. And it is still running well. The tables have checked cloths and vases of flowers and the menu is written with artistic flourishes on a blackboard in the corridor outside. It's rather like a little, French cafe.
But I dread the invitations arriving. My daughter in year 6 is no longer bothered whether I go or not. So I don't. But the younger two are very keen and would smell a rat if other mothers appeared in the dining hall and theirs was not there. There's no getting away with it. I simply have to go.
The letter arrives the week before we are invited to go in, one week for each year group so I get mine in consecutive weeks. It never rains but it pours. Of course, not being the kind of mother who shows any interest in what my children have eaten at school, I always ditch my copy of the menu at the start of each term. I end up having to stand at the noticeboard in the playground with my diary, trying to tally my commitments with a day on which the meal is one that I fancy eating.
On the appointed day, I wait in the corridor with all the other mothers, fathers, grandparents and assorted siblings whilst my child has a wee and washes their hands in anticipation of lunch. They are always delighted to see me and immediately become giddy and a bit silly. And this is one of the reasons why I really don't like going.
My child will invariably misbehave and it doesn't matter how many dinner ladies assure me that they usually have beautiful manners, I find it frustrating. But I don't feel that I can reprimand my child. After all, this isn't my arena. Any authority that I may have at home is misplaced at school. School has a way of doing things and the children are far more familiar with it than me. It is their world and not mine. But I find it hard to bite my tongue and not tell them to use their cutlery properly or sit up straight or finish their food.
But the main reason that I would rather not have my lunch at school is all the appalling childhood memories that it reignites. The smell, the noise, the busy hall, the plastic cups. It takes me right back to my own primary school days. The meals were inedible or at least they were to me. I still cannot eat beetroot because of my horror of the way that it turned everything it touched pink. And yet the dinner ladies used to patrol the hall like the Gestapo. No child could get away without eating. I tried everything. I used to drop gristly bits of meat on the floor under my chair when no one was looking. I chopped things up into tiny pieces to make it look like I had eaten most of it and hid what I could under my knife.
In the middle of the table was a steel bowl into which we were to drop our cutlery once we had finished. As soon as I thought I could get away with it I would ditch mine, hoping that that would mean that I wouldn't be forced to eat anything else. But there was one witch who clearly hated children in general and me in particular. She used to make me fish out a set of cutlery so that I could finish my meal. The thought of it repulses me to this day. If that dinner lady had any idea of the damage that she did I wonder if she would have been so cruel.
So now, when I am at school memories of this flood back. As I scrape my plate and throw my cutlery in the bowl I feel about nine again with no power and an over inflated sense of injustice. I have to go because my children would be so disappointed if I didn't but I would rather poke my eyes out with hot pokers! Well perhaps that's a bit dramatic but I really don't like it. But I get three invitations a year. Two children. At least another 21 meals to go. Excellent!
Every term, an invitation to have a school lunch with my child comes home in the book bag. Three children - three invitations. School is very proud of its food and rightly so. Worthy parents did the Jamie Oliver thing before Jamie did it. When the school was built seven years ago, the only kitchen facilities included were for reheating processed food. So, the PTA got together, elected a committee and raised funds to buy real kitchen equipment, sourced local produce and drew up a menu of food that was both tasty and nutritious. And it is still running well. The tables have checked cloths and vases of flowers and the menu is written with artistic flourishes on a blackboard in the corridor outside. It's rather like a little, French cafe.
But I dread the invitations arriving. My daughter in year 6 is no longer bothered whether I go or not. So I don't. But the younger two are very keen and would smell a rat if other mothers appeared in the dining hall and theirs was not there. There's no getting away with it. I simply have to go.
The letter arrives the week before we are invited to go in, one week for each year group so I get mine in consecutive weeks. It never rains but it pours. Of course, not being the kind of mother who shows any interest in what my children have eaten at school, I always ditch my copy of the menu at the start of each term. I end up having to stand at the noticeboard in the playground with my diary, trying to tally my commitments with a day on which the meal is one that I fancy eating.
On the appointed day, I wait in the corridor with all the other mothers, fathers, grandparents and assorted siblings whilst my child has a wee and washes their hands in anticipation of lunch. They are always delighted to see me and immediately become giddy and a bit silly. And this is one of the reasons why I really don't like going.
My child will invariably misbehave and it doesn't matter how many dinner ladies assure me that they usually have beautiful manners, I find it frustrating. But I don't feel that I can reprimand my child. After all, this isn't my arena. Any authority that I may have at home is misplaced at school. School has a way of doing things and the children are far more familiar with it than me. It is their world and not mine. But I find it hard to bite my tongue and not tell them to use their cutlery properly or sit up straight or finish their food.
But the main reason that I would rather not have my lunch at school is all the appalling childhood memories that it reignites. The smell, the noise, the busy hall, the plastic cups. It takes me right back to my own primary school days. The meals were inedible or at least they were to me. I still cannot eat beetroot because of my horror of the way that it turned everything it touched pink. And yet the dinner ladies used to patrol the hall like the Gestapo. No child could get away without eating. I tried everything. I used to drop gristly bits of meat on the floor under my chair when no one was looking. I chopped things up into tiny pieces to make it look like I had eaten most of it and hid what I could under my knife.
In the middle of the table was a steel bowl into which we were to drop our cutlery once we had finished. As soon as I thought I could get away with it I would ditch mine, hoping that that would mean that I wouldn't be forced to eat anything else. But there was one witch who clearly hated children in general and me in particular. She used to make me fish out a set of cutlery so that I could finish my meal. The thought of it repulses me to this day. If that dinner lady had any idea of the damage that she did I wonder if she would have been so cruel.
So now, when I am at school memories of this flood back. As I scrape my plate and throw my cutlery in the bowl I feel about nine again with no power and an over inflated sense of injustice. I have to go because my children would be so disappointed if I didn't but I would rather poke my eyes out with hot pokers! Well perhaps that's a bit dramatic but I really don't like it. But I get three invitations a year. Two children. At least another 21 meals to go. Excellent!
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM
Somebody has criticised my little blog. It's the first time that anyone has had the nerve to say anything negative to me about it although I am sure plenty of people will have had similar thoughts.
The criticism came from a close friend whose opinion I value and trust. They are a regular reader and, as far as I know, have read all 70 postings. They criticised one posting which they thought lacked something that the others have. It was done very carefully and gently but without room for misinterpretation.
I have been thinking about this. I completely accept what was said and can understand why the friend said it. I take on board the suggestions in the spirit in which they were offered. But criticism is difficult to deal with. Even though I am an adult, I still crave praise from those around me. Something as simple as a mother complimenting me on my choice of outfit in the playground can put a spring in my step that lasts until lunchtime. When I make dinner it's lovely if someone says that they enjoyed eating it. It is a natural, human response and like a child I lap up favourable feedback wherever I can find it.
Negative comments are rarely made to me. It's not that I am perfect. Far from it. But generally people either have too much to lose or simply don't care enough about something to bother with the truth. We may have opinions about something but rather than share them with the person concerned, we tend to keep them to ourselves and then allow them to colour our view of the person in the future. Whilst it may be unfair to keep these criticisms to ourself and not give the person concerned a right of reply, life is simply easier to deal with if we do just that. Most people run scared of any form of confrontation and thank goodness they do. I dread to think where my self esteem would be if everyone who thought something negative about me told me all about it.
However, my blog is important to me. It symbolises a turning point in my life and despite the fact that is generally very light hearted in content, I take it and what I write in it seriously. My first response was to consider what was said and agree with it. But as the day wore on, I found my mind flitting back. What did I think I was doing writing stuff down and hoping that people would read it? Why did I ever think anyone would be interested? I cringed as I thought about all the people that I have told about my blog, particularly recently as my confidence has grown and wondered whether people were silently smirking at me and my efforts. This is a typically female response which, in my experience, is never very far from the surface. Just a minor scratch will reveal a rich vein in self doubt and poor self confidence. And there was a time not too long ago when I would have packed up my laptop and given up.
But actually, I needed to find some perspective. I asked for constructive criticism. I got it and that is good. In the grand scale of things it is a small issue albeit a thought provoking and interesting one. So if you read this and feel that it could be improved please feel free to leave an anonymous comment. But be gentle with me! I am only a delicate little flower.
The criticism came from a close friend whose opinion I value and trust. They are a regular reader and, as far as I know, have read all 70 postings. They criticised one posting which they thought lacked something that the others have. It was done very carefully and gently but without room for misinterpretation.
I have been thinking about this. I completely accept what was said and can understand why the friend said it. I take on board the suggestions in the spirit in which they were offered. But criticism is difficult to deal with. Even though I am an adult, I still crave praise from those around me. Something as simple as a mother complimenting me on my choice of outfit in the playground can put a spring in my step that lasts until lunchtime. When I make dinner it's lovely if someone says that they enjoyed eating it. It is a natural, human response and like a child I lap up favourable feedback wherever I can find it.
Negative comments are rarely made to me. It's not that I am perfect. Far from it. But generally people either have too much to lose or simply don't care enough about something to bother with the truth. We may have opinions about something but rather than share them with the person concerned, we tend to keep them to ourselves and then allow them to colour our view of the person in the future. Whilst it may be unfair to keep these criticisms to ourself and not give the person concerned a right of reply, life is simply easier to deal with if we do just that. Most people run scared of any form of confrontation and thank goodness they do. I dread to think where my self esteem would be if everyone who thought something negative about me told me all about it.
However, my blog is important to me. It symbolises a turning point in my life and despite the fact that is generally very light hearted in content, I take it and what I write in it seriously. My first response was to consider what was said and agree with it. But as the day wore on, I found my mind flitting back. What did I think I was doing writing stuff down and hoping that people would read it? Why did I ever think anyone would be interested? I cringed as I thought about all the people that I have told about my blog, particularly recently as my confidence has grown and wondered whether people were silently smirking at me and my efforts. This is a typically female response which, in my experience, is never very far from the surface. Just a minor scratch will reveal a rich vein in self doubt and poor self confidence. And there was a time not too long ago when I would have packed up my laptop and given up.
But actually, I needed to find some perspective. I asked for constructive criticism. I got it and that is good. In the grand scale of things it is a small issue albeit a thought provoking and interesting one. So if you read this and feel that it could be improved please feel free to leave an anonymous comment. But be gentle with me! I am only a delicate little flower.
Saturday, 20 June 2009
LOSING CONTROL!
I always wanted four children. When I was little, my best friend was the eldest of four and whenever I went there for tea there was always something going on. It was noisy and busy and slightly chaotic and I loved it. Of course, a child's perspective of a house full of children is very different to that of the adult trying to maintain some kind of order. I never really thought about that until it was too late.
When I grew up I had a plan. Of course. Married by 28, first child by 30 and by some strange quirk of fate that was exactly how it turned out. Child number one came and our world was turned on its head as is generally the way. We decided that whilst we were in the thick of it, we might as well get on with making number two and ten months after the eldest was born, I was pregnant again. When she was born all hell broke loose. With two babies and a full time job that I was trying to fit in to four days I thought life could never get any busier. I was wrong.
Whilst you are deep in that toddler thing, you can only believe that it will get easier as they get older and to an extent it does. You start to get a little more time to yourself and when sleeping patterns are restored it's easier to function effectively. However, people kept telling me that it gets harder as the children get older. I couldn't imagine how they could possibly be right but I kept that thought at the back of my mind.
And that was it, or so we thought. We were done with two. Two adults, two children. One each or one for each hand depending on the situation. Our family unit was complete.
Then we went on holiday to France. There was a family staying at the gite next to ours with three kids. Suddenly, I remembered that two children were never supposed to have been enough. A scary thought occurred to me. We could have another baby. I was only 34. There was still plenty of time. But we were just starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. With one at school and one fast approaching it, I could see a time when I would have a part of my life back. We could to restaurants and didn't need a high chair. We could go to the pictures and sit through the whole film. We no longer needed nappies.
But once the seed was planted in my brain there was no turning back and along came number three. Within a month I could see the flaw in the plan. With the elder two at school, number three would effectively become an only child. The first two are incredibly close and I couldn't imagine not giving number three the opportunity to have that kind of relationship. And therefore, in the car on the way to visit the friend with three brothers with whom the dream began, we decided to go for number four. Sixteen months later he was born and my family was finally complete.
To start with it was OK. Two at school. Two at home. We quickly slipped into a routine of sorts and things ran relatively smoothly. I asked no one for help and accepted very little of what was offered. I just got on with it and most of the time it was fine. Every so often I would have a huge wobble, weep for hours and through the sobs tell my husband that I couldn't cope for another minute. Then I would pick myself up and carry on. And gradually as mile stones were reached and passed, the day to day grind became easier. Sleeping through, walking, eating without help, leaving nappies behind, playgroup.
But as the actual looking after of them became easier, the parenting got harder and harder. I discovered early on that it doesn't matter how well trained you have them at home, as soon as you bring other people in to the equation, it becomes much more difficult. By year 2 at school, my eldest had begun to realise that other children in other families did things differently, were allowed things that she was not, stayed up later. And privileges depend on where you fall in the pecking order. She is my first and is forging the way. But many of her friends have older siblings and parents who no longer had the time or the inclination to be precious about the things that I was fretting about. The first time she brought bad language back from the playground I was mortified. Now my little darlings hear far worse at home but then I felt like my baby's innocence was being stolen from me right in front of my eyes and that there was nothing I could do.
Over the years all the issues that we have had have been generated by someone outside the family. Peer pressure, disputes, insecurities, friendship issues. They all begin somewhere outside my realm and consequently outside my control.
And now, suddenly, I feel like I have hit a maelstrom. I can do the day to day stuff - the laundry, food, housework. I am used to that. Where I am starting to struggle is keeping on top of each child's individual needs which, of course, are all different. I try to give them each some kind of individual attention every day but as this can't always be at a time that suits me, it doesn't always happen. A request for help with a play doh model, for example, is unlikely to be met with a favourable response if it is made whilst I am pulling the evening meal together. It seems to be a case of he or she that shouts loudest will lay claim to my time. So the eldest , who fluctuates between a sweet and entertaining child and an hormonal monster, and the youngest who just keeps talking until someone listens get more than their fair share of my attention.
But worse than this is the sheer volume of things that have to be done for each child. Compared to some of their friends, my children seem to have a modest list of extra curricular activities. My eldest spends her time performing in one way or another and number two's list seems to have a sporting bent. Number three has so far amassed only dancing, Rainbows and swimming and the little one just swims. The difficulty is that everything is multiplied by four. I didn't really consider that when I had four children. I thought of big, noisy family dinners and exciting Christmases but not the day to day issues of trying to supervise four lots of homework or ferry four children around town.
Each Sunday I sit with the pile of letters and invitations that have come in during the course of the week and my cheque book and diary and carefully note everything that I need to do on the planner for the coming week. But it's getting harder and harder to keep on top of it all. In recent weeks we have had a party that was almost missed, an extra ballet lesson that was overlooked and an optician's appointment that I failed to keep. This is not like me. Nothing has ever slipped through the net before. I run a tight ship and until now have kept on top of it all with relative ease. But the volume of stuff that four children generate is beginning to get out of hand.
To add to my difficulties we are chartering unknown waters on the parenting front as well. Child number one is pushing hard at her boundaries and doing hand to hand combat with her hormones. I need to formulate myself a strategy for dealing with this new development. The one I have been adopting so far of saying no a lot and then shouting at her when she shouts at me is poor parenting at best and doesn't seem to work. I need her to take responsibility for her share of the weekly burden rather than relying entirely on me to do all her thinking for her and it would be quite nice if I didn't get the blame for everything. But I need to not shout and criticise her and be patient whilst she works her way through it. Easier said than done!
Like all things new it is a bit scary at the moment. I am a self confessed control freak and the edges of my world go fuzzy if things start to get away from me. I know that I should try and adopted a more relaxed attitude but then stuff would get missed and that isn't fair for anyone. Until the children are mature enough to take responsibility for running their own lives then the burden falls squarely at my door. As each new parenting issues raises its head I have to decide what I need to achieve and how best to get there. Which battles need fighting and which will wait for another day. And in the meantime I need to buy a much bigger wall planner and some new coloured pens.
When I grew up I had a plan. Of course. Married by 28, first child by 30 and by some strange quirk of fate that was exactly how it turned out. Child number one came and our world was turned on its head as is generally the way. We decided that whilst we were in the thick of it, we might as well get on with making number two and ten months after the eldest was born, I was pregnant again. When she was born all hell broke loose. With two babies and a full time job that I was trying to fit in to four days I thought life could never get any busier. I was wrong.
Whilst you are deep in that toddler thing, you can only believe that it will get easier as they get older and to an extent it does. You start to get a little more time to yourself and when sleeping patterns are restored it's easier to function effectively. However, people kept telling me that it gets harder as the children get older. I couldn't imagine how they could possibly be right but I kept that thought at the back of my mind.
And that was it, or so we thought. We were done with two. Two adults, two children. One each or one for each hand depending on the situation. Our family unit was complete.
Then we went on holiday to France. There was a family staying at the gite next to ours with three kids. Suddenly, I remembered that two children were never supposed to have been enough. A scary thought occurred to me. We could have another baby. I was only 34. There was still plenty of time. But we were just starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. With one at school and one fast approaching it, I could see a time when I would have a part of my life back. We could to restaurants and didn't need a high chair. We could go to the pictures and sit through the whole film. We no longer needed nappies.
But once the seed was planted in my brain there was no turning back and along came number three. Within a month I could see the flaw in the plan. With the elder two at school, number three would effectively become an only child. The first two are incredibly close and I couldn't imagine not giving number three the opportunity to have that kind of relationship. And therefore, in the car on the way to visit the friend with three brothers with whom the dream began, we decided to go for number four. Sixteen months later he was born and my family was finally complete.
To start with it was OK. Two at school. Two at home. We quickly slipped into a routine of sorts and things ran relatively smoothly. I asked no one for help and accepted very little of what was offered. I just got on with it and most of the time it was fine. Every so often I would have a huge wobble, weep for hours and through the sobs tell my husband that I couldn't cope for another minute. Then I would pick myself up and carry on. And gradually as mile stones were reached and passed, the day to day grind became easier. Sleeping through, walking, eating without help, leaving nappies behind, playgroup.
But as the actual looking after of them became easier, the parenting got harder and harder. I discovered early on that it doesn't matter how well trained you have them at home, as soon as you bring other people in to the equation, it becomes much more difficult. By year 2 at school, my eldest had begun to realise that other children in other families did things differently, were allowed things that she was not, stayed up later. And privileges depend on where you fall in the pecking order. She is my first and is forging the way. But many of her friends have older siblings and parents who no longer had the time or the inclination to be precious about the things that I was fretting about. The first time she brought bad language back from the playground I was mortified. Now my little darlings hear far worse at home but then I felt like my baby's innocence was being stolen from me right in front of my eyes and that there was nothing I could do.
Over the years all the issues that we have had have been generated by someone outside the family. Peer pressure, disputes, insecurities, friendship issues. They all begin somewhere outside my realm and consequently outside my control.
And now, suddenly, I feel like I have hit a maelstrom. I can do the day to day stuff - the laundry, food, housework. I am used to that. Where I am starting to struggle is keeping on top of each child's individual needs which, of course, are all different. I try to give them each some kind of individual attention every day but as this can't always be at a time that suits me, it doesn't always happen. A request for help with a play doh model, for example, is unlikely to be met with a favourable response if it is made whilst I am pulling the evening meal together. It seems to be a case of he or she that shouts loudest will lay claim to my time. So the eldest , who fluctuates between a sweet and entertaining child and an hormonal monster, and the youngest who just keeps talking until someone listens get more than their fair share of my attention.
But worse than this is the sheer volume of things that have to be done for each child. Compared to some of their friends, my children seem to have a modest list of extra curricular activities. My eldest spends her time performing in one way or another and number two's list seems to have a sporting bent. Number three has so far amassed only dancing, Rainbows and swimming and the little one just swims. The difficulty is that everything is multiplied by four. I didn't really consider that when I had four children. I thought of big, noisy family dinners and exciting Christmases but not the day to day issues of trying to supervise four lots of homework or ferry four children around town.
Each Sunday I sit with the pile of letters and invitations that have come in during the course of the week and my cheque book and diary and carefully note everything that I need to do on the planner for the coming week. But it's getting harder and harder to keep on top of it all. In recent weeks we have had a party that was almost missed, an extra ballet lesson that was overlooked and an optician's appointment that I failed to keep. This is not like me. Nothing has ever slipped through the net before. I run a tight ship and until now have kept on top of it all with relative ease. But the volume of stuff that four children generate is beginning to get out of hand.
To add to my difficulties we are chartering unknown waters on the parenting front as well. Child number one is pushing hard at her boundaries and doing hand to hand combat with her hormones. I need to formulate myself a strategy for dealing with this new development. The one I have been adopting so far of saying no a lot and then shouting at her when she shouts at me is poor parenting at best and doesn't seem to work. I need her to take responsibility for her share of the weekly burden rather than relying entirely on me to do all her thinking for her and it would be quite nice if I didn't get the blame for everything. But I need to not shout and criticise her and be patient whilst she works her way through it. Easier said than done!
Like all things new it is a bit scary at the moment. I am a self confessed control freak and the edges of my world go fuzzy if things start to get away from me. I know that I should try and adopted a more relaxed attitude but then stuff would get missed and that isn't fair for anyone. Until the children are mature enough to take responsibility for running their own lives then the burden falls squarely at my door. As each new parenting issues raises its head I have to decide what I need to achieve and how best to get there. Which battles need fighting and which will wait for another day. And in the meantime I need to buy a much bigger wall planner and some new coloured pens.
Thursday, 18 June 2009
LETTING GO
A fourteen year old girl was raped in Ilkley on Sunday. It was around 5 in the afternoon as she walked her dog in the woods at the end of our road. Two youths followed her in to the woods and raped her.
The first inkling that I had that anything was wrong was when the police helicopter was out over our house on Sunday evening. It's not unusual, particularly on sunny days. Ilkley is picturesque and fills up when when the weather is good with people picnicking by the river or visiting the lido. Then, on Monday morning I drove passed the woods. The entrance was sealed off with police tape and was being guarded by two officers. It stayed that way all day.
By tea time the jungle drums were beating and whilst there was nothing on the local news that night, I received my first text on the subject. My friend had heard that someone had been raped and we pieced together what we each knew and feared the worse. I am ashamed to admit it but I was secretly hoping that if there had been a rape then the victim would be an adult. On Tuesday the rumours were rife and the word was that it was a child that had been attacked. This was confirmed that evening on the local news.
My heart goes out to the family. The horror of what has befallen them is unimaginable. But I have three girls, two of whom have freedom to roam almost at will and of course at times like this you turn inwardly to protect your own. And now I must readdress the freedoms and boundaries that I had previously considered acceptable in light of this attack.
How much freedom you give your child is a thorny issue. Everyone has a different view on what is appropriate. As my elder two reached years 4 and 5, I decided that they could walk to school on their own. It's an easy walk with only one major road which is covered by a pedestrian crossing. There were various factors that influenced my decision, not least the nature of the children themselves. They have always walked everywhere with me and so I knew that their road sense was fairly well developed. Also, they are only 17 months apart in age and have always done everything together. Whereas I would have been uncomfortable letting either one of them walk alone, I decided that there was safety in numbers. I was also heavily influenced by a friend who has three sons, the youngest of whom is the same age as my eldest. I watched with great interests as her children spread their wings and used that as a gauge as to what I believed was safe.
And so off they set to school. They waved goodbye at the bottom of the drive and then they were gone. My heart was in my mouth and it was all I could do not to follow them, hiding behind lamp posts like some cartoon character. I knew that school would ring promptly if they didn't arrive and I hadn't rung to say that they were sick. But all day I had this knot in my stomach if I allowed myself to dwell on what I had let them do.
Of course they were absolutely fine. They grew in confidence as a result of their new found independence and I regularly received reports from other mothers as to how polite they were or how sensibly they crossed the road. For that is one of the many benefits of living in a town like this with children. They really can't go very far without someone who knows me seeing them and reporting back on their behaviour.
But not everyone approved of my action. Some people looked downright horrified when they learned that I was allowing them to take this step and if I am honest the disapproval of other mothers played almost as large a part in my decision making process as my own concerns for their safety. It soon became apparent that my girls had far more freedom than most of their friends and that many believed that I had over stepped the mark. But I knew I was right. I firmly believe that you cannot wrap your children up and that they have to let them go in a controlled environment to enable them to develop the skills necessary to deal with day to day risks.
After that, the freedoms came thick and fast. Season tickets for the lido. Trips to the park. Taking themselves to ballet lessons in town. Walking home from friends houses. They have never abused the trust that I placed in them so we just kept testing out new things. As time as has gone on, many of their friends have caught up with them and now some are allowed to do things that mine still are not.
This summer, with the eldest at high school and the second about to go, we seemed to have reached a level of independence that I was totally comfortable with. And then, bang, this horrifying incident takes place right on our doorstep and suddenly I must redo my risk assessment.
My first response is to hold on to them and not let them out at all. Obviously this is an over reaction. The perpetrators are long gone. My girls did not wander in the woods before and certainly will so not be doing now. Then, I decide that they can go out but not on their own but this is not practical. They are at different schools with different friends. They have to spend some time walking to places on their own. And whilst they are aware of what has happened (although thankfully the full horror of rape is not something that they will be able to fully comprehend for a long time to come)and I have again had my stranger danger conversation with them, I have to let them go within the controlled and confined boundaries that they had before.
Of course one's approach to freedom is all relative. Those parents that raised their eyebrows at me early on all have children younger than mine or too big an age gap to allow the younger child to accompany the elder. By the time my fourth child hits 11, I dread to think how lax I will have become but clearly the parents of those of his friends who are eldest children or even only children will no doubt be horrified in their turn.
The next hurdle for me to overcome is allowing the eldest to baby sit for the others. We are not there yet, other than the odd occasion when I nip out for something and cannot face getting all four of them in the car for a five minute trip, but it really won't be long and again I suspect I will be amongst the first to let it happen. Slowly at first and in a very controlled way but steadily moving on and letting go. Isn't that part of what parenting is all about? Allowing your children to grow?
The first inkling that I had that anything was wrong was when the police helicopter was out over our house on Sunday evening. It's not unusual, particularly on sunny days. Ilkley is picturesque and fills up when when the weather is good with people picnicking by the river or visiting the lido. Then, on Monday morning I drove passed the woods. The entrance was sealed off with police tape and was being guarded by two officers. It stayed that way all day.
By tea time the jungle drums were beating and whilst there was nothing on the local news that night, I received my first text on the subject. My friend had heard that someone had been raped and we pieced together what we each knew and feared the worse. I am ashamed to admit it but I was secretly hoping that if there had been a rape then the victim would be an adult. On Tuesday the rumours were rife and the word was that it was a child that had been attacked. This was confirmed that evening on the local news.
My heart goes out to the family. The horror of what has befallen them is unimaginable. But I have three girls, two of whom have freedom to roam almost at will and of course at times like this you turn inwardly to protect your own. And now I must readdress the freedoms and boundaries that I had previously considered acceptable in light of this attack.
How much freedom you give your child is a thorny issue. Everyone has a different view on what is appropriate. As my elder two reached years 4 and 5, I decided that they could walk to school on their own. It's an easy walk with only one major road which is covered by a pedestrian crossing. There were various factors that influenced my decision, not least the nature of the children themselves. They have always walked everywhere with me and so I knew that their road sense was fairly well developed. Also, they are only 17 months apart in age and have always done everything together. Whereas I would have been uncomfortable letting either one of them walk alone, I decided that there was safety in numbers. I was also heavily influenced by a friend who has three sons, the youngest of whom is the same age as my eldest. I watched with great interests as her children spread their wings and used that as a gauge as to what I believed was safe.
And so off they set to school. They waved goodbye at the bottom of the drive and then they were gone. My heart was in my mouth and it was all I could do not to follow them, hiding behind lamp posts like some cartoon character. I knew that school would ring promptly if they didn't arrive and I hadn't rung to say that they were sick. But all day I had this knot in my stomach if I allowed myself to dwell on what I had let them do.
Of course they were absolutely fine. They grew in confidence as a result of their new found independence and I regularly received reports from other mothers as to how polite they were or how sensibly they crossed the road. For that is one of the many benefits of living in a town like this with children. They really can't go very far without someone who knows me seeing them and reporting back on their behaviour.
But not everyone approved of my action. Some people looked downright horrified when they learned that I was allowing them to take this step and if I am honest the disapproval of other mothers played almost as large a part in my decision making process as my own concerns for their safety. It soon became apparent that my girls had far more freedom than most of their friends and that many believed that I had over stepped the mark. But I knew I was right. I firmly believe that you cannot wrap your children up and that they have to let them go in a controlled environment to enable them to develop the skills necessary to deal with day to day risks.
After that, the freedoms came thick and fast. Season tickets for the lido. Trips to the park. Taking themselves to ballet lessons in town. Walking home from friends houses. They have never abused the trust that I placed in them so we just kept testing out new things. As time as has gone on, many of their friends have caught up with them and now some are allowed to do things that mine still are not.
This summer, with the eldest at high school and the second about to go, we seemed to have reached a level of independence that I was totally comfortable with. And then, bang, this horrifying incident takes place right on our doorstep and suddenly I must redo my risk assessment.
My first response is to hold on to them and not let them out at all. Obviously this is an over reaction. The perpetrators are long gone. My girls did not wander in the woods before and certainly will so not be doing now. Then, I decide that they can go out but not on their own but this is not practical. They are at different schools with different friends. They have to spend some time walking to places on their own. And whilst they are aware of what has happened (although thankfully the full horror of rape is not something that they will be able to fully comprehend for a long time to come)and I have again had my stranger danger conversation with them, I have to let them go within the controlled and confined boundaries that they had before.
Of course one's approach to freedom is all relative. Those parents that raised their eyebrows at me early on all have children younger than mine or too big an age gap to allow the younger child to accompany the elder. By the time my fourth child hits 11, I dread to think how lax I will have become but clearly the parents of those of his friends who are eldest children or even only children will no doubt be horrified in their turn.
The next hurdle for me to overcome is allowing the eldest to baby sit for the others. We are not there yet, other than the odd occasion when I nip out for something and cannot face getting all four of them in the car for a five minute trip, but it really won't be long and again I suspect I will be amongst the first to let it happen. Slowly at first and in a very controlled way but steadily moving on and letting go. Isn't that part of what parenting is all about? Allowing your children to grow?
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