I’m feeling particularly crap and undermined today. We spent this Easter weekend with David’s “other” grandparents: my parents. I’m glad to be home.
My mother has a horrible tendency to take over. This morning, I was up and awake and looking after David, and she came into the bedroom, took him out of my arms, and took him downstairs to play. I hadn’t yet changed him and he hadn’t had his morning feed, but that didn’t matter to her. She played with him for a bit, and then took him for breakfast. Now, he’s perfectly capable of feeding himself with a loaded spoon, and in the last few weeks he’s started to crack loading his own spoon, and feeding himself. I arrived downstairs when he was in the middle of a bowl of Weetabix with added Cheerios (the sugar content!), which he was trying valiantly to feed himself: she, of course, wouldn’t let go of the spoon and was trying to force it into his mouth. After every messy spoonful she wiped him: it would’ve been much less messy if she’d just let him get on with it. When he’d finished his breakfast she remarked that he smelled of wee, and should I perhaps change him? Well, yes, that’s what happens if you leave a child in the same nappy for twelve hours.
There’s another thing. Joe and I aren’t bothered about a little bit of mess: that’s what babies and toddlers and little boys do, surely? Mum, however, disagrees. As soon as his nose starts to run or a little bit of dribble escapes from his mouth, she pounces on him with a tissue, even if he’s wearing a dribble bib. She does it with paper towel, too, so it’s rough against his poor skin.
Usually, if David wants a hug, he comes and asks for one, then runs off and plays again. My mother picks him up at every opportunity, and holds onto him until he throws a fit. She won’t pick him up and pass him to me, she has to hold him herself, even when he’s tired and asking for me. This evening, when he needed to be held and snuggled to sleep, he didn’t want to be touched: given that he’s had next to no personal space all weekend I’m not suprised. It took me an hour to soothe him.
The damage that all of this has done should be able to be undone in a day or two’s time. However, she’s also managed to undermine me on something I’ve been struggling with for weeks. In the time we were there, my mother gave David everything he wanted, the minute he wanted it, even when I’d said no. All he had to do was point and say “dat!”, and she’d hand him whatever he was pointing to. This morning he ate far too much chocolate, because she fed it to him without asking me. He ate half a punnet of grapes on Friday morning for the same reason. Every time he wanted something this weekend he went to her and asked her for it, and now he expects everything to be handed to him the second he decides he wants it. We’ve had tantrums this evening over not touching the Aga, over not being allowed to dismantle the decoration on the bathroom door, over not being allowed a fourth Mini Egg. We’d only just got to the point where he wouldn’t throw a complete fit over everything minor, and I can see it taking two or three weeks to get back to where we were before we went down to Kent.
It’s not just these individual things that annoy me, it’s the way she tries to undermine every single parenting decision I’ve ever made. Although she’s not spoiling him when she gives him everything he wants, I’m apparently spoiling him by breastfeeding. Although she clings onto him for dear life, I shouldn’t carry him in a sling as it’ll make him clingy. Although he’s a big boy now (and far too big to be breastfed) he should have his food mushed up and fed to him, and although he “doesn’t need red pepper” (direct quote!) she has to feed him chocolate. She does tell me these things to my face, but she’s also got these sly, subtle ways of doing exactly the opposite of the decisions we’ve made, and I hate it. I wish she’d just support me (and Joe, of course) in the decisions we’ve made, in the way we’ve chosen to bring up this little boy, rather than turning it into a competition all the time.
One thing that’s certain is that David is going to be shocked and horrified at the loss of his chocolate tomorrow:
Photos of me are about as rare as hens’ teeth: there’s a reason I prefer to be behind the camera! But this is me, right here.
I still don’t know exactly who I am. My Facebook page defines me as “a sling-wearing, BLWing, breastfeeding, lactivist mama of a little monster”, and it’s right, I think. I mean, David hasn’t been in the buggy since I got the new sling (and I’m perfectly happy that way!). We do baby-led weaning: at least, we started with purees and moved on to BLWing when he refused the spoon, and now he’s just eating. I’m breastfeeding, yes, and I love it, but I’m not sure exactly why I’m motivated to shout from the rooftops about it. I’m a lactivist, because, well, I want other people to have decent breastfeeding support that I didn’t have, to not think that formula is the norm, for babies to have the best start they could possibly have. (Time to add, maybe, that I don’t think formula is the root of all evil. It’s not. It’s not that formula is inferior, it’s that breastfeeding should be seen as normal by society, and better supported, and then maybe more women will do it. That’s a whole other post…) The little monster part? Well, that’s one of the few things that’s blindingly obvious.
I’ve only just, fifteen months into this game, got up the courage to be the mum I am, to parent the way that feels right. In the first few weeks and months I was blinded by other people’s advice, we muddled through, and the guidelines were king: mostly because David was ahead of all the targets and I felt like a good parent because of it. As soon as my instincts actually kicked in, nothing I was doing felt right any more, and I felt as though I had to do something. I started cuddling David to sleep rather than trying to make him self-settle. I swapped the front-facing buggy for the rear-facing one, and then started wearing him in the sling again. The breastfeeding was at his request, and I’m glad it’s an opportunity I took: I just wish I’d had the confidence and the support to do it fifteen months earlier.
I still don’t know for sure that this is the right way to do things, the mum I am, but I feel that it is. We’ll wait and see how it develops, how much longer he’ll want to breastfeed, how much longer he’ll want to be in the sling before he wants to walk. I hope I have as much time like this as possible. It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever done, and it’s who I am, I think. That’s all I need to know.
Incidentally, here’s David’s contribution to the Gallery. I thought it was pretty good for a fifteen-month-old’s effort!
So, fifteen months, eh? A year and a quarter. I didn’t think we’d get this far with my sanity still intact, and after this last month I’m still not sure how we managed it.
Your behaviour has become somewhat challenging this month: part and parcel, I assume, of toddlerhood. When I say “somewhat challenging”, I mean absolutely horrendous. You’ve bitten and kicked and hit and scratched this month, and I have no idea where it comes from. My only consolation, I suppose, is that it mostly seems to be when I’m making you do something you don’t want to do, like getting dressed or having your nappy changed or not touching the washing machine. You’re also very good at flopping and being dramatic, and making sure that everyone is looking at you when you’re unhappy. You’re wonderful when you’re in a good mood, and that’s most of the time, but please stop with the grumps. I know your teeth hurt, but the grumpiness is not cute any more.
Anyway, here you are when fish fingers for lunch was the worst thing that could happen in the world, EVER. (Warning: watch without sound unless you’re feeling brave!)
We’ve managed, after months of not breastfeeding, to work together and crack it. It’s amazing. You’re a little less fussed than you were, and for some reason you still won’t feed if Daddy’s around, but it’s one of the best decisions we’ve ever made. Yes, I’m still struggling with expressing, fenugreek tastes revolting, and I’m incredibly sore, but it’s worth it. You’re becoming a strong, handsome, independant little boy, but to have this extra comfort for a little longer than I expected is so precious.
You now eat a decent variety of food, INCLUDING VEGETABLES. At one point, I didn’t think I’d ever write this. You like peas and olives and sweetcorn and tomatoes and baked beans and carrot and sweet potato. You also like strawberries and grapes and melon and pear. You’ll eat fish fingers and quorn goujons and sausages and meatballs and a variety of different protein-y things, as long as they’re covered in barbeque sauce. (This also applies to potato faces and chips.). Raisins are now on a par with chocolate buttons as a reward, but your current favourite thing is dried, sweetened cranberries, you weird child. You’re also using a spoon and a fork mostly by yourself, although the spoon generally makes a massive mess.
You’re still running everywhere. You’re also climbing onto everything, crouching down to pick things up, going down slides by yourself, and stepping up steps rather than crawling. You love the big kids’ bit at the soft play centre, and you especially love the swings.
We’ve rediscovered babywearing this month, because of those blinking teeth. You had a few days when you really didn’t know if you wanted to be picked up or put down, so I strapped you to me and got on with work. It worked surprisingly well, so I treated us to a new carrier, and you haven’t been back in the buggy again since. You have no idea how happy I am to be able to strap you to me and go, rather than battle to get you into the buggy and strap you down while you scream and scream and SCREAM. I think I have every idea how much happier you are.
Talking has come on, again. You’re adding new words almost every day, and the ones you use regularly are getting much clearer. However, you’re a lazy little boy at times, and you know that if you point and say “dat!” then Daddy will probably get whatever you want for you, without making you say the word. You get really frustrated when we don’t get it right the first time, too. Your favourite book is The Tiger Who Came To Tea, and we sit together and read it to Tiger. You also like My Cat Likes To Hide In Boxes, and Tiger. (Are we noticing a theme here?)
You play like a toddler now. You never stop moving when you’re awake, which is why you sleep so well. You’ve always got something to put somewhere or give to somebody. You’re very organised and arrange things to be the way you want them, and you get cross if we dare to change them. You can stack the stacking rings in the right order, and you can sort shapes in your shape sorter. It’s awesome. However, when you’re tired, you want nothing more than to sit down with a quiet toy or a book and just relax.
At the end of the day, when you’ve had enough of playing and eating and talking and running, you climb the stairs, go into the bathroom and demand a “BAF!”. You climb into the bath and play with your ducks, then you point and ask Daddy to lean over into the bath, and then you splash him in the face. When you’re out of the bath, you run around without a nappy until we catch you and make you wear a nappy: the process of putting the nappy and your pyjamas on makes you make a noise as though we’re killing you. We zip you into your sleeping bag, you snuggle Tiger, and you ask for “Bed?”. We tuck you into your cot, kiss you goodnight, and that’s it: no crying, just twelve hours of glorious sleep.
…and then we start all over again. But I wouldn’t change it for the world.
I love you, son.
Mummy and Daddy (who read this and sniffled a bit, but there’s no way he’ll admit that to anyone else.)
