I've noticed lately that I'm a very different parent to F than I was when O was his age, and I'm not really sure if that's down to how different they are (and they really are VERY different) or the fact that I've kind of found my motherhood mojo.
I mean, the thing is that everything was so much worse than I expected when F was born. I expected it to be hard having two children. I expected that I would struggle to get them up and ready and out of the door in time to get O to playgroup four mornings a week, but I really didn't expect what actually happened. I didn't expect the morning breastfeed to take two and a half hours or to never sleep or to feel every single day like I was going fucking crazy. If I managed to get through a day without crying, it was a genuine miracle. There was none of that swan-on-the-water stuff, no illusion of calm or of me having my shit together; it was all panic all the time.
BUT F had his reasons for being a nightmare and none of them were his fault. He wasn't waking me up 300 times a night just to be an asshole, and things got better. Which, actually, kind of happened without me noticing. It didn't particularly occur to me at any point that I wasn't juggling anymore. The "bedtime hour" just suddenly stopped being awful and settled into a routine of being occasionally challenging. And it really helped when F started sleeping through the night, because after that I was still exhausted a lot of the time, but I wasn't OMG I'M SO TIRED KILL ME PLEASE exhausted anymore.
I've never really had much confidence as a parent, and there are a few reasons for this. Firstly - and I think a lot of parents probably feel like this - half the time I'm not even sure I know what the fuck I'm doing. But aside from that, most of my anxiety around going out alone with my kids comes from the fact that I look much younger than I am. In a couple of months I will be 29 years old, but I'm only five feet tall and I have the physique of a pre-pubescent girl. So people who don't know me look at me and I can SEE them thinking "teen pregnancy". Like, somebody actually asked me when I was pregnant with O if I knew how it had happened. No shit. And then there's the fact that I have quite a lot of tattoos and some of them are very visible. So, once I take my coat off, I can then see the OMG SHE MUST ONLY BE ABOUT 18 folks thinking "and she's trashy as fuck with it." So why does this make me feel more anxious? Because, in my mind, these people have already decided that I am a terrible, inadequate mother (notice how I said "in my mind", meaning I am aware of the fact that it might not actually be true), so if my kids don't behave impeccably, they will be vindicated. And, to be perfectly honest, I already think that about myself a lot of the time, so I really don't need a whole bunch of other people thinking it too. And sure, I know they're strangers and I'll probably never see them again, but I will have to sit through a meal or finish my shopping knowing exactly how hard they think I'm failing.
Nevertheless, O actually was a difficult child to take out and about. It wasn't just me being a nervous first-time parent; he genuinely was a nightmare a lot of the time. Before he could walk, he dangled over the side of his pushchair and grabbed at stuff as we walked by in a shop. He once trashed a whole card display in Clintons at Christmas while a bunch of employees glared at me and I muttered mortified apologies and tried to pick everything up. When he started walking, he would shake off my hand, wriggle out of his wrist strap and run off. I probably should have bought some reins, but I've always felt vaguely uncomfortable with how much they make it look like you're taking your kid for a walk. And once he was big enough to sit up at the table with everyone else, the mealtime fidgeting began. Taking him out on errands was exhausting and fraught with grumpy strops and tantrums. But going out with F is easy. A couple of weeks ago, I had to go into town to get a birthday present for my brother-in-law while O was at playgroup and my husband was at work. So we stopped off at Sainsbury's cafe first for a coffee and a snack. F sat in his high chair, chattered nonsense at me, munched a rice cake and generally behaved perfectly. On the walk into town, he pointed at everything and waved at people. To be honest, were it not for the fact that I was pushing a stroller, I probably would have forgotten he was with me.
I'm not saying that it will always be like that. In fact, sometimes he gets pissed off and shouts just like every other kid. Sometimes he throws his cup on the floor, and he is an expert at planking if he doesn't want to get back into his pushchair/car seat. But, to all intents and purposes, he is a super easy child. After how hard everything was with him when he was a baby, some hopeful and very buried part of me always figured that maybe he would be. And as for O, he's probably just going through a bit of a threenager stage right now. He was a great sleeper and feeder as a baby, and since I was only 25 when he came along, I'm really very grateful for that.
Maybe none of this really has anything to do with how obliging or otherwise my children are; maybe what it's actually about is the fact that I feel more equipped to deal with the unpredictability of parenting young children. I feel like I can cope if my kids start acting batshit crazy while we're out somewhere. I still find it hard to cope with the inevitable judgement of others, but I accept the fact that it is exactly that; inevitable. There's not much I can do to convince anyone that I'm actually an okay parent if they've already decided that I'm not. And does it actually fucking matter what anybody else thinks anyway? Yes, sometimes people will see my parenting fail moments and they will assume things about my parenting in general based on that one snapshot of my life. But they don't know me and they don't know my children. I'm only just starting to figure out that their opinions are not important.
Showing posts with label son. Show all posts
Showing posts with label son. Show all posts
Saturday, 12 March 2016
Friday, 26 February 2016
Having kids will change your life
There's nothing that has the power to change your life quite so much as becoming a parent. Whatever life was like before you had kids, I can guarantee you that you won't even recognise it once they arrive. The short list of things that having a baby changes is:
EVERYTHING.
The slightly more in-depth list consists of:
Sleep
How much you sleep will change DRAMATICALLY overnight. Literally. Because yesterday you didn't have a baby and today you do. It's just like that. How much you value sleep will change too. Before you had kids, sleep was just something you did at the end of every day because your body told you that you had to. You probably didn't really give it that much thought, did you? But now your sleep is precious. Now four uninterrupted hours on the bounce is the Holy Grail. A whole night? Are you out of your fucking mind? That's not happening for a long time yet. I am yet to meet a parent with young children - mother or father - who does not feel nostalgic about sleep. Oh, and those Sunday morning lie-ins you used to have? Yeah. I think you can see where this is going.
Freedom
When you don't have to plan every outing around the needs of a small child, you take your freedom for granted. Why wouldn't you? Before you have kids you don't have to think about packing a changing bag and having spare nappies and wipes in the car. You don't have to worry about whether or not you can breastfeed in the outfit you're wearing or if there'll be somewhere to heat up a bottle. You need to go out, so you go out. But once children come along, you can't do that anymore. You either have to plan the outing with military precision and accept the fact that your baby will probably unleash a poonami the second you sit down on the bus/start the car engine OR you need to find somebody to babysit. Somebody your child is familiar and comfortable with - and I really can't stress that part enough. Still feel like going out? Nah. Maybe tomorrow, eh?
Worry
It is ASTOUNDING how much parents worry about their kids. When they're babies, you worry if they're eating, shitting and sleeping enough (probably; undoubtedly more; and NO). When they get a little older, you start to worry about those dreaded milestones. And everybody else is worrying about them too (or being smug about them, which is pretty much the same thing), so they're THE topic of discussion at every playgroup, play date and clinic. Inescapable. After that comes behaviour (toddler tyranny is normal; anybody who says otherwise is lying) and thereafter it's a constant snowball of worry until you die. I mean, that sounds bleak, but apparently it's true. So get comfy and settle in for the ride.
Social Life
Okay, this one is tough. But the truth is, you might lose some friends after you have kids. As far as your friends with kids go, you're probably safe. When you cancel on them because you're too fucking mind-bogglingly exhausted to leave the house after 7:30pm, they will more than likely understand and feel secretly relieved. But when the same thing happens with your friends who don't have kids, they might not have quite the same level of understanding. That's not their fault, by the way, and they're not doing it to be assholes; they just have no personal experience of how knackering it can be to stagger through the bath and bedtime routine and then have to drag yourself into the shower and attempt to make yourself look something like human. So be prepared for some changes in your social circle; it's normal and it will be okay.
Your Home
After almost four years of motherhood, I honestly cannot remember what it was like to live in a home that wasn't full of toys and nappies and bottles. I used to have ornamental shit all over the place and laundry that was actually done and ironed and put away before it took on laundryzilla status. Now... Well, now I spend a lot of time trying to come up with ingenious toy storage solutions and despairing over laundry. None of my kitchen cupboards open without adult intervention and there's a lock on the OUTSIDE of my bathroom door to stop small people letting even smaller people in to rifle through the bin and unravel all the toilet roll. Sometimes, when I forget to put that lock on after I leave the bathroom, I find shampoo bottles and sponges down the toilet. Oh, and O actually pushed one of the knots in the floorboards all the way through earlier this week, so I had to call a joiner for advice about how to bung it up and fill it in. Such fun!
Honestly, reading this has probably made you think that parenthood is just an endless nightmare with no redeeming features, but that's not true. There are a lot of shitty moments when you have young children. Literally and figuratively. But there are really great moments too. There are the first moments of the morning when your kids are inexplicably ecstatic to see you. There are the moments when they climb into your lap with a book on a rainy afternoon. There are kisses and cuddles and I love you's and there is the simple fact that you are one of their absolute favourite people in the world. All of that is pretty cool really, and it's more than worth all the other stuff.
EVERYTHING.
The slightly more in-depth list consists of:
Sleep
How much you sleep will change DRAMATICALLY overnight. Literally. Because yesterday you didn't have a baby and today you do. It's just like that. How much you value sleep will change too. Before you had kids, sleep was just something you did at the end of every day because your body told you that you had to. You probably didn't really give it that much thought, did you? But now your sleep is precious. Now four uninterrupted hours on the bounce is the Holy Grail. A whole night? Are you out of your fucking mind? That's not happening for a long time yet. I am yet to meet a parent with young children - mother or father - who does not feel nostalgic about sleep. Oh, and those Sunday morning lie-ins you used to have? Yeah. I think you can see where this is going.
Freedom
When you don't have to plan every outing around the needs of a small child, you take your freedom for granted. Why wouldn't you? Before you have kids you don't have to think about packing a changing bag and having spare nappies and wipes in the car. You don't have to worry about whether or not you can breastfeed in the outfit you're wearing or if there'll be somewhere to heat up a bottle. You need to go out, so you go out. But once children come along, you can't do that anymore. You either have to plan the outing with military precision and accept the fact that your baby will probably unleash a poonami the second you sit down on the bus/start the car engine OR you need to find somebody to babysit. Somebody your child is familiar and comfortable with - and I really can't stress that part enough. Still feel like going out? Nah. Maybe tomorrow, eh?
Worry
It is ASTOUNDING how much parents worry about their kids. When they're babies, you worry if they're eating, shitting and sleeping enough (probably; undoubtedly more; and NO). When they get a little older, you start to worry about those dreaded milestones. And everybody else is worrying about them too (or being smug about them, which is pretty much the same thing), so they're THE topic of discussion at every playgroup, play date and clinic. Inescapable. After that comes behaviour (toddler tyranny is normal; anybody who says otherwise is lying) and thereafter it's a constant snowball of worry until you die. I mean, that sounds bleak, but apparently it's true. So get comfy and settle in for the ride.
Social Life
Okay, this one is tough. But the truth is, you might lose some friends after you have kids. As far as your friends with kids go, you're probably safe. When you cancel on them because you're too fucking mind-bogglingly exhausted to leave the house after 7:30pm, they will more than likely understand and feel secretly relieved. But when the same thing happens with your friends who don't have kids, they might not have quite the same level of understanding. That's not their fault, by the way, and they're not doing it to be assholes; they just have no personal experience of how knackering it can be to stagger through the bath and bedtime routine and then have to drag yourself into the shower and attempt to make yourself look something like human. So be prepared for some changes in your social circle; it's normal and it will be okay.
Your Home
After almost four years of motherhood, I honestly cannot remember what it was like to live in a home that wasn't full of toys and nappies and bottles. I used to have ornamental shit all over the place and laundry that was actually done and ironed and put away before it took on laundryzilla status. Now... Well, now I spend a lot of time trying to come up with ingenious toy storage solutions and despairing over laundry. None of my kitchen cupboards open without adult intervention and there's a lock on the OUTSIDE of my bathroom door to stop small people letting even smaller people in to rifle through the bin and unravel all the toilet roll. Sometimes, when I forget to put that lock on after I leave the bathroom, I find shampoo bottles and sponges down the toilet. Oh, and O actually pushed one of the knots in the floorboards all the way through earlier this week, so I had to call a joiner for advice about how to bung it up and fill it in. Such fun!
Honestly, reading this has probably made you think that parenthood is just an endless nightmare with no redeeming features, but that's not true. There are a lot of shitty moments when you have young children. Literally and figuratively. But there are really great moments too. There are the first moments of the morning when your kids are inexplicably ecstatic to see you. There are the moments when they climb into your lap with a book on a rainy afternoon. There are kisses and cuddles and I love you's and there is the simple fact that you are one of their absolute favourite people in the world. All of that is pretty cool really, and it's more than worth all the other stuff.
Friday, 12 February 2016
The Great Conjuntivitis Epidemic
Sometimes I wonder if I have ever done one single thing right in my whole life. I know that sounds melodramatic, but I seem to spend a lot of my time second guessing myself – particularly when it comes to parenting – and I always feel like I’m making the wrong decision in the end anyway. So, this week I’ve been really sick and I spent one whole day in bed and honestly don’t really know how I got through the other days. But aside from that, Toddler Taylor (or “O”, as he will be known from now on) picked up conjunctivitis at the beginning of the week and I really didn’t know what to do. My husband diligently took him to the chemist and got some eye drops for him on Tuesday while I was out of action and started treating him right away, but I had no clue what I was supposed to do about sending him to paygroup the next day.
So I did research. Obviously I know that it’s contagious, and I’ve had it a few times myself so I know it’s also really fucking itchy. Itchy = Rubbing. Rubbing = Spreading Infection. Very basic formula. But O wasn’t really rubbing at his eyes after he started on the drops, so I thought we might be okay. I emailed his playgroup and asked them what they wanted me to do and they replied saying it was fine for him to go if he wasn’t rubbing or scratching his eyes. The next morning, aside from me having to physically sit on him to administer the drops (calm down; I only weigh 4 stone more than he does), he seemed generally quite well and he said that his eyes were not itchy or sore. And, on that basis, I took him to playgroup and that was that.
At home we did everything we could think of to stop anyone else in the house catching it. We gave O his own hand towel and I made a kind of strangled screech every time he reached for the wrong towel after he’d washed his hands, which was probably pretty weird and disconcerting, but it did the trick. And we made sure he washed his hands if he’d been touching his eyes and told him not to share his cuddly toys with his brother. Infection control is almost completely impossible with small people, and they really don’t understand what you’re losing your shit about if they pick up the wrong towel or why you scream "WASH YOUR HANDS!" at them every time they touch their eyes, but we did our best.
Yesterday it seemed like Baby Taylor (or F, as he will be known from now on) had quite gooey eyes, so we decided he had probably caught the dreaded pink eye too. So we kind of sighed and were like OF COURSE, but other than that we just figured it was pretty inevitable, what with kids being essentially quite grubby creatures.
And then.
Then I took O to playgroup and we bumped into Tired Dad on the way in (remember Tired Dad from my post about adult naptime?) and the conversation went something like this:
Tired Dad: Morning! How are you?
Me: I’m good thanks. How about you?
TD: Eurgh. Big one has conjunctivitis and little one has conjunctivitis AND an abscess on his eyelid.
Me: *awkwardly* Oh no, are they okay?
O:*mumbles* I had that. Mummy sat on me and gave me drops.
TD: ?
Me: Er, yeah, he had it too. Beginning of the week. Er... Sorry. It might be our fault.
He was actually pretty much okay about it and we grimace-laughed about how fucking impossible it is to put drops in the eyes of young children, then O and I went inside and were greeted by a gaggle of parents standing just inside the door. So then, in a moment that will be forever known as the Playgroup Witch Hunt, this happened:
Playgroup Worker: Morning O! Your eyes look much better today!
Me: Er, yeah. He’s doing great.
Mum 1. Oh, has he had conjunctivitis? I think my daughter has that.
Mum 2. Yeah, mine was rubbing at her eyes last night too.
PW: Somebody else just called up and said their child isn’t coming because she has it too.
EVERYONE LOOKS AT ME
Me: *desperately* I’m sorry! I sent an email! He wasn’t scratching! I’m so sorry!
O: MUMMY SAT ON ME AND PUT DROPS IN MY EYES!
EVERYONE STARES AT ME IN OBVIOUS HORROR
Me: Um...
Then I faffed around with O’s coat for way too long because I was embarrassed and kept fumbling the zip while everyone else just kind of stared at me a bit and made it ten times worse. I literally couldn’t get out of there quick enough.
At lunchtime pick-up I laughed about it with Tired Dad and he told me it probably wasn’t O’s fault at all, but there was this little voice in my head the whole time that was like, it’s just one more fucking thing for me to feel bad about. I researched, I double-checked with the playgroup, I enforced strict infection control procedures and I still messed up. That’s so me.
I suppose at least there’s this one thing: I can actually give you some solid advice for once, which is this: If your kid has conjunctivitis, ignore what PHE says and just don’t fucking send them to playgroup or whatever, because it’s really just not worth it to end up being the person everyone glares at for the rest of the week. I mean, if you just don’t give a shit about being glared at then, seriously, good for you; I wish I could be more like you. Anyway, I suppose it’s not so bad; it’s half-term next week and everyone will probably have forgotten about it by the time the kids go back... Or all of the parents will be wearing dark glasses because they’ve caught it too...
So I did research. Obviously I know that it’s contagious, and I’ve had it a few times myself so I know it’s also really fucking itchy. Itchy = Rubbing. Rubbing = Spreading Infection. Very basic formula. But O wasn’t really rubbing at his eyes after he started on the drops, so I thought we might be okay. I emailed his playgroup and asked them what they wanted me to do and they replied saying it was fine for him to go if he wasn’t rubbing or scratching his eyes. The next morning, aside from me having to physically sit on him to administer the drops (calm down; I only weigh 4 stone more than he does), he seemed generally quite well and he said that his eyes were not itchy or sore. And, on that basis, I took him to playgroup and that was that.
At home we did everything we could think of to stop anyone else in the house catching it. We gave O his own hand towel and I made a kind of strangled screech every time he reached for the wrong towel after he’d washed his hands, which was probably pretty weird and disconcerting, but it did the trick. And we made sure he washed his hands if he’d been touching his eyes and told him not to share his cuddly toys with his brother. Infection control is almost completely impossible with small people, and they really don’t understand what you’re losing your shit about if they pick up the wrong towel or why you scream "WASH YOUR HANDS!" at them every time they touch their eyes, but we did our best.
Yesterday it seemed like Baby Taylor (or F, as he will be known from now on) had quite gooey eyes, so we decided he had probably caught the dreaded pink eye too. So we kind of sighed and were like OF COURSE, but other than that we just figured it was pretty inevitable, what with kids being essentially quite grubby creatures.
And then.
Then I took O to playgroup and we bumped into Tired Dad on the way in (remember Tired Dad from my post about adult naptime?) and the conversation went something like this:
Tired Dad: Morning! How are you?
Me: I’m good thanks. How about you?
TD: Eurgh. Big one has conjunctivitis and little one has conjunctivitis AND an abscess on his eyelid.
Me: *awkwardly* Oh no, are they okay?
O:*mumbles* I had that. Mummy sat on me and gave me drops.
TD: ?
Me: Er, yeah, he had it too. Beginning of the week. Er... Sorry. It might be our fault.
He was actually pretty much okay about it and we grimace-laughed about how fucking impossible it is to put drops in the eyes of young children, then O and I went inside and were greeted by a gaggle of parents standing just inside the door. So then, in a moment that will be forever known as the Playgroup Witch Hunt, this happened:
Playgroup Worker: Morning O! Your eyes look much better today!
Me: Er, yeah. He’s doing great.
Mum 1. Oh, has he had conjunctivitis? I think my daughter has that.
Mum 2. Yeah, mine was rubbing at her eyes last night too.
PW: Somebody else just called up and said their child isn’t coming because she has it too.
EVERYONE LOOKS AT ME
Me: *desperately* I’m sorry! I sent an email! He wasn’t scratching! I’m so sorry!
O: MUMMY SAT ON ME AND PUT DROPS IN MY EYES!
EVERYONE STARES AT ME IN OBVIOUS HORROR
Me: Um...
Then I faffed around with O’s coat for way too long because I was embarrassed and kept fumbling the zip while everyone else just kind of stared at me a bit and made it ten times worse. I literally couldn’t get out of there quick enough.
At lunchtime pick-up I laughed about it with Tired Dad and he told me it probably wasn’t O’s fault at all, but there was this little voice in my head the whole time that was like, it’s just one more fucking thing for me to feel bad about. I researched, I double-checked with the playgroup, I enforced strict infection control procedures and I still messed up. That’s so me.
I suppose at least there’s this one thing: I can actually give you some solid advice for once, which is this: If your kid has conjunctivitis, ignore what PHE says and just don’t fucking send them to playgroup or whatever, because it’s really just not worth it to end up being the person everyone glares at for the rest of the week. I mean, if you just don’t give a shit about being glared at then, seriously, good for you; I wish I could be more like you. Anyway, I suppose it’s not so bad; it’s half-term next week and everyone will probably have forgotten about it by the time the kids go back... Or all of the parents will be wearing dark glasses because they’ve caught it too...
Thursday, 31 December 2015
Longing
I'm going to say this now and then I am going to put it away in a box and try to move on from it. So here goes:
I achingly long for a daughter.
Let me be absolutely clear about this; I would not change my sons for anything. I would not trade either of them for a daughter. To live without ever having known one or the other is an utterly intolerable notion. Despite remembering with cold clarity how sickeningly disappointed I was to hear "you're having a boy" at the anomaly scan of my second pregnancy, if someone offered me the chance to go back in time and swap that boy for a girl I would not take it. I cannot imagine what life would be without, specifically, him. But if there had been a guarantee after I had Baby Taylor that my next child would be a girl, I would not have hesitated for a second.
For as long as I can remember, I have imagined having a daughter. I assumed, perhaps arrogantly and surely as most women do, that a daughter was in my future. As a teenager, I kept a journal called "Dear Adelaide". It was a comprehensive account of my daily errors, a volume I one day hoped to hand to my daughter - who, at that time, would have been called Adelaide - with the words "learn from my mistakes before you go out and start making your own." I still have that journal, packed away in a box in the loft. And my daughter is no more a reality now than she was back then.
The mother/daughter bond is a slight variation on the father/son bond. Children tend to gravitate towards the parent whose gender is the same as their own as they get older. I'm trying not to stereotype here because I don't believe that people fit into boxes based on their genitalia, and I certainly encourage my sons to be whoever they are without my judgement. They're free to wear whatever they want and play with whatever they want. For example, Toddler Taylor enjoys playing with cars and trains. He doesn't have much grasp of the word "gentle" and nurturing is not his bag at all. But Baby Taylor is a very gentle soul. He likes to cuddle his teddy bears and stroke their fur, and he will often climb into my lap for a snuggle. He likes to play with toys that sing and play music. They are people. They are individuals. They are different from each other in so many ways.
I love my sons and I know they love me. Neither of those facts are in question. But I do not want them to ever worship me. I do not want them to put me on a pedestal upon which I will never belong. I especially do not want them to compare any women they meet in the future to me. I'd like them to call or visit every once in a while when they're grown up and have left home. I'd like them to bring their girlfriends or boyfriends to meet me, but I don't want them to care what my opinions of their partners are. I don't expect them to want to go on lunch dates with me or meet me to go shopping.
The thing is, all of that would still be true if I had a daughter, but at the same time I would hope that I could have had the same relationship with a daughter as I do with my own mom. She and I talk on the phone most nights. We meet up to go do things together. When she's sick, I buy her medicine and take it round to her house for her. She is my best friend and most trusted confidante. She provided me with the tools to become my own person and not be afraid of being exactly who and what I am. And, possibly most importantly, if I have the opportunity I will be there to hold her hand and tell her that I love her when she makes her final journey from this world. To me, all of these things are synonymous with what it means to be a daughter.
In March my gran passed away. My mom sat on one side of the bed holding one hand while I sat at the other side holding the other hand. Three generations of women who truly and honestly knew what it was to love each other. The next morning I realised that there might not be anyone to hold my hand when it's my turn. My sons might be far away. They may not feel as though they have enough of a connection with me to want to be there. I know it's not a guarantee that a daughter would want to be there either, but I feel like maybe she would if she felt the same way about me that I do about my mom.
I hope that my sons are close to their dad. I hope they go to football matches or movies with him. I hope they look up to him and try to emulate him in some ways. I hope they call in to see him when he's older and retired. And I hope that they have a normal, healthy relationship with me too. I hope, more than anything else, that just every so often they'll give me a cuddle.
Please do not mistake this longing for being simply ungrateful; I know only too well how blessed I am to have the beautiful, wonderful children that I do. To be a mother is a privilege and an experience for which I am endlessly thankful. There is only this; that sometimes I feel the lack of a daughter acutely. Sometimes it is hard to accept that what I always imagined for myself is something that I will never have. It does not negate my love for my sons in any way, but it would be insincere for me not to admit to this feeling that closes in on me just every now and again.
Surely that's okay?
I achingly long for a daughter.
Let me be absolutely clear about this; I would not change my sons for anything. I would not trade either of them for a daughter. To live without ever having known one or the other is an utterly intolerable notion. Despite remembering with cold clarity how sickeningly disappointed I was to hear "you're having a boy" at the anomaly scan of my second pregnancy, if someone offered me the chance to go back in time and swap that boy for a girl I would not take it. I cannot imagine what life would be without, specifically, him. But if there had been a guarantee after I had Baby Taylor that my next child would be a girl, I would not have hesitated for a second.
For as long as I can remember, I have imagined having a daughter. I assumed, perhaps arrogantly and surely as most women do, that a daughter was in my future. As a teenager, I kept a journal called "Dear Adelaide". It was a comprehensive account of my daily errors, a volume I one day hoped to hand to my daughter - who, at that time, would have been called Adelaide - with the words "learn from my mistakes before you go out and start making your own." I still have that journal, packed away in a box in the loft. And my daughter is no more a reality now than she was back then.
The mother/daughter bond is a slight variation on the father/son bond. Children tend to gravitate towards the parent whose gender is the same as their own as they get older. I'm trying not to stereotype here because I don't believe that people fit into boxes based on their genitalia, and I certainly encourage my sons to be whoever they are without my judgement. They're free to wear whatever they want and play with whatever they want. For example, Toddler Taylor enjoys playing with cars and trains. He doesn't have much grasp of the word "gentle" and nurturing is not his bag at all. But Baby Taylor is a very gentle soul. He likes to cuddle his teddy bears and stroke their fur, and he will often climb into my lap for a snuggle. He likes to play with toys that sing and play music. They are people. They are individuals. They are different from each other in so many ways.
I love my sons and I know they love me. Neither of those facts are in question. But I do not want them to ever worship me. I do not want them to put me on a pedestal upon which I will never belong. I especially do not want them to compare any women they meet in the future to me. I'd like them to call or visit every once in a while when they're grown up and have left home. I'd like them to bring their girlfriends or boyfriends to meet me, but I don't want them to care what my opinions of their partners are. I don't expect them to want to go on lunch dates with me or meet me to go shopping.
The thing is, all of that would still be true if I had a daughter, but at the same time I would hope that I could have had the same relationship with a daughter as I do with my own mom. She and I talk on the phone most nights. We meet up to go do things together. When she's sick, I buy her medicine and take it round to her house for her. She is my best friend and most trusted confidante. She provided me with the tools to become my own person and not be afraid of being exactly who and what I am. And, possibly most importantly, if I have the opportunity I will be there to hold her hand and tell her that I love her when she makes her final journey from this world. To me, all of these things are synonymous with what it means to be a daughter.
In March my gran passed away. My mom sat on one side of the bed holding one hand while I sat at the other side holding the other hand. Three generations of women who truly and honestly knew what it was to love each other. The next morning I realised that there might not be anyone to hold my hand when it's my turn. My sons might be far away. They may not feel as though they have enough of a connection with me to want to be there. I know it's not a guarantee that a daughter would want to be there either, but I feel like maybe she would if she felt the same way about me that I do about my mom.
I hope that my sons are close to their dad. I hope they go to football matches or movies with him. I hope they look up to him and try to emulate him in some ways. I hope they call in to see him when he's older and retired. And I hope that they have a normal, healthy relationship with me too. I hope, more than anything else, that just every so often they'll give me a cuddle.
Please do not mistake this longing for being simply ungrateful; I know only too well how blessed I am to have the beautiful, wonderful children that I do. To be a mother is a privilege and an experience for which I am endlessly thankful. There is only this; that sometimes I feel the lack of a daughter acutely. Sometimes it is hard to accept that what I always imagined for myself is something that I will never have. It does not negate my love for my sons in any way, but it would be insincere for me not to admit to this feeling that closes in on me just every now and again.
Surely that's okay?
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