Out of the mouth of babes

Parentdom...the phrases chapter.

In the beginning there was a baby. Your baby. A beautiful gurgling bundle of joy.* And then that baby grew. You watched that baby's every move, encouraging them to roll over, to crawl, to walk and ...to talk. 

To talk...we encouraged them to talk. We did this. It was us...and then the talking didn't stop - and then the phrases came....phrases that can pinpoint milestones in the progressing years.

But in all the years (so far) there has to be one feckin phrase that tops the charts as THE PHRASE guaranteed to make every parent want to fall to the floor and have their own big fat gigantic tantrum. 

Topping the charts of this never ending list of the phrases of doom has to be......

In. A. Minute. 

It's a standard phrase in my house. The fifteen year old and the eleven year old use it more often than 'What's for tea? and I'm hungry.'

It doesn't matter what is being asked of my beautiful babies, there is a standard response.

Me:

"Can you go and get the seventy billion glasses you have left in your rooms as we're now drinking water out of egg cups?" 

Reply: in a minute. 

Me:

"Can you put your shoes on? Because we're going out in the car to take you to your cricket match." 

Reply: in a minute. 

Me:

"Can you go to bed?"

Silence. 

Me:

Repeat three times. 

Reply: in a minute. 

Cue loud screaming from me; followed by....

"Mum why are you being so grumpy? There's no need to shout. We'll do it/go/get it IN A MINUTE."

Me. Rocks in a corner. Opens wine and pours bottle down neck. 

It's a phrase that can incite a rage in even the most perfect of parents. 

Out of the mouth of babes comes the phrases of doom. 

Nearly topping the charts has to be the clamour from my poor starving mites who haven't been fed for years. 

The scenarios sometimes differ but usually I am in a meeting and my phone rings. Seeing the name and number of  my most cherished of humans, I immediately grab the phone wondering what could have happened, immediately starting to pack up my bags and shrug my shoulders at my colleagues who recognise the face of a worried parent. 

And then the voice on the other end of the phone echoes down that there telephone wire. Trembling I wait for that nanosecond, mainly shitting myself that something terrible has happened....

"Mum, what time are you home? What's for tea?

Stuff my meetings. Sod my professionalism. Who needs to work. My poor starving children need me. They need feeding. They will have opened the fridge and stared in dismay at the spinach and broccoli staring at them (of course I'm on a diet). They needed proper food. They needed someone to come home and do it for them. Immediately.

Sometimes. Just sometimes the phone doesn't ring. Sometimes I get all the way home, open the front door and yell 'Helloooooooo' to the household. The stupid dog hurtles at me, happy to see me, but silence from humans mainly greets me. The son is of course killing people on his xbox and the daughter is revising.*

I holler again. HEEEELLLLLLLOOOOOOO

And then I get a response:

"Oh hi mum, what's for tea?"

"Oh hi kids. How are you? I'm fine thanks. I've hightailed it down the motorway at speeds faster than light to get home from the office just so I can cook your tea. I've still got my coat on. I've not had a wee since 6.38am but I am going to hurry the fuck along and make your tea because your lives are so terrible."

25 minutes later. Waffles, eggs and beans are on the table (it's Tuesday okay. There's football and cricket so there's no chance of any home made sauces, proper food or even a sense of trying). 

26 minutes later I shout....Tea's ready. Come on. 

"In a minute" comes the bloody chorus. 

Opens another bottle of wine. 

* joy = mainly cacophony of screaming until dummy was applied

** watching NCIS with her computer open

Cotton wool and Bubble wrap

Can I wrap my small things in cotton wool?

All I want to do is wrap my babies in cotton wool. 

In fact not just cotton wool but cotton wool with bubble wrap on top and then mainly not let them out of the house. Ever. Again.

In fact first I'll move to the mountains and then wrap them in cotton wool and apply the bubble wrap. 

But then in the mountains, there's ice and cars and slipping and falling off mountains so actually I think I'll move to Cornwall. That will be okay because there's not that many people ...... but oh then there's the sea and rip tides and currents and dangerous sports. 

I guess what I'm saying, what I'm admitting is that I'm pretty neurotic. 

From the minute they've been born, from the nano second my small things breathed their own air and pregnancy turned into the reality of parenthood I've mainly been worried. 

Not just worried. Frankly shitting myself. Will they breathe? She's slept a night, is she alive? He's walked into a door with his head (again), will he have brain damage? It's mainly been a constant stream of possible options where my babies could maim and damage themselves. 

I actually thought it would get easier. I thought once they had got past the point where they tripped through their toddler years and started to understand the spoken word it would be okay and I would worry less but as it turns out I just worry about different stuff. 

I watch my fiercely independent 15 year old cycle off with her friends and my heart is in my mouth and now to add to the terror they take the 11 year old with them on their biking adventures. The 15yo is off to the Trafford Centre on a bus, and tonight a car kindly clipped her handle bars as she cycled herself home from being out with her friends. I try and keep them safe. It's mainly my mission in life. My mantra...Keep my small things alive, then keep me alive and then no other fecker I love is allowed to die along the way. 

And then you're scrolling twitter at 10.30pm at night and there's the news that something has happened at a concert. A concert where I would assume my small things would be safe. There's security. It's inside. There's no mountains to fall off. A concert where the average age is young. So surely that means extra security and extra safety. 

A concert taking place in a venue where I took my small things less than two weeks ago to watch Bruno Mars and then I realise that no matter what I do I just can't protect them 24/7 just like those parents treading through the treacle of their darkest days couldn't protect their babies. 

It's horrifying. It's heartbreaking - and I can't imagine how those parents are coping with this.  I've mainly felt sick all day but I also know that moving to the lakes, the mountains, the sea and wrapping them in a bubble wrap cotton wool sandwich is not the answer. 

The answer is for me to help them live. Live every moment and not be afraid. 

And I'm going to do that. 

Whilst I mainly quake in my boots I'm going to help them live their lives. I'm going to watch them cycle off with their friends (wearing a helmet), I'm going to drop them off at gigs and I'm going to sit on the beach and watch them surf. Because it's my job. It's my job to guide them on the right path but also to let them go.

Anyone got any bubble wrap? Maybe just a bit. Maybe just one layer.  (Asking for a friend)

#StayStrongOurKid

What if I fall?

Dear daughter,

It appears you are taking baby steps...away from me.

It appears I am rapidly becoming redundant.

(Well apart from my access to that money tree and taxi services.)

It appears that with every given day you change right before my eyes, my little girl is growing up. 

My little girl is growing up at a rate of knots. Blink and there's a new sign of the young woman developing before me.

Every day you seem to be taking a step away from me. Steps to a new future, a future of new friends, new experiences and ones where I won't be at your side to watch over you - ones where I will be on the sidelines.

You shall be forever shrouded in the protection of this parental blanket - but the blanket these days is thinner and less visible. You don't hang onto my shirt tails anymore, they are more likely to provide a launch pad taking you in a new direction.

Once the slightly anxious child not entirely comfortable with herself, you are now this beautiful creature inside and out, opinionated, caring, passionate about your beliefs and happy to disagree with mine.

Every day I have encouraged you to grow. Just as I encouraged you to take your first steps. But every day now it makes me heart beat faster and more furiously knowing that I am encouraging you to step away from me and step into your independence and your future. A future forged without me as the centrifugal force.

A future dictated by your own hopes, needs, desires and ambitions.

And all of a sudden, I now realise that now my job as a parent becomes even more difficult. As I can no longer control,* I can only guide. And be here whenever you need me. And you may not need me.

Tonight you needed me to be home when you got back from your first baby sitting job - but tomorrow you won't. Tomorrow you will be happy in the knowledge it's another thing you can do alone.**

As a parent I know the best thing I can do is not cover you in bubble wrap but give you the courage to experience this thing called life.

And it scares me more than it scared me watching you breathe throughout your first night on this earth.

I genuinely thought parenting got easier. I thought I would never mirror the helplessness I felt waking in the night and watching you sleep terrified that cot death would come and claim you. (not that that happened a lot as you never blinkin slept).

But now as I begin the journey to set you free in this big bad wide world the fear is even bigger. 

Because I can no longer watch your every breath, I have to wait in the sidelines ready to help if you need me but knowing in reality you will need me less and less.

But if and when you do, I will always be here*** (possibly a bit drunk).

Love your mum

*For the purposes of clarity (and in case said daughter is actually reading this) I am still in control, no you can't do whatever you want and I am still in absolute charge - and will be forever.

** which is probably quite a good job as I will be out drinking gin

*** when I say here, I mainly mean somewhere in the world on a beach with wifi

Airport Musings

The Traveller

I spend quite a lot of time at airports of late. The fact that my work colleagues have started referring to me as Judith Chalmers has not escaped me.

I think I've almost mastered the art of the travelling alone; in fact I think I've almost mastered the art of looking like I know what I'm doing; sauntering casually wandering through the airport with the air of someone who is frankly a traveling hipster (complete with sushi and coffee).

I had a kindle (note the past tense - I also left said kindle in security - apologies if that caused any unnecessary alarms) so now I arm myself with the traditional paperback at the flight gate and do one of my favourite things. 

People watch.

Airports have to be the ultimate place to bring together all manner of people - all crammed together on one tiny space for a period of time with No Escape.

There's The Suit. The ultimate business traveler. Still wearing his suit, he wanders up and down the airport lounge talking with an air of importance on his mobile wishing he had enough business expenses to travel first class.

Then there's always The fraught. The ubiquitous traveling family. Fraught with bickering children, errant husbands and the possibility that the technology may run out before the actual plane journey starts combining to make the start of most holidays for the average family stressful. Throw in a screaming 2 year old and a lost blankie and there's grounds for a full on melt down - and that's just mum. 

Enter The weekenders. The group of boys - when I say boys - I mainly mean older men. Seasoned travellers on the return home from a weekend away from responsibility. Seasoned travellers who of course don't try and kill each other on a Ryan Air flight but who may have spend four days reliving their youth. Seasoned travellers who now look like former shadows of themselves after a few days on a boys weekend.

The Smug smiles serenely at the chaos around them and thanks their lucky stars they are The Smug. The Smug is a modern day traveller cruising from destination to destination. They embrace the epitome of airplane etiquette. Headphones at the ready, iPhone fully charged, music ready to play and a travelling Mac a constant companion. Ready and all tech'd up to cope with the curiosities of cruising through an airport. Until of course the Internet connection fails and then The Smug resembles a poor broken lost puppy.

And then my pet airport hate. The PDA couple. The snuggling couple - they can be any age; young or old; but grouped together by their need to constantly show each other how much they love being together in an airport watched by thousands of people. Breezing through the airport with a 'love is' cloud wavering above their heads as they consistently stop to share a kiss, a snuggle and maybe take a selfie to show the world (beyond the airport) how much in love they are, these people need a room of their own at airports.

And finally there's me. The pretender. Head burrowed in a book, constantly checking travel documents, trying to appear nonchalant, wondering if my passport has managed to become out of date since the last time I checked, wondering if my lost kindle is going to mean we all have to evacuate the airport. I'm always the one in the line for the full body search (when will I learn to take my bracelet off) and I always sit a bit too close to the flight departure boards so I can mainly stare at it and pray the flight leaves on time otherwise I'm gonna be late getting the kids (again).

I thought I had it all nailed. I thought I knew all the groups in the airport lounge. I knew what to expect. I knew all the different idiosyncrasies of the people that populate the airport lounge.

And then I got on the plane. And sat next to The Snircher.

The Snircher sniffed, snirched and snotted throughout the entire journey. 

Rubbing his sleeve across his nose that only a 15 year old on a school trip seems to think it's acceptable to do, he then ordered olives (obviously from south manchester) and played on his phone in airplane mode. 

And snirched with such wild abandon that he nearly ended up being forced through the airplane window (by me). And then he got up - I thought he might have been going to get a tissue - but no, he just wanted to snirch at his mate in the next row - and I noticed he had tracksuit bottoms falling off his non existent butt showing his feckin underpants which I did not want to see.

I then learnt a new lesson.* Do not ever give up your seat so a mother and daughter can sit together. The Snircher could be waiting for you.

Thankfully I have yet to see a group of girls traveling in their curlers and pjs. But I mainly think that's cos I'm not on a flight to Majorca.

*I actually learnt two lessons that day. Do not try and take a picture to showcase the riduculousenss of such attire as you may be caught by the snircher and you may look like a wrong 'un and it may be interpreted badly.

Adventures across the pond...

School trips have changed....

One week and one day ago, I waved goodbye to the 13 year old at Manchester Airport as we watched a group of school kids go off on a school trip.

Not to Wigan Pier, not to Conwy Castle, not to the Lake District but to travel thousands of miles across the pond for a week's skiing in New Hampshire and two days in NYC.

The anxious one was most anxious about her travelling so far away.....and so was the 13 year old. It was made all the more tearful by the 4am drop off at the airport with not even a cup of coffee to calm the nerves. The next ten hours were mainly spent obsessing watching flight tracker as her plane managed to avoid the terrible potential disasters I had imagined and landed safely in Boston.

The joy of social media alleviated the school trip parent stress syndrome (STPSS) as the lovely teachers updated regularly on a (private) twitter account.

Five days of skiing then ensued with various pictures of the girls looking more and more tired. The pictures of the parents would have showed far more wrinkles, more stress and more tiredness than displayed during the first years of parenting. 

Who knew that an exciting adventure for the 13 year old would manifest in such parental panic for me. I naively thought that as my small things grew up, I would worry less. As I became more confident that they would breathe through the night, I would start to chill out on their development, growth and survival. But it turns out that when you put a 13 year old on a plane from Manchester to Boston that invisible umbilical cord that continues to bind us together is stretched a little bit farther than I would like.

Who knew that parents would panic like this? When I buggered off on my school ski trip I never gave my parents a passing thought (sorry mum, oops dad). When we were stranded in Dover for 18 hours waiting for the ferry (no flights in them there days) I didn't think whether my mum and dad would be wondering where I was, I was simply staring at the White Cliffs of Dover.*

When we were skiing in France, I didn't consider that mum and dad may be spending every day wondering whether I was safe, happy and well - and all without wifi and mobile phones to allow me to check in.

 'This is what I'm having for breakfast' text

I've heard from the 13 year old (almost) daily. To be fair I have mainly heard what she has had for breakfast, a question as to whether she should change her thermals on the third day (erm yes) and other random text that mainly didn't include her skiing adventures. But she was in contact - and so I knew she was alive (minimising the need for the healing powers of wine to cope with STPSS)*.

And then tomorrow the traveller returns home. I will squeeze her so tight when I finally see her face in the airport tomorrow (following a traumatic 12 hours ahead tracking flights across a rather large expanse of water) and hug her close and thank the heavens she is back where she belongs...and then I reckon I will probably start shouting within about 30 minutes.

And normality will resume. I. cannot. wait.



*that's a lie, we may have been chatting to boys from Dover
* again that's a lie, there's always a need for wine