Proud 'mommy' moment

My daughter has been at nursery since she was about 7 months old. I’m not even sure she was crawling when she started in the ‘Baby Room’ and leaving her there for whole days was harder for me than it ever was for her. She had been passed around to all the family since birth so thankfully was never a clingy child and daily separation was a walk in the park.

In time, as other smaller babies arrived, she became one of the older children in her room and as she began to walk she was more able to show her own will and independence. If she wanted to go from where she was sitting to the other side of the room to get whatever book or toy took her fancy she was bloomin’ well going to, so there!

One evening I arrived at the nursery to collect her and got the usual update from one of the girls. She’d eaten everything ‘well’ as they put it, and produced some artistic masterpiece from paint and glitter that I would have to take home and attach to the last remaining part of the fridge to have escaped adornment with her work. But there was also something else to report. One of the smaller babies had been crying in their bouncy chair so my daughter, who was not yet 18 months old herself, had crossed the room, given the crying child a gentle bounce in its chair, kissed its forehead and popped a dummy in its mouth.

Wow. How wonderful I thought this was! My child, not much more than a baby herself, had shown a part of her personality that we’d never known was there. Yes, she’d always been expressive and kept us entertained. She never really gave us any problems, she had always slept well and managed to produce teeth without any drama, but this was the first time any sense of who she was and might turn out to be had been observable. She seemed to possess a soft, caring side which at this age I am happy enough to state had probably not been taught to her by us or could be possible to teach. Of course children learn in many ways, through play and observing the behaviour of those around them. Our household, whilst not without many flaws, is a happy one and her influences would have been solid and cheerful. But it can also be quite manic, noisy and bustling (especially at family gatherings), so calm, collected caring traits were not something I would have expected her to have seen in abundance.

Before she was born I had naively assumed that I would forever have a sense that I had ‘made’ her and therefore ‘owned’ her so to speak. I foresaw arguments between us that would feature me shouting that she must do as I said because her father and I had created her. Nonsense, of course. From the moment she arrived she was a distinctive person and almost a stranger rather than an entity crafted by me and consequently known wholly by me. I had not enjoyed the phenomenon of an instant bond with her which might have been the result of a slightly difficult labour/c-section and subsequent inability to move or do anything for her for the first few days. It might just have been down to my personality too. I will never know for sure.

As it turns out I’m not unhappy about our start in the mother and daughter relationship world as our bond has grown less out of need and more out of pleasure. I agonised at the time that I wasn’t feeling like I had been led to expect I would when she was tiny, but I don’t love her now because I feel I should, but rather because of the fabulous little person she is; her wit, her brains and of course her compassion.

As she continues to grow up (she’s three and a half now) these insights into her personality continue. She can change the words to familiar songs to be funny, she puts on accents, imitates her friends and gives them clever nick-names. She’s also incredibly crafty and turns on the charm to get something she wants, often prefacing requests with ‘You’re sooooo handsome, Daddy!” Only yesterday she adopted what in sales training would be referred to as an 'alternative close' when I refused her request for any more food.

“Mummy, you have a choice. You can choose what I have to eat, a ham sandwich or some crackers.”

Pretty smart stuff.

We’d like another child at some stage and thoughts naturally turn to what he or she would be like. As my husband put it, you assume that your child represents your ‘recipe’ for making children, but how many people do you know who produce a series of identical siblings?

Whatever the result next time I hope my daughter will show the same compassion to her brother or sister as those babies received when they cried. If she doesn’t then I fear we’ll be looking at a distinctly less convivial household in a few years time.

Jec
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For 'S'

One of my dearest friends is about to have a baby. This extra-special thing is particularly wonderful because there was a time, a long time, where we didn’t know if it would be possible for this amazing mum-in-waiting to have a child.

So I wanted to take a few moments to share what little it is that I have picked up over these last three years or so that I have been lucky enough to have my little, gorgeous baby-girl in my life.

To my darling, S – this is for you. And to my lovely husband who made it possible for me to be able to write this, thank you too!


You will swear, a lot

You will probably say ‘I can’t do this’

You will most likely have some story about how your other half felt useless through the entire birth but that you didn’t care because he was the last person you wanted to leave the room even for a second

You may remember what the medical professionals said to you but you probably won’t

The drugs (if you have them) may make you giggle, throw up and/or fancy just about everyone who walks in the room

You may wonder why you ever made a birthing plan

You WILL forget whatever physical pain you go through to deliver your child

You will never tire of remembering how your baby came into the world

You will forget any of the neutral coloured clothes you bought before the birth the moment your child is born

You will feel an odd mix of excitement and fear when you bring your baby home

You will lose sleep but you won’t care and in a few months’ time you’ll say “It wasn’t that bad, was it?!”

You will hopefully realise that there are more important things in life than ironing

You will KNOW that yours is without question the most amazing child that ever walked the earth

You will wonder at every single thing they do and how much cleverer they are than any other child

You will simply melt the first time they smile

You won’t be able to watch the news or read the papers in the same way ever again

What you lose in spontaneity you will make up for in anticipation

You will wish you were physically closer to your family

You will really start to know what family is

Christmas will take on a new lease of life

You will look at those childlike scribbles and think DaVinci himself could have done no better

You will fight with your other half about which football team they will support and be secretly be delighted when they seem to support the one you like best

You will become encyclopaedic in your knowledge of children’s TV characters

You will read the same bedtime story every night for three weeks

There will be times when you will be required to be a ‘horsey’ and the living room will be your paddock

You will wonder if it’s ok to buy anything that isn’t organic then remember that you used to eat jam sandwiches

You will wonder how you can ever leave your precious cargo alone with someone else, even for a second

You will be glad when you do and even gladder to get them back

You will drive your car more carefully when they are in it with you

You will remember everything your parents ever said to you and for the first time really understand why they said it

You will laugh

You will cry

You will never be the same again

And you will love it!


Jec
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Last weekend I saw a sight that has no doubt graced many a household over the years. It was that of my daughter strutting about in a pair of my shoes. She is three and a (little) size 9, I am older and generally wear a size 8. They were red, suede heels from LK Bennett and my daughter’s gorgeous mini-feet were stuffed deliciously into the ends of my shoes as she dragged them along the floor. Evidently she was enjoying the experience of pretending to be mummy if the pout and bum-wiggle were anything to go by. (She made that last part of the impersonation up. I don’t do that, often.)

There’s something great about being a little girl and trying on your mum’s stuff. My own mum had some particularly fabulous lace up, espadrille style wedge sandals from c. 1978 which along with some black suede platform heels were my dress-up shoes of choice and I was particularly disappointed when my own plates out grew them.

As someone with a genetic fondness for dressing up a recent family wedding was a great opportunity to go to town and the other girls in my family do just that; hats, fab shoes, the works. (As an ex-boyfriend’s mother, of whom I was extremely fond, once said “Well, someone has to be the best, dear”.) In fact I recall that a hat hire shop in nearby Crayford did particularly well out of us during the great wedding rush of 2005/6 and I believe even still has a photo of us on their wall to prove it.

I should say at this point that I like the thought of shopping for any outfit far more than the actual experience and even more so when it’s an outfit for a wedding. This dislike is directly proportional to how heavy I am at the time of the shopping event. Lighter = ok, heavier = a hideous, God-forsaken experience. I try and convince myself that size is just a number but I haven’t quite managed it yet.

Anyhoo, I managed to squeeze a trip to the shops into a lunch break and had one of those rare moments when not only do you see something you like but , Lord be praised, it actually fits and better still it looks pretty good. We’re talking a nice dress and jacket combo from one of those ‘designer’ ranges at Debenhams. (Incidentally I have two questions: Do they really design them and is it ok to claim to be wearing ‘designer’ if you get one? Sadly I doubt it on both counts but you can dream.) I even had some shoes etc that would go with it so, as Anneka Rice used to say, ‘Stop the clock, I’ve found the clue!’Chuffed, I headed back to work safe in the knowledge that I had found an outfit and, unless the miraculous happened and something even better could be stumbled upon, I need search no more.

About two weeks or so before the wedding I was taking my daughter to her babyballet class and asked my mother-in-law if she wanted to come along too to see her granddaughter’s mastery of ‘good toes, naughty toes’. This would work well, she said, as she had to pop to Lakeside to take back the jacket she’d bought because she’d ordered it online and got the wrong size (when will the middle-aged learn not to mess with things they don’t understand?!).

“Where did you get it from”, I said.

“Debenhams.” She said.

Oh, God. Please, no.

“Oh, really? Which range?” I said, tentatively.

“Betty Jackson. Black”. She replied.

Bugger.



I knew before she said it that it was the same suit.

Now, who should feel worse in this scenario? Was she risking ‘mutton’ accusations or was I seriously about to dress way beyond my years? When did this happen? When did the little girl in her mum’s shoes actually become keen to dress like a grandmother. To be fair (and through still gritted teeth) she did look great in it; young yet still stylish and entirely appropriate. Not in the least bit mutton. She got first dibs of course because she’d already bought hers whereas I’d simply flirted with mine. Damn it. It was a lovely suit.

I had thought this might be the preserve of us ladeez but it seems men are not immune. My husband (34) has a nice lilac polo shirt which looks great on him and that I have seen on at least two OAPs. Does this makes us old or them young? Should it matter, even? When do you actually become old nowadays anyway? I have a photo of my brother and I as babies in the arms of our grandmother who, if I’ve worked out the dates correctly, would be the same age as my mother-in-law is now. My nan could quite literally be my m-in-law’s mother in that picture – grey perm and cardie a-go-go.

Eddie Izzard talks about a desire for ‘total clothing rights’ and I have to say I’m with him on that one. Women can wear trousers so men should be allowed to wear skirts. If I like a ‘classic’ outfit I should be able to wear it without fear of ridicule, godammit!

And you know what? I’m proud of my mother-in-law for making good choices, after all I made the same one. Maybe it’ll be her shoes my daughter struts about in next – I suspect that soon there won’t be much to choose between them...

Jec
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