Parenting Olympics quite the endurance event
On New Year’s Eve 2004, my life was changed forever when I became a mother. Our daughter was born on our first wedding anniversary.
It would take a lot to top that as a gift. My husband was so smitten at the time he sent everyone a text saying that she had been born and “what an amazing engagement gift”.
Being able to say you’re a mum is something that, to this day, I consider a blessing.
Close friends of mine can’t have children and, in one case, a girlfriend married the man she adores but he already had three children and it was a nonnegotiable. If she wanted to be with him, she would have to resign herself to the fact she would never bear her own children. The only option has been open to her is to be their stepmother and, as much as she loves her husband, that is a sadness for her that she will never get over. It is a scab that always gets the top knocked off it, especially on days such as Mother’s Day. It is the same for a lot of mothers; in particular, for those who have lost children. That wound remains open and bleeding for life.
I remember bringing this precious gift home from the hospital (driving about 20km/h in case we broke her) and getting inside. Then it hit me — we can’t go anywhere or do anything any more without her. The weight of responsibility suddenly hit home.
But you learn. The general plan is that you have baby number one and do all your learning. You go through all your firsts and then by the time number two comes around you are a lot more relaxed and know what to expect. The problem with only having one child is that you do all the firsts for everything, their whole life, and that can be a lot of pressure on everyone — the child included. They are the heir. There is no spare.
Parenting is relentless and bloody hard work. Lots of people sugarcoat it if Facebook is anything to go by. Perfectly preened children all doing what they are supposed to do. The realists among us know how hard it is on the daily. One thing that used to really annoy me when my daughter was little was the “comparison game”. I never went to antenatal classes because I didn’t want to be told all that could go wrong and I have never compared my child’s achievements to any other child at any stage. Stages are a big deal during those early years — walking, potty training or eating solids for the first time. The list goes on. It’s like the Parenting Olympics for some and if your kid hasn’t hit the dais by pooping in a potty by a certain age, you ain’t getting no medal, Sunshine.
I hated that game. It seemed designed to make parents feel bad about themselves and most of the parents I knew were already their own worst critics. The way I figured it, there wouldn’t be anyone giving their 21st speech and saying “excuse me, but I need to go potty – my parents have missed the mark on that stage”. Kids learn to tie their shoelaces, they learn not to poo on the carpet and they eat or they work out for themselves that they will starve. Don’t get me wrong, we did the best possible job for our daughter, but the reality was that she was the daughter of two working parents out of necessity and parent-guilt is bad enough without others adding a side serving of pressure and judgement.
My mother would make the dais. She didn’t have to worry about an heir or a spare. She was an only child but more than made up for that by having four . . . all under 6 years old.
No thank you, Bob. I’m an honest enough person to know that would damn near have driven me crazy.
She made all our clothes (including fancy dress costumes), cooked great food, was amazingly creative and inspiring and . . . we all use a toilet. Winning at the Potty Olympics, Ann. She’s my best friend, a bit of a crack-up and, if left to our own devices, we would probably get into quite a bit of trouble. Has she always been perfect? Nope. Do I love her any less? Hell, no.
I’m on the list of mothers who struggle with tomorrow. I’m lucky to have mine to say Happy
Mother’s Day to but my own daughter won’t. It’s my birthday this week and I won’t hear a dicky bird from her for that either. I’ve come out on the wrong side of the parenting ledger for her liking. My friends reassure me that it’s just a stage and all kids go through it. Clearly another first I have to learn. I’m praying they are right because I miss her more than the air I breathe. I miss the mum-busy, the mess and just looking at her knowing I made her. She is my greatest achievement so I’ll say it to myself.
Happy Mother’s Day. Nick x