Netting a Mum or Two

As a parent of children aged 9, 5 and 4 years, I have a long online history with the wonderful Netmums, the website that informs, educates and most importantly, supports mums as they face all the challenges that come along with the joys of motherhood.
I have felt very isolated as a stay at home mum and Netmums provided some form of sanity in the dark days of post-natal depression. For probably 3 years, I have toyed with the idea of meeting up with other mums and for about a year since relocating have had regular email contact with my local Coordinator.
In November last year, hiding behind my children and other half, I attended a great Halloween Party run by Netmums locally. Then with the New Year, I summoned up the courage to attend their regular Music Class with my 4 year old son. Still nervous, still not feeling quite myself, still finding it hard to remember quite who I was before becoming a parent.
Here's to the local Coordinator who always gives a warm welcome to everyone, mums, dads and children alike. She is a total star, always friendly even when going through her own not so good stuff. One of those angels masquerading as a human being,
I hate soft play centres with a passion but will go along to meets there too. It is something for me and something for my 4 year old who misses his sibling when they are at school. Last time, while I was getting a coffee, the mums moved tables. This was enough to set off one of my confidence crises. Mantra to self that they have moved to a bigger table for space, negative self-talk tells me they have moved to get away from me. So sometimes I feel the fear and do it anyway and sometimes I want to curl up in a ball. But I keep trying and that has to be a good thing.
Last week, I attended a Swap Shop night taking along my trash hoping to rescue someone else's trash by seeing it as treasure. My husband dropped me off with me saying I would probably be a hour or so tops. As the car drove away, panic sets in. I ring the bell on the front door - no reply. I knock - no reply. Try to quieten the nagging voice of self-doubt. Back door proves more fruitful and I have my speech already for the mum I have not met before who is hosting. Local Coordinator actually answers the door so I have to rewrite my opening gambit. There is a good welcome with "What would you like to drink?". I work out that alcohol might free me up a bit and accept a glass or red wine. There is a buffet too and mums keep arriving and as I watch, I see I am not the only hesitant or shy person in the room. Maybe I am just human. Maybe that is OK. Later, we all present our stuff and everyone apologises for the quality of theirs - do all women put themselves down so naturally? As a group, we boost each other and comment positively and enthusiastically on people's offerings. It seems one person's trash really is another's treasure and I celebrate both that some people want my stuff and the lovely bedding set, coat and alarm clock that I put in my bag.
I am comfy enough to talk of my late Mum who died exactly six months ago. I bring earrings that she bought in her last weeks, swapping a lifetime of high street shopping for internet shopping when she become bed-bound. I stress that I am not being morbid, rather celebrating a great woman. Laugh at myself a bit and share a little of my experience of having boudoir shots done - letting people in a little. Perhaps that is all it takes. So here's to Netting a Mum or two and to many good times ahead. Thank you wonderful Mums!

Stepping out of the comfort zone

Largely I think as a response to bereavement, I am trying to seize life, the day and all that. I keep testing my nerve and trying new things. One huge one was to accept an invitation to have some boudoir photographs done complete with rose petals, saucy underwear, feathers, fans and a riding crop! I nervously went into the hotel where the shoot was to take place noting the obvious discomfort of the male receptionist at what was happening in one of suites upstairs and probably, worse that how can a size 22 possibly want to take her clothes off in front of anyone. I walked up and down the corridor for an age before tapping on the door of the suite. Maybe they would not hear me and then I could escape without losing too much face. The mirror in the corridor had not done much to reassure me - unkempt hair, no make-up, baggy fat covering clothes - not exactly a glamour puss then! A woman aged about 12 years and inevitably blonde and lovely let me in and instructed me to get my "outfit" on straightaway in the ensuite bathroom. Into bra and pants and the cop-out black silky robe. Then I entered the main room where various women were and it was hard to work out where everyone fitted in. Some were waiting for their photo session, some were just there to support and some were the hair and make-up girls. Confidence started to build when the make-up artist said she would not need to do much with me as I had lovely skin. Same was said by my wedding make-up person so perhaps I have to believe this. Lovely to sit in a chair being pampered with no children pulling at me or demanding yet another meal, drink, cuddle. No man to tell me that I have done the washing up in the wrong order as if life depends on such decisions. Peace and a friendly female-only enviroment that reminded me of the maternity ward when all the visitors have gone. I was plied with some booze to calm me down and turned down the chocolates lest I go up to size 24 instantly. "Are you ready?", the photographer asked and as I walked from the prep suite to the photos location next door, there was a sense of "Let's just go for it!". Suffice to say, I found the experience very liberating and discovered a whole new exhibitionish side to myself. It was fun to play and be encouraged to do so. When Mum died, the worst happened. Now I can try new things feeling that her spirit would whole-heartedly approve. Coming home on the train in my baggy clothes and boring anorak, I kept giggling at the thought "If only the other passengers knew what I had just done!". There is life in the old girl yet!

Back to the land of the living

I am back on here and on Twitter after so long away following Mum's death in September 2009. Hoping this year is better as last year was so dominated by sadness, farewells and trauma. Want to give something back to my husband and children for all the times I could not give them 100% last year. Grief is a strange and fascinating beast. This week, I have felt greedy for more of Mum's company and struggle to face the fact there are now only memories to draw on. Positively, I hope that my sudden realisation that life is very brief, will make me seize the day and do those things I so want to do like writing in particular, getting healthy, moving to a nicer area and so on. Good to be back on Twitter too but can't quite remember how to do it properly. Will perservere on all fronts. Thanks for comments and support

Mum died

My mum died last Thursday 3rd September 2009 at ten to eleven at night. She faced cancer with real dignity and great humour. In a funny sort of way, I feel her death means we have regained her how she was before the ravages of cancer set in. Such a huge character cannot be forgotten and will live on in her children and grandchildren. I love her very much and always will.

The Last Pancake - part 2

Things were so different on this visit. Mum lives for her television programmes but the television remained switched off all day. She was favouring water over her normal coffees by the dozen. She did not want to stroke the dog or play with the children. What should have been my daughter's birthday party at grandmas had turned into a lacklustre day with an oppressive atmosphere that I think all the adults felt. Fortunately, the children's Easter activities distracted them effectively I think but who knows?
But there were no balloons or party poppers and no cake.
Mum's house is called Pancake Land by my children as they say she makes the best pancakes in the world. Dad made my daughter one but it did not feel the same and the boys said no and had other things.
Mum did seem to cheer a little whilst talking to me and starting directing operations in her usual way a little bit. This led to a lovely scene where my daughter and Dad planted sweet pea seeds in the garden. "I'll be able to see those when they flower" said Mum. Gut-wrenching moment as I feel in my heart that she will not do so. She loves sweet peas and it is something we share. Or did!
Mum eventually went to lie down in her bedroom and this gave me an opportunity to talk to my brother and Dad. My brother said he was "struggling" and Dad after a leading question from me admitted that the situation is "hard". I am very much the baby of the family and it felt weird trying to offer support to these men in my life. I sent my Other Half out for a walk - not fair on him to keep going from room to room hiding from difficult and private conversations. He returned saying that town was "dead" after walking up to the house saying I must not say that word, I must not say that word. Hyper-awareness now to those terms even when the boys are playing with their toy swords and say the D word.
My other brother telephoned from France. He spoke to everyone except Mum who was sleeping. I think everyone told them in their own words that things are bad and we don't expect Mum to last long. She is covered in lumps over her body, one of which she made me feel I think to make it more real to me. She is not sleeping well but tells Dad she is - those reassuring lies that are part of every good marriage. I speak to my brother's partner too on the telephone who has gone through this journey with his parents. He catches me in the headlights, refusing to let me escape from confronting my emotion. I end the conversation and want to get away, to go home, to pretend all is well.
I see Mum on my own upstairs and find myself in one of those big life scenes. I will blog about this later, too much for me now.
As we leave the house, I put on my happy face and we all blow mad kisses and wave like we have had the best day ever.
When we arrive home, my Other Half tells me there were balloons on the side at Mum's house but without Mum, nobody thought to blow them up. But she had thought to get them despite everything. Heart-break

The Last Pancake has been served

We visited Mum and Dad at the weekend. After long traffic jams, we met Dad at the door who said "Your Mum's not too good. In fact, she hasn't been for days". I saw her in her chair in the lounge, flinching as the children and dog approached her. My brother dragged me off for a few minutes to say "We have cancelled the holiday". They were due to go to France today. Always a mad idea in my view. However, having told her on hearing her diagnosis, that she was to live her life as she saw fit I felt unable to instruct her not to go.
The visit started badly. We had clearly walked in not long after Mum had cried and said she was letting everybody down but felt unable to go on the holiday. The tension was tangible. Mum was irritable barking at the children about forgetting their pleases and thank yous. It is difficult to know that Mum is feeling vulnerable which she hates so she lashes out whilst balancing that with protecting your young children.
Lunch was served in the kitchen but Mum stayed in the lounge. To reduce the stress, I started talking about Dad's previous career to move his mind of what it must be on all the time now. It worked and a good conversation ensued whilst the children played with their Easter presents and ate their chocolate eggs.
I went into the lounge to see if Mum was OK. I must have been there at her side for about three or four hours. Clearly she wanted to talk to me. Someone brought me a bowl of crumble and custard. I tried to eat it whilst choking with emotion and also the effort of hiding that emotion to protect Mum. In the end, I put it down where it happily congealed at my side. Another symbol and even now, I know crumble will have a whole new feeling attached to it in the future.
Mum showed me her documents from her medical appointments and from the hospice. It felt surreal. What is Mum doing with hospice information. Hospices are about dying. This cannot be. She shocked me by saying she wants me to visit alone without the children and also that she does not want them at the funeral. "I want them to remember the fun times". How can I argue with that? However, I want to scream that they should pay their tribute to a brilliant grandma.
Mum talks of old memories, of her childhood, veering from one topic to the next. She says that my Other Half has proved himself a good husband and father. She asks me to understand her initial reservations about him which I did at the time anyway. Unemployed single father was not in her plans for me but then it wasn't in mine either. Yet, he is the one for me and the one I run to (and shout at) now as I face what feels like the worst thing ever.

Parenting - the joys

I often find myself challenged by the demands of parenting 3 young children. However, there are so many joys and I feel like recording them here.

My firstborn son was my first blood relative so extra special to me. My OH already had 3 daughters so I was over the moon to deliver his first son. I was overwhelmed by this little person who was so much himself from the start. I had thought he would be a combination of his parents. Although he shares some our traits and looks, he is unique. When my Mum visited us in hospital, she said she had never seen a new baby look around so much obviously fascinated by the world. I admit that I did not have a clue about looking after a baby and am so grateful that Mum was there to help and to support me in those early years. I went back to work and in her seventies, Mum learned how to put a disposable nappy on and celebrated her first grandchild with a huge passion that continues to the present day. My son is sensitive and states that friendship is the most important thing in the world. I know I am biased but people are mesmerised by him - teachers, fellow pupils, everyone. He hates writing but loves reading, mathematics, science and geography. Like my OH, he adores all things ICT and has to be dragged away from his Wii games. I don't have the faintest idea what he will become in later life apart from the fact that he will love and be loved.

My daughter, currently sporting a zillon spots due to chickenpox, was born after a really difficult labour. I now knew what women complain about having sailed through my first one with pleasure. Her saving grace was that she was a girl so as soon as that was announced, all was forgiven. She had really red cheeks and liked to sleep lots in the early days. I knew her Daddy was smitten when he brought her a lovely pink outfit to take her home in. He is not usually that sort of bloke. He started a trend there as she remains obsessed with fashion and all things pink.
She is very slight in build and tall with a lovely skin and my mad hair that shoots off at all angles. She is blonde which was a surprise to me. Although I started blonde, this did not last long so I expected her to have brown curls not blonde ones. There was lovely moment when she was little when our black labrador walked past her in her little bouncing chair. Then our golden labrador walked past her in the opposite direction. It was hilarious to watch her face as it was clear in her world, the dog had just changed colour. My daughter sends much of her time on another planet in her head and has a vivid imagination. When she was tiny, we worked out that she loved making her mark with pencils and crayons. Her interest in arts and crafts is huge and she also has an eye for design. Her other great love is music and dancing. Like me, she enjoys the power or words and her teachers report that she has beautiful handwriting. She wants cuddles all the time and why not?

Son number two was a real challenge for me. Like my daughter, he was not planned and he came very quickly after her. I reckon having your second child doubles the tasks you need to do but your third quadruples them and son on. I had the strange pain-free birth this time with an emergency Caesarean in the end. Twenty minutes and a pirate-like person was rubbed against my cheek by the midwife. Apparently this was to help me bond with him but it just irritated me after a long night. I was exhausted and in and out of sleep. I heard him crying, wailing and remember thinking that there was clearly nothing wrong with his lungs. I sensed excitement as I went into a recovery ward. It turned out he was a bumper baby so everyone was scurrying around to see just how heavy he was. Suffice to say, he was twice the size of the baby in the next bed when I was moved to the Maternity Ward. I went back to work two weeks later after all the awfulness of pain and immobility that followed the Caesarean. My OH became a house husband for that period. I wish I had made a different decision. I was being bullied at work although I did not realise that at the time. I was struggling with postnatal issues and I was not bonding with my baby at all. Then on a day out, I suddenly noticed he looked deathly and we rushed him to hospital. It was only tonisilitis but I was convinced that he was dying. Something clicked and I have loved him deeply since that day. I think he knows on a level how I originally felt because he clings to me more than the others and we have a very close bond. My OH says I let him get away with more but I reckon after the false start, he deserves that from me. He remains big although not chubby. He is full on and boisterous. He seems very sure of himself for a youngest child, quite clear that he fits in totally ith our family. He has the wickedest sense of humour - very slapstick and with a great ability to pull funny faces. At nursery, he acts like a cherub and is loved for his gorgeous smile and sense of cooperation.

Aren't I the lucky one?

Which is not to say that I don't struggle with parenting ever day but know in my heart, that it is totally worth it.