They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do.
Philip Larkin
Before I had a kid I was one of those annoying people who judged how others parented their children. I can’t say that I judged silently either, offering well meaning advice whether it was asked for or not. I thought that I knew what I was talking about. That I was an authority on being a mum.
I wanted to be the perfect mum
When G was born I had it all worked out. I’d read all the books and laughably, I thought I could control my baby. The joke was on me, she rebelled immediately. She slept so badly at night that by the time she was four, I looked one hundred. She refused to nap in the day after the age of one which meant I had no time to get shit done. When it came time to potty train, she would go in her pants and laugh in my face. She would only wear clothes that she liked and she did her own hair for school. Mortified, I would try to cajole her into looking more presentable; she would have none of it.
As for food, I prided myself on the fact that everything she ate was home made, no junk allowed. As soon as she started school though, she’d come out clutching packs of Haribo and there was no way that I could prise those from her hands. Instead, I’d curse the other mums who irresponsibly sent them in. The millions of parties that she attended meant cakes and sweets and eventually fast food like McDonalds. Slowly, my ‘control’ started to unravel until it got to the stage where I just gave up. It was just too exhausting. Now her food is mostly beige and you could buy it in a petrol station.
On reflection
The older she gets the more I reflect on how shitty I was to other people. And how, usually, it came back to bite me on the arse. One mum told me how her son suffered with terrible eczema. “Just use coconut oil,” I told her offhandedly. No awareness for the fact that she’d already exhausted every option available. It was only when G started to suffer with her own skin that I realised the enormity of the situation. She had molluscum contagiosum (sounds like something J.K Rowling invented) which left her with unsightly bumps on her arms and her feet and hands peeled with eczema. I was desperate. We saw GPs and specialists, I spent a fortune on creams. You know what didn’t work: coconut oil.
Another mum told me her son wanted a dog but she had enough on her plate. “Just say no,” was my helpful response. Internally I thought, he’s just a kid, be the adult and put your foot down. Do you want to know how many animals G has? Three! A dog, a hamster and the latest, a kitten that she begged for years for until we finally gave it. It was rewarding when we picked kitty up and G cried with happiness. A couple of months down the line, G mostly moans that the cat keeps ruining her stuff. “Are you not happy you got her though?” I asked. “She’s just as much trouble as she’s worth,” was G’s reply. Just like having a kid, I thought.
The dreaded teens
Friends with teenagers would share their woes. They stay in their rooms all day. They show no respect and answer back. One mum told me how heartbroken she was when her kid morphed overnight into this sullen being with whom she could no longer have a conversation. Surely she was overreacting? It can’t be that bad.
Now G is almost 13 and I’ve done her head in for as long as I can remember. As her mum, I am the bearer of bad news. That she has to do her homework. That she must, for the love of God, turn out the lights and go to sleep (for the fiftieth time). I ask her too many questions, breathe too loudly, annoy her when I’m eating, wear a purple coat which makes me look like a grape. I’m a walking embarrassment. I want to remind her of all the times she went into school with lopsided pigtails but one of us has to be the grown up.
I struggled to talk to my mum when I was a kid, it took me months to tell her when I got my period. It would be different with G though, we would talk about everything. In reality, she’d rather chew her own arm off than have a meaningful conversation with me. When I try to impart any wisdom, she says “why do you sound like one of your podcasts Mum, you know I don’t like talking about feelings.” She says feelings like it tastes bad in her mouth. Then she retreats to her room where we have to knock and wait to gain entry.
My friend was right, it is heartbreaking. This person that you love more than your own life, who visibly recoils when you try to kiss them goodnight. How can that not hurt.
On being a mum now
Now, I see people making the same mistakes that I did and I wince. They have young kids and they say things like, “nice healthy breakfast,” when G picks up a cereal bar, knowing that their baby will never eat such junk. Or they give me a look when she throws a smart ass comment my way. There’s no way that they’d accept that from their little angel. Part of me wants to say “you wait, you’ll see.” Because they won’t escape it, no parent does. But there’s no point, they won’t believe me. I wouldn’t have believed me either. Instead, when people judge me, I feel compassion. Well, mostly compassion with a side of smug. Because I know that when their time comes, they’ll learn the hard way, just like I did.
As for me, I’ve given up doling out parenting advice. I’m fully resigned to the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing. I think most parents, if they’re being honest, feel the same way. And I try to go easy on myself. I’m doing my best…the best I can hope for now is to fuck her up the least amount.
