11 years of loyal service

I’ve been thinking about time,

In 1995 as a single parent of a nearly 3 year old, I started working for Thames Valley Police as a civilian Performance Manager. Two years later, a promotion and a house move, took me to TVP’s training centre, just outside Reading in Berkshire, as the Marketing and Estate Manager – and there I stayed. Another house move happened, this time in to my first bought and mortgaged home. Over the years adjustments to my job added more responsibility and remuneration and I still managed to find the time and energy to meet my husband and have a baby together. We got married and moved to Crewe in one crazy week in 2005 and then I went back to the Training Centre on a weekly commuting basis. Nine months later the universe shifted again in our favour so I was able to resign, without another “job” to move on to. That was in the summer of 2006. A few months after I left, and re-introduced myself to my husband and 2 children I received an unexpected but quite welcome certificate in the post.

Recognition of Eleven years of loyal service to Thames Valley Police. Eleven years in the flash of an eye.

Well now it’s 2017 – another eleven years on. Eleven years of “loyal service”* to my family. Seems worthy of recognition. So I made my own certificate! I’ve displayed them both in the kitchen, my centre of operations, when I’m not at the computer!

Eleven years – We had another baby together He’s 10 now – that makes 4 between us. I did the infant raising and family management thing, and enjoyed it, more than that, I think I’m good at it. Everyone’s alive and well, and we are, on the whole, solvent! My step-daughter moved from Spain to live with us and do her A levels in the UK, and then went to University. My son did High School, College, uni and leaving home. My daughter had a brain tumour which left her with permanent physical limitations, but intellectually unscathed, as far as we can tell; and our 10 year old brings up the rear, making us laugh and astounding us with his curiosity and empathy. My husband has been promoted twice and is 11 haircuts away from retirement. I have worked as a childminder, volunteered as a governor at the primary school, joined the Green Party and stood for council vacancies twice. I have been “trained” as a Doula, and volunteered for a local charity called Motherwell Cheshire. We have had a loft conversion and other house alterations. Our household has gone from 4 up to 6 and back down to 4 again. We’ve kept chickens and 2 cats.

I have been a shoulder to cry on, or arms to embrace, a bank, a chef, a housekeeper, a project operations director, an interior designer, a gardener, a financial manager, a coach, a counsellor, a motivational speaker, a proof reader and editor, a nurturer, a lover, a partner, a careers advisor, and a pursuer of dreams.**

It is a massive privilege that we, as a family unit, chose and were able to live like this. This was particularly apparent when our daughter was in hospital for nearly 4 months recuperating after her brain tumour excision. We were aware that outside of our little stress bubble other parents with chronically ill children were losing their jobs because of the amount of time parents were spending at hospital! I remain horrified that capitalism and the workplace can be so cruel to families in such desperate times.

I know that there are mothers out there who do all of this AND hold down a salaried job, and more who do it all without the advantage of a well paid partner, but even so, it is still worthy of celebration, of reward even. This isn’t just for me, and this isn’t a competition. I’m a feminist and this post is to honour my own life choices, not to denegrate yours. Your life, however you live it, wherever you find your validation, is worthy of recognition. Being a stay at home parent, is no less worthy than parenting and earning a salary***. I’m amazing; you’re amazing. We’ve got this**** – and here’s to the next 11 years and the enlightenment that they might bring…

 

 

*I don’t consider myself an actual servant to my family, I’m no martyr, this is just for the benefit of continuing the employment simile.

**that’s just off the top of my head – there are more, but I think I’ve made my point!

***for more on this, I highly recommend the book “Liberating Motherhood”

****and by “this” I mean the future of the human race – yes really!

The Marble

A little while ago, we had a small child related crisis, resulting from the combination of my children, a 6ft long cardboard tube and a marble.

Some of you experienced parentals may already be well ahead of me on this, but let me explain…

It was a weekend, I had given A, my 5yo son, the cardboard tube to play with because it looked like fun, forgetting that at the time he was also working a small obsession with his marble collection. D my 9yo daughter wanted some of the action so joined in. Excellent parenting skills I thought, both kids entertained, time for a cup of tea (and maybe some facebook). About 5 minutes after I’d settled down, all hell broke loose.

I heard a scream and a shout or possibly multiple screams and shouts and my daughter started crying. A charged down the house doing a fine impression of a baby elephant shouting:

“Mum! Mum!   MUUUUUUUUM! YOU HAVE TO COME IT’S REALLY BAD”

Hmmm it’s rarely really bad, so I got up from my reverie quick sharp and followed him back down to where D was sat, crying and looking terrified. The discarded cardboard tube was on the floor, perpendicular to the sofa and making a direct line to D. The sofa was the last place I had seen A. The level of kid panic was now reaching epic proportions and even though I had a fairly good idea about what had happened, I had to shout to get them both to stop screaming at me and to tell me calmly what the problem was.

If you’re still not there, it transpired that during the game of rolling multiple marbles down the 6ft tube from the sofa, one or both of them had thought that it would be a “good” idea to put one end of the tube in D’s mouth. The next marble released, made its rapid and inevitable way into D’s stomach.

“I’ve swallowed a marble” sobbed D

“she’s swallowed a marble” wailed A, “will she have to go to hospital?”

I explained to them both that she would be fine, enhanced by a brief explanation of the digestive process (There’s a learning opportunity in every situation) and having established that he hadn’t sent his sister to hospital, A did spend the best part of the rest of the afternoon, sobbing that he’d lost his best marble. This regardless of the fact that we’d told him he’d see it again!

D was easier to mollify and as the tension in the room returned to normal levels, I was able to start texting friends and family whilst sniggering quietly to myself. I was quite confident that there was nothing medically to worry about, but my Mum (after she’d stopped laughing) suggested I check NHS direct. So I did. The website symptom checker do dah said that there was indeed nothing to be done unless it took longer than the 4-6 suggested days to work through. That seemed a long time to me, I thought things should only take 24 hours, but I suppose they are just covering all bases by putting the longer estimate. To be honest, I was quite interested to know how long D’s digestive transit time was, given that she’s on a daily dose of Immodium as a result of the Posterior Fossa syndrome. See, always a learning opportunity…

To cut a long story short, 24 hours later, almost to the minute, the marble appeared again – landed you might say. My husband was on the receiving end, so to speak, so he did the necessary cleaning and A was VERY happy to be reunited with his best marble. The tube, met its demise and was put in to the recycling.

Another normal day chez Fairc-Anglais!

  Image from: http://www.lachaussie.net/mymarble.htm

 

Stay at Home?

There’s a lot on the internet about parenting, being a Mum and the various types of Mum you can be – either by default or design.

I have in my time been many of the available categories:

• A single parent (by accident but ultimately by design)
• A working single parent (full time)
• A step-parent (resting currently at the benevolent end of the wickedness scale)
• A working (full time) co-parent
• A working (full time) married parent
• And finally as I write a Stay at Home Mum (SAHM)

 Out of all my parental incarnations I am completely clear on which I prefer…

 The ability to coast through the school holidays with barely a glance at the calendar or leave calculator/bank balance brain app to work out how I can get holiday care for my kids whilst still being able to afford food.

 To manage occasional and chronic illnesses of my offspring with no concern about its impact on my current or future employment prospects or pay awards.

 To have time, energy and inclination to cook healthy and tasty meals from scratch to nourish my brood, rather than reaching for the freezer fodder or the take-away menus every other day.

 Yes it’s Stay at Home I prefer by a long long shot. I have worked full-time and reached a level where I was respected and listened to, it wasn’t all that! I don’t miss it, mostly because I was stressed and tired. If I had to, then I would return to the queues of the wage slaves, because you do what you have to. For now though, we are fortunate and I believe privileged in this day and age for us to maintain our current lifestyle and my husband doesn’t seem to mind going to work to keep us this way.

 Can you sense the “but”? because it’s coming…

 BUT, I have one problem with being at home. It’s not feeling that I don’t have enough adult contact – actually I’m very anti-social and I like being by myself. It’s not thinking that I need to contribute to our financial status – we have a very democratic relationship where my “contribution” is recognised and valued for how easy it makes everyone’s life. I do not lack feelings of self-actualisation, I am a graduate, an MBA, I raised my son by myself until he was 9 (when I met my now husband) and I have worked in a challenging role for a good wage which enabled me to buy my own house. I am now a governor of my kids’ school and I get time to practice my writing.

 My problem is Holidays. There was a time when holidays were the time of the year when I got to spend quality contact with my children, when we could do all the things we didn’t have time for when Mummy is at work, when the childminder/nursery gets a few days off and I got to see for myself how my child was developing. My husband, I believe still feels like this, his excitement about impending holidays is tangible, and our differing levels of excitement can cause tension because, for me, holidays just mean more of the same, with less time, ironically, to do it. I just can’t get that fired up. The kids need entertaining all day, not just for part of it, It’s harder to keep the house clean – not that I care too much, but I do far less when the kids are off, and if we go away to our beloved caravan it’s just the same in a small tin box.

 My idea of a holiday in the true sense of the word, would be a week (or two) in a sunny, quiet spot – without the children. There I could relax, switch off the safety alert, fall asleep in the sun by a pool, get a massage or a manicure and not worry about smudging because you had to rescue the baby from the base of the giant fig tree in the hotel foyer. Go out to eat later than 5 o’clock, get up later than 7. When the kids are bigger, we’ve said we’ll do this, for now we get the odd weekend away, when my Dad and his wife look after the small ones, and we escape, and it’s bliss.

I don’t mind though, I adore being able to see and hear all the things my kids do and say, when they say them. To know them properly, to nourish them in body and mind, to be able to sleep well (most of the time) and wake ready to start all over again. Don’t get me wrong it’s not paradise and I’m no angel of parenting, but it’s my life and my choice and I am where I want to be.

It’s NOT Fair…

Forgive me…! I’m not usually, in fact, at all, someone who thinks that the whole world is against them. Things happen, and thanks to some reality checks from my Mum over time, the question “Why Me?” is replaced firmly in my mind with “Why not me?”

 My last post described how we discovered that our little girl had a brain tumour and the events that surrounded that discovery. That was 2 years 8 months ago, and things have settled down. The initial trauma for both Daisy and us has faded away, and we get on with it. It’s not a new existence it’s just our existence. Sometimes though, something happens that sends me reeling, it’s usually insignificant but sudden and unexpected, which perhaps is why it upsets me so.

 Today, something happened. I was looking through some photographs to find a picture of our littlest boy when he had Chicken Pox, to share with a friend in an internet group whose kids have just come down with it. He was 9 months old at the time, and at the end of his illness when he was all scabby, we went on holiday toSpainto visit his half sister. I remember that this was the year before Daisy’s diagnosis, 2008. I didn’t find the photographs I was looking for, most of the photos from that year have been stored on alternative hardware, but 2008 was also the year that Daisy started school. I found these:

I found them, and then got stuck, staring at them. Photographs from before actually make me sadder than even those taken when she was in hospital. It is possible that when these photos were taken the tumour had already started its insidious growth in her perfect, cheeky head. It was the last time her hair was that short, when she started school she requested that she be allowed to grow it longer. She was lively, and bouncy and enthusiastic and co-ordinated. She drew, and painted, and coloured in, prolifically and possibly a little in advance of her years. She was a demon at jigsaws. She was funny and happy and carefree. Free. She wanted to learn to dance like her friends, and to do gymnastics like her friends.

 Then, or perhaps at the same time, I am transported to a parallel universe where the tumour didn’t happen.

 I see her dancing, running, jumping and skipping, without effort, without tears of frustration. I see her run up the stairs in a mood because we’ve told her off for something. I see her riding her bike to the park. I see her going on playdates every weekend or perhaps even after school, because she’s not incontinent either and can look after herself when she goes to other people’s houses, instead of the loneliness I see in her eyes sometimes. I feel such anger that this exuberant freedom has been so violently torn away from her, from us.

My anger converts to tears of grief. I expect that these photographs have affected me so much because of when I am looking at them. Her brother is in his first year at school now, and we can see, directly, how much more physically able he is than her, and are reminded about how much more able she was, it is easy to forget.

 In her head, she’s 8 and a half, she still wants to dance, and do gymnastics (actually she has had a go at this thanks to the Cheshire Academy), she is still exuberant and impulsive but this usually results in things being knocked over, her falling over, or knocking in to something, and in moments of our own frustration we scold her. She can’t help it, she says “sorry” when she hurts herself, that’s wrong. IT’S NOT FAIR that she has to stop and think and focus before she does anything, anything at all. Joining in with the Tree Fu Tom  moves if there is anyone within a foot of her, reaching for her drink at the dinner table, getting herself to the bathroom, and so on and on and on and on.

 It’s not fair, but then life isn’t, I just wish she’d had more of a life before she had to learn it in such a hard way.

Nobody told me it would hurt…

Being a parent I mean, well obviously people tell you that the birth bit hurts, in fact people seem to go out of their way to tell you that and all sorts of other horror stories but a number of things have happened to me recently that have made me consider that childbirth is only the start of the pain associated with rearing children.

It’s the one most thought about, its true, in fact possibly the only one thought about at all by women, when considering starting a family. It’s real, it’s visceral and it does indeed bloody hurt. Then soon after might come pains associated with breastfeeding, sore nipples among them, common amongst breastfeeding women and marathon running men I’ve heard.

So far, short lived (hopefully) physical pains, but as soon as that baby arrives a deeper, intangible pain begins. The pain generated by the force of love that you feel when you gaze at your baby for the very first time and you know, without any shadow of a doubt that you will do anything in your power to protect that infant from any sort of harm.

Then there is an imagined, perceived, pain. We shouldn’t but we all do, consider the loss of that child. The pain which means since having children I can no longer watch any programme concerning ill, sick or dying people without crying a million tears and holding my own children so very tight (but not too tight). Just because its imagined, doesn’t make it any less real.

Thankfully most people will never know the pain of actual loss, but people do and there cannot be a pain any worse.

As a child grows and becomes independent from you, you feel pain. Today, my 4 and a half year old, walked in to school, on his own, hung his coat up, and did all the other necessary jobs required at the beginning of the school day, updated his teacher on his news and sat down on the carpet ready for registration. I know he did this because I stood outside, looking in through the window with the other mums, trying not to cry at the pain of him stepping away. He saw me when he was ready, and waved to me with a cheery smile and broke another little piece off my heart.

Illnesses and accidents come hand in hand with growing up oftentimes trivial, occasionally more serious. It doesn’t matter which, you feel their pain, and you have your own special worrying kind of pain. If you don’t notice that your 14 year old son has actually broken his wrist, not just sprained it when out with his friends and you don’t take him to hospital for 36 hours after the event, you get added, free, bonus, guilt pain. Sleep deprivation pain, can rear its ugly head again during these events too.

The pain of a row, of the “I hate you” yelled out of desperation and stubbornness, hurts like a knife. It is actually unfair. The apparent lack of respect when rules are broken, requests not met, just side effects of the average self obsessed teen, hurt, hurt, hurt.

So why do we do it? Well apart from the biological imperative, which I believe gives us little choice in the matter, we do it because alongside all of this pain there is love. A deep true, unadulterated love. It comes back to you in the smile of that confident toddler, the beauty and peace in a sleeping baby’s face, the shared joy of a bedtime book, the tear of a frightened pre-teen, the sarky, humorous come back of the adolescent, and maybe one day in the innocent smiles of your grand children, and the instant understanding in your own childrens’ eyes when they feel it too.

My daughter is in a wheelchair, she is also 7!

This morning before school, my 7 (nearly 8 ) year old daughter was perusing a fairy annual type book and came across a marshmallow cheesecake recipe. She asked very nicely if we could make it. I am always keen to encourage creative activity of this nature, especially when cake is involved, so I said that we could.

When I actually looked at the list of ingredients however I realised that a trip to the shop would be required. Undeterred, and determined to be an enabling Mummy I decided that we would go shopping (me, her and her 4 year old brother) after school. No problem, it would be entertaining and educational – I am a good parent!

So off we went to Tesco (other supermarkets are available) – it’s a smallish shop with good disabled parking and they have those baskets that you can wheel along – perfect for a small person in a wheelchair. Also perfect for her slightly smaller brother to have one too, so cutting the argument off at the pass as to who was going to be in control of said basket. So far so good, still enabling, still in control.

So then followed a short period of excuse me’s and pardon me’s as Daisy worked out how to push the basket in the right direction as I was pushing her, whilst also moving her away from the “OOOOO can we have this” and “OOOOOO cake” options, by saying that we were only going to buy what was on the list.

First ingredient cream cheese – tricky right turn manoevre to get alongside the display perpendicular to the main aisles without taking out a young business woman’s ankles or laddering her tights! Cream cheese in Daisy’s basket, Alfie looking a bit miffed. Easy straight push to the cream, where Daisy realised that it would be simpler to drag the basket alongside her rather than pushing it in front of her (how do articulated lorry drivers do corners or reversing?) good good. Two cartons of cream needed (this is a gooood recipe)  one in each basket – result – high pitched whining refrain of “it’s not fair” avoided but only just.

Next ingredients, marshmallows and biscuits. Probably down the same aisle but requiring a 180 degree turn. With a good run up and plenty of warning (although indicators on my arse would be useful, not that I need anything else to draw attention to that part of my anatomy) we negotiated the about turn. 2 packets of marshmallows – excellent still got two happy kids – (although before the fortuitous two item stage I had had to warn Daisy that if she continued to be stroppy we wouldn’t be making this “fun” cake today!) Final ingredient – biscuits. Only one packet required, in to Alfie’s basket, if you’re following the trail, this should be even numbers in each – see I’m in control!

“but you said that we could have one each of everything”

No, No I didn’t – hasty, hushed but assertive discussion with Daisy at the check out about improving her attitude or everything was going back on the shelves and there would be no cake this weekend! The lady check out operator of mature years, obviously understood what I was doing and waited, until I confirmed that we were good to go as Daisy had quietened down although her bottom lip was looking decidedly and worryingly firm.

I am still calm (relatively) and the check out operator – obviously experienced in these things gave me two bags – genius – Alfie eagerly took the opportunity to pack his own bag, Daisy, on the other hand, said that she didn’t want to and sulked in her chair – I ignored her and made a fuss of Alfie doing so well. One bag of goodies later we make our way to the car with a disturbingly quiet Daisy.

Shopping goes in to the car, Alfie goes in to the car, Daisy says “I don’t want to!” somehow I knew this was coming. On other occasions I have been known to shout! But from somewhere today I dug up my reserve of patience (probably from the chilled bottle of Chardonnay I knew was waiting for me in the fridge at home) and said ,

“OK, you stay here, we’ll go” 

I pushed her to the front of the car where she would be safe and started the car. About now, my resolve faltered. Daisy is the most stubborn person I know (some people say, she gets it from me, I don’t know what they mean) I think she was probably stubborn before her brain tumour, but now she has selective immobility to help her proove a point.

I remember once, when she was very small, trying to avert a tantrum in a shopping mall by walking away from her (to a safe distance and always keeping an eye on her) to only have to rush back to stop a well meaning passer by, who hadn’t seen the build up, take her to the nearest police officer after she asked Daisy if she was lost and she said “yes” !  Needless to say and true to form, today was no different.

“OK” she said, with *that* look in her eye, “I want to stay here!”

My intention was to reverse, drive around the car park and come back for her, but disabled parking bays being as they are close to the front of the shop – *everyone* going in and out could see her and me and what was going on. I couldn’t do it. You see the thing is, with her being in her chair she looks (and is of course) more vulnerable and also more visible, people look anyway, even without an altercation to pique their curiosity. They don’t understand what *that* look means. What sort of accusations would have come my way if I’d driven away from a poor, vulnerable, disabled girl?

In the end, Alfie saved me by saying “Please don’t go Mummy, I don’t want to leave Daisy here by herself” Good lad! So I stayed, with the car door shut and Daisy glowering at me from her vantage point at the front of the car.

I had some smiles and understanding looks from older ladies (God bless them), one, in the bay next to mine, joined in and told Daisy that she would take her away with her and Daisy wouldn’t like that. Daisy asked “why?” “because I’m evil” she said, with a grin and for all the world looking like the nicest Grandma in Christendom, Daisy saw straight through her! 

A full 20 minutes of me wheedling and Daisy coming up with all sorts of reasons why she wanted to stay including a desire to guard the shop – she would chase after any robbers I established! resulted in me getting her into the car. I can’t now remember how, I didn’t shout, although I may have threatened. 

We are home now, the cake remains unmade and I have a large glass of wine! Tomorrow, after I’ve had a good night’s sleep, we might try the cake…