Tag Archives: challenges of motherhood

The green-eyed monster

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green-eyed-monster

“Enjoy Sydney,” I said tersely, and I did mean it; it’s just that I wished I was going too. Like I do nearly every time my DH goes on a trip.

Yes, I can be a jealous wife – and it’s a horrid, energy-sapping emotion that I wish I could banish. And, I’m going to be completely uncensored here: it gets worse when you have children. And they’re dangling off you like deranged Christmas ornaments and depending on you for everything.

It was probably just a bad day, but my boys were awful today. AWFUL. I woke up with a small knot of dread in my stomach. I knew the morning would bring with it dark forces: the battle over homework. Getting my youngest to sit down at his wordlist is like trying to trap a will-o’-the-wisp. The older one is in cahoots and just as bad.

But, actually, the homework went OK; it was later in the day that I plummeted into the doldrums. Son2 bailed on a class he’d previously begged me to pay up-front for by screaming all the way there. His punishment – not being allowed to see a friend he’d already spent all morning with – caused his tantrums to crescendo, becoming a punishment for us too, and my equally strong-headed Son1 made a big scene about something else.

By dinnertime, my nerves were frayed, and the work I was meant to be completing still wasn’t done. When DH, nervously, asked what we were doing for dinner, I lost it. “They won’t eat anything I make anyway,” I raged, referring to a lasagna I’d cooked the other night (containing mushrooms) that had actually made Son1 vomit at the table. “Food I’ve spent ages preparing just gets thrown back at me!”

So I wasn’t in the best frame of mind when I wished my beloved (who does so much for us at home) a good trip as he went to bed at 6pm. I might even have told him he was lucky, and that I wished I could get away. If I’m honest, it’s not the layover in Sydney I’m jealous of (although it is one of my favourite cities); it’s the minutiae of everyday life and the juggling I want a break from.

“Have you seen the state of our cat?” DH asked the other day. “She really needs a bath.” “Look at Son1’s fingernails. You really need to cut them.” Then get the nail clippers. I’m pretty sure you can cut nails too.

Then there’s the Rasputin ants in the kitchen; the two-tonne grocery runs to feed ravenous boys on top of full-time work in media; the fact they’re getting up at 5.30am to play on the Xbox and are like grisly, overtired bears when I put them to bed – not to mention the never-ending logistics of the car pool I’m indebted to because I can’t get Son2 home from school when I’m at the office.

And don’t get me started about the school projects my older son can’t do himself, that last week saw me up until midnight making a beard for an Ernest Shackleton costume. (When do the costumes end?) I can’t be the only working mum who spends lunchtimes sneakily printing pages off the office printer when the bosses aren’t looking?

If there are any men reading this who want to know what a woman’s mind is like, imagine a browser with 2,671 tabs open.

I’ll feel better in the morning, when I’ve laid the green-eye monster to rest and am getting on with everything – because all this stuff, it’s just life, isn’t it? And it’s nearly the end of term.

School bags: A Pandora’s box

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So we’re in hospital this week with Son1*. Last night, it was DH’s turn to do the night shift, so I came home for some much-needed R&R and time off from ‘nurse duties’.

Son2, who I hadn’t seen in a couple of days, welcomed me home with a running hug – ie, he launched himself at me like a torpedo, and wrapped his arms around my neck.

Do pigs rap?

Do pigs rap?

Later, I took him upstairs to bed, and passed his school bag on the staircase. It’s not that I was fearful about what I’d find within, but you know how peering into their school bags is sometimes like opening a Pandora’s box of homework, notes about lost library books, crumpled artwork and permission slips.

But I knew I should check it, so I did (reluctantly). And in the communication book, I saw a note:

“Your child is a PIG in our school assembly.”

(I think to myself, I’m glad he’s not Muslim)

“Please send him to school wearing sunglasses, a medallion and ‘attitude’ clothes (ie, jeans, boots and a t-shirt). The children will be singing a rap song.”

Quite honestly? Styling a rapper pig look. That, I wasn’t expecting!

*Thank you to everyone who’s sent get-well wishes for Son1. Apart from scaring the nurses when the strongest pain medication didn’t work, and getting the surgeon up every half-hour last night from 1am-3.30am (I could have told them they wouldn’t get off lightly!), he is recovering and he’s being incredibly brave. We hope (everything crossed) to be out of hospital in a few days’ time.

The power of the patch

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Browsing through my emails this evening, my eye was drawn to a press release from Unilever Arabia about Dove’s new social experiment involving women not happy with how they look.

I don’t know why I felt compelled to watch the YouTube video (Dove’s latest attempt at a viral video), but I dutifully clicked on the link (here) – no doubt trying to put off the inevitable ruckus that dinnertime brings in our household.

In the commercial, the women are given ‘beauty patches’ to wear for two weeks. They aren’t told what’s inside the RB-X patch, merely that it’s supposed to enhance the way they see their own beauty.

"Kids, it says right here in the recipe, 'This dish contains no yucky stuff'"

“Kids, it says right here in the recipe, ‘This dish contains no yucky stuff'”

Now, I’m all for the power of a sticker. After Son2 had a particularly bad day at school the other week and had to be picked up from the principal’s office, no one was happier than me when, the next day, he emerged from the classroom wearing not one, but two, smiley stickers – awarded for good behaviour.

But as I watched the video, I found myself thinking seriously? I mean, really? The psychologist reveals at the end that the patches are fake. Yet they’ve had quite an impact on the women, who tell the camera that the patches have made them feel great, want to show off their arms and smile at people and go dress-shopping.

After the revelation that there’s nothing inside, you see the women giggle. And then cry. [Cue faint music and a clip of another woman revelling in her new-found self-esteem.]

Never mind empowering them, it just made them look gullible, in my opinion.

But it did get me thinking. A patch that stops my skin bristling and allows me to say no calmly every time my children dislike the dinner I’ve cooked and demand cereal. Yes, please!

When do the whiny years end?

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My mother – the wise one – told me the other day on Skype, “Enjoy it – they’re small for such a short time, you know.”

Nod away, please – because I know it’s true. I know this is a fleeting part of my children’s lives, and one day we’ll be looking at photos in the knowledge that this phase of cheeky, dimpled, non-stop little boyness was merely a snapshot in time.

Like my parents must wonder how the blonde-haired, shy little girl with pouty lips in their photo albums turned into the mum-of-two in Dubai.

You thought we didn't need umbrellas here in Dubai, didn't you?

“Ouch! You’re hurting my ears!”

But could someone please tell me: when, oh when, does the whining stop?

Today my four-year-old whined All.Day.Long. In fact, he’s whined pretty much all week.

It’s like I’m a conductor and the mere act of turning my attention elsewhere signals to my son’s vocal chords that it’s time to strike up a racket louder than a Katy Perry concert.

And his older brother – seemingly oblivious to the clanging, deafening decibels – has been egging him on from the wings, with cymbals.

I’d like to be able to tell you that I get down on LB’s level and calmly explain that whining won’t get him what he wants, but I’m about a hundred miles beyond that.

Instead, the constant wa-wa-wa-ing in my ears has driven me to distraction and I’ve started fantasising about lying down for a very long sleep – not-to-be-disturbed until my youngest is at least 8.

But I know what my mother – if I can catch her between aqua-zumba, bridge sessions and Med cruises – would say: “Just you wait til they’re teenagers, dear!”

Rough nights

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I have to admit, I started the Eid half-term in a not-so-bright mood.

“When do I get a holiday?” I harrumphed to DH in a small self-entitled voice, before threatening to check into a hotel to have some ‘me time’ and a lie-in.

These outbursts are nearly always linked to tiredness, I’ve realised. And DH, who’s heard it all before, knows exactly what to do: he takes charge of the children and sits it out.

Then, the cooler Eid weather worked its magic. Suffice to say, Dubai’s blue skies are casting their spell over everyone again, tourists are flocking back in their droves and Eid turned out to be fabulous – almost like being on holiday in Dubai.

DH’s change of scenery – though I’m sure he wished he’d been able to see Noddy at the theatre with us!

But, parenting, it’s never smooth sailing, is it? Just when you think you might actually have cracked it, that it may even be getting a little easier, doesn’t something always happen to keep you on your toes?

Last night, as I settled in on the sofa, I heard the sound of little feet padding down the stairs. BB appeared, with glassy eyes and a vacant stare. Sleepwalking again! We’ve found him draped across various pieces of furniture in the middle of the night a couple of times now.

He’s pretty easy to settle when this happens, but what followed definitely fell into my ‘things I detest about parenting’ category: Projectile Vomit. EVERYWHERE. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, BB then slipped and fell facedown in it. Oh, the shrieks.

Oh, the MISERY.

LB, of course, woke too, and put on an Oscar-worthy performance pretending to be sick (never one to be outdone). And so there I was, wading in vom, trying to coax two boys back to sleep, when my phone pinged.

A text from DH: “Everything OK? I’m in Paris.”

Let’s just say that, after two really rough nights with zero bonhomie, the hotel stay is back on the agenda!