June Journals #29 ~ Drowning in Doubt

Testing Times

I’m glad this is my penultimate June Journals post. Writing every day has made me self aware again, in a way I had managed to hide from for a while.

When your mind is a war zone, mindfulness isn’t the calm serenity it’s claimed to be.

And I’ve no doubt you’ll be glad to no longer have to endure my parenting existential angst.

Because at the moment I just can’t parent. I don’t know how.

My daughter seems so full of rage and sarcasm and disappointment, I don’t know how to parent it. I don’t know what it is she wants or needs from me.

Yesterday she insisted that 10 + (5×10) = 50. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to gently point out that it wasn’t quite right. When she got angry with me, I was on the verge of tears.

I can’t parent that.

This morning she came in at 6am in a rage because her hair bobble kept falling out when she did handstands against her bedroom wall.

I can’t parent that.

I heard her screaming like a fishwife at her brother and ordering him to do stuff. A knot formed in my stomach and I didn’t want to get out of bed, because I know I will make it worse. I’m frightened of her, of upsetting her or enduring her wrath.

I can’t parent that.

She’s angry at the weather for stopping her doing cartwheels, but the endless cartwheels just leave her frustrated and in tears, either because they don’t go right or because I won’t watch and applaud every single one.

I can’t parent that.

I watched Serena Williams falter in a tennis match against an unranked opponent yesterday because of her doubt and self-recrimination. It’s destructive, and oh so hard to live with. I know, because that’s my daughter.

It’s like walking around on a floor of TNT and not knowing where the trigger is. When I said that to my husband yesterday he smothered a laugh. Because it’s also like living with me.

And that’s the crux of it. I can’t parent her because she is me.

I remember once, when I was a teenager, my mum said, “You’ve inherited all my worst traits.” I was crushed. I took it that there was nothing good in me. Now I see if for what it was: my mother’s own self-doubt and insecurity.

I watch my daughter and see all the things I loathe about myself, stropping and stamping around, making everyone miserable. Needing praise but reacting badly to anything that can be taken as criticism.

I hate it in myself, so how can I parent it in someone else? Never mind the recriminations that it’s all my fault that she’s like that.

And that’s just behaviour. Don’t even get me started on my failings in other areas of stay-at-home-mumdom. Like that husband ran out of clean shirts, or that the kids eat nothing but sugar and fat, or that the house is a steaming pit of disgustingness while I sat and knitted and watched tennis all day yesterday.

Sigh.

This was meant to be a positive set of posts. I was going to put ‘can’t even get that right’ but self-pity is an indulgence.

Anyhoo. Let’s find a positive. I wrote to the council and helped get the roadworks put off to the summer holidays, so I can do the school run without screaming.

It’s not raining yet today, so my son might get to do some of his much-anticipated school trip.

My knee feels better and I can walk this morning.

I have food in the fridge, clothes in the cupboard, and money in my purse.

I have a daughter, a son, a husband, who love me despite my failings.

I am grateful. Truly.

June Journals #28 ~ Mummy is Broken

Taken by my son

I’m a little bit broken this morning. Physically and mentally.

I have knitter’s wrist (carpel tunnel, though mostly from ironing all day yesterday), runner’s knee (swollen and sore, actually from swimming), and mother’s head (child up in the night, not enough sleep)!

Mostly I’m broken from too many deep discussions this week.

I’ve reached the point where I’m only capable of reacting like a five-year-old: sticking my fingers in my ears and going, “Lalalalala I can’t hear you!”

Boy’s Best Friend

And don’t even mention the football. I certainly won’t.

But there’s tennis, and the sun is shining. It isn’t raining – that in itself feels like a miracle.

And I spent a wakeful hour in the night looking for knitting patterns for a mermaid doll, for a friend of my daughter who is having an underwater-themed birthday party, so it’s not all bad. When my wrist is up to knitting again of course.

As it seemed appropriate this morning, I thought I’d share a little ditty I wrote a while ago, called A Mother’s Hymn (to the tune of Morning has Broken).

Mummy is broken, tired and yawning
Mummy is broken, shaken and stirred
Praise for the caffeine, Praise for the chocolate
Pass me some matchsticks, my vision is blurred

Mine is the long day, mine is the long night,
Tantrums and nightmares, cuddles and pee
Bring me the weekend, dream of a lie-in
One day when they’re older, and I can just be

Amanda Martin

June Journals #26 ~ Karate Conundrum

I have a karate conundrum. Another one. Actually, two.

My children received their yellow belts today, but my son is still sad because he feels he didn’t deserve to pass. We chatted to his instructor – told him about Sensei grabbing his arm and shouting at him – and the instructor brushed us off.

I’m not really surprised. I would expect a club like that to protect its own. And having only witnessed the incident from halfway across a hall, I don’t have all the facts. Although there is a bruise on my son’s arm, that could be from anything! He’s five.

But there’s no doubt my son struggles to concentrate in karate lessons. He’s naturally curious, and there is a lot going on in a hall of 20-30 children, from red to black belt, all doing different moves (or even the same moves but at different speeds and in different styles). He gets distracted.

I wanted to drag him out of class today. His mind just wasn’t there and he kept making mistakes, and for the first time I could see the mistakes were upsetting him. But if ever there is someone who might benefit from the discipline of martial arts it’s him.

I could back off as a parent, stop watching the lessons and exams, let him make his own way and succeed and fail on his own merits. I know that’s what the instructor would like me to do. The instructor is lovely and he’s not very old, but martial arts are uber traditional, and I suspect the new touchy-feely parenting doesn’t always fit with that.

The alternative is that I start karate. There’s a beginner’s group starting next Saturday. I have this dilemma every few months.

I’ve wanted to do karate from the beginning, although the more I watch the lessons and exams and see what the adults especially have to do (and the ribbing they have to put up with) I’m far less keen.

Besides, Sensei terrifies me too.

And it costs an arm and a leg (the commercial nature of the club, the frequency and cost of the exams, is another sore point. The last four exams have all been practically identical.)

But the main reason is that my children don’t like me doing karate. I read on a martial arts blog that. “All children want to do is immitate their parents, to be just like them.”

Not mine.

Well, okay, when it comes to watching TV, playing Jurassic Park, or eating cake, they’re more than happy to follow my lead. Swearing? Check. Being messy and disorganised? Check. But karate? No.

I could persuade my son – he’s much more keen to spend time with me and be like me. My daughter, not so much. And I don’t want to get in her way, I love the independence she gets from karate, and from being able to do something I can’t.

I’ve tried to learn at home, but it’s hard. I can just about do all their current belt stuff, but not with great conviction, and I’m reaching the point where I can’t learn from watching the videos.

So once more I dither: help one child and alienate the other, or try and be a supportive parent on the sidelines and admit that I’m not cut out to be black-belt material anyway. I suspect the latter.

I managed twenty minutes of running today (with a walk break in the middle) and covered over 4.5km. It’s not the same as being able to kick an assailant in the head, but at least I might be able to run away… 😉

June Journals #23 ~ Battle Fatigue and Being Kind

Death Stare

I ran into a friend in the supermarket yesterday and we got to talking about our darling daughters (both 7). It was a relief to hear that having a seven-going-on-seventeen year old storming round the house, eye-rolling, huffing and stropping is not unusual.

But oh my it’s tiring.

After our less-than-perfect dance lesson, when my daughter was rather intimidated by the older girls, I looked for a different class locally. Found one, arranged a taster lesson and told my daughter, expecting her to be as excited as she was before.

Ha!

Me: “I found another dance class that runs at your school. Would you like to go for a class next week, just to see if you like it?”

Daughter: “No! No, I’m not going.”

Me: “It’s just a taster.”

Daughter: “No.”

Me: (after ten minutes of biting my tongue) “I’m sorry, but your attitude stinks. I arrange these classes for you because that’s what you want, and then you’re so rude to me. (Plus a bit more ranting I’m not prepared to confess to.)

Daughter: [Death stare]

This is just a snippet. She had a trip to Rockingham Castle yesterday. She wrote a shopping list of what she wanted for her lunch. I got all but one thing, which made me the wicked witch of the west. And when she woke me at 5.30am and asked if she could make her packed lunch – and I said no – I moved up to Pol Pot.

I know this is all normal. I know that. But I hate arguments. I don’t want to break her. I like that she has attitude, that she fights back. I like that she has stopped trying to please everyone all the time. But good lord it’s exhausting. And I do find it hard to rise above and remember I’m the parent. I can carry the anger around all day like my own private rain cloud.

Thankfully I read a great post last week that has helped. Unfortunately, despite searching for half an hour when I am meant to be making the kids’ breakfast, I can’t find it. But the gist was a mother who had fought with her son. When he’d stomped out the house she sat in his pit of a bedroom fuming. And then she started to clean his room. Because she realised that it wasn’t all about her: that her son had things that worried him – friends, school, studies. She could be angry or she could be a parent and treat him with love (I’m paraphrasing!) She could give him what he needed rather than what he deserved.

So yesterday I rearranged my daughter’s room so she could have a den under her bed. I painted an old wooden box purple so she could put her toys in it. The whole time I knew she’d probably see it and be angry, unhappy or just quietly disapproving.

Actually she loved it. And later, when I saw her sleeping peacefully in her den, I knew I’d done the right thing, however hard it was.

Happy Girl

After bedtime, hubby said that he and our daughter had had a good chat. She’s frustrated at school with friendships and with managing envy of one particular friend that she doesn’t want to be jealous of. Big stuff when you’re forty never mind when you’re seven. In fact, being nearly-forty for me means no longer caring about all that ‘what the world things of me’ stuff. I have to try and remember that it was world-ending before.

It doesn’t make the eye-rolling and the sass and the nastiness any easier to handle, but it does give it context. I’m the safe place. She can be nasty to me and I will still love her, I will be her friend. I won’t always put up with her crap, but I will always always forgive, and hug, and try to rise above.

And then open the wine.

June Journals #21 ~ Soggy Start to Summer

Son’s Giraffe

So it’s the start of summer.

Apparently.

You wouldn’t know it, based on the weather. It has barely stopped raining long enough to mow the lawn, not that it matters as the kids can’t get out in the garden without risk of injury, or possibly drowning.

Yesterday was a classic example. I ironed for most of the day as fence-staining was so not happening.

I just managed to walk the dog in a light drizzle and hoped to do the school run without a coat. It might be raining non-stop but it’s still too darn humid for appropriate clothing.

In hindsight a brolly might have been a good idea.

Soggy School Run

Despite parking as close to the school gate as possible, I managed to get drenched to the skin in the ten minute cloud burst that graced pick up time. It happens so often – the weather god has a warped sense of humour.

By the time we got home it was sunny again and blue skies reigned until bed time while the humidity crept to raid-the-freezer-for-ice-cream unbearable. To think, four months ago I bought a humidifier for my son’s room!

British weather: you gotta love it. Unpredictable is an understatement.

Hama Bead Horse

Still, at least I only got wet for a short while, and could change my sodden jeans straight away. My husband went to watch his Italian cousin play Ultimate Frisbee in an International tournament in St Albans and it poured.

So much for Summer Solstice.

But it’s okay. I quite like the rain.

We sat and did hama beads between school and Rainbows, and I’ve got to the point where I’d much rather do craft than watch cartwheels. 😀

June Journals #20 ~ Sleepy Sunday

Father’s Day Card

We had a lovely father’s day yesterday, doing what we do most weekends: basically, nothing!

I love reading that it’s good for kids to be bored, and to not over-entertain them. Hurrah. Because weekends are about letting all of us just be.

Okay, mostly the children spend the two days staring at one screen or another, but as long as they’re finding ways to occupy themselves, that’s fine with me.

We also went out to lunch to our favourite restaurant, Pizza Express, with my mum and step-dad. The one we visit is just lovely, although when the (rather dishy!) waiters nod and smile in greeting when you arrive, you start realising you might go quite a lot.

We love it for lots of reasons.

It’s great for kids, with a simple and affordable kids’ menu that they actually eat, plus colouring sheets and crayons (although we always take our own). They employ loads of waiting staff that smile lots and are there when you need them. They always serve fabulous food and particularly delicious desserts. Plus it’s such a light and airy restaurant where no one notices if your kids are being a bit loud, probably because they can’t hear over the sound of theirs.

Fabulous.

Yummy Lunch

Then we bumped into friends at a mini-festival in the park. Thankfully we’d spent every penny leaving a tip for lunch, so it was easy to say no to the kids who wanted ice creams and bouncy castles, despite polishing off a three-course meal five minutes before.

My friend reminded me (because she’s one of those amazing people who just remembers stuff) that it’s my big year. My big fat 40th birthday, our 10 year wedding anniversary, and ten years since all the other stuff: graduating, moving house, losing my father.

And whenever I feel guilty for crawling into bed to watch the tennis with my eyes shut (ahem) I tell myself I’m doing it in memory of my dad, whose favourite pastime was listening to Test Match Special in a dark room, with a cup of tea or a cold shandy.

Our Sleepy Sundays are important. Lazy, decadent, wasteful. They lead to rather stressful Mondays sometimes, when I realise laundry isn’t finished, uniform isn’t ironed, or homework not done.

But we survive. And I think (I hope) we all do a little better for some downtime.

June Journals #19 ~ Striving to Grow

Well, they passed.

Despite my daughter’s tears starting before we left home, and increasing to sobs of ‘I’m NOT doing it’ as we stood outside the exam room, she did her exam and passed easily.

Not so easily for my son. He passed too, but I suspect only because Sensei was being kind. Actually, kind is the wrong word. Apparently he ‘yelled’ at my son for getting his kata turns all wrong (which he did, and totally deserved being told off, because he refused to practice).

Unfortunately, my daughter came out even more terrified of Sensei and even more determined not to take another karate exam ever. I suspect she’ll calm down, but it didn’t help that I’d portrayed him as a nice bloke for two weeks to calm her fears.

Anyhoo. They passed. And now it’s decision time.

I watched the next belt exams today, and I think they’ll get through those fine too, with some practice. But I’m not exactly sure why they should.

The more I think about it, the more I think it must be hard for karate to be a passion at this age. It’s a bit like learning times tables and spelling all the time.

Because the exams are every four months, a large chunk of their lesson time is spent on revising for exams. And even up to the higher belts, it’s all a matter of remembering punch combinations and kata routines.

There’s no particular skill.

Now I’m probably going to be shot down in flames for that statement. Let me quickly clarify that I wanted to do karate with the kids (they wouldn’t let me – too embarrassed) and I’d still love to do it. There’s a thrill in feeling the muscles perform a perfect punch or getting my leg up into a kick. But I saw quickly that I wouldn’t have the memory for it.

Too much of school is about remembering stuff, rather than learning, enjoying, being excited. Growing, stretching, expanding. And karate feels a bit like that.

If I can just wander off at a tangent…

I was following the kids across the park the other day after school, carrying all their bags, listening to them squabble, wondering what it was all about. You know, life.

Beech Tree

There’s a huge beech tree in the park. It’s gorgeous, with it’s red/black leaves and majestic sweeping branches. I looked at it and wondered where I was going wrong. Why couldn’t I be a tree. Just be.

And then I had a mini-epiphany. A tree doesn’t just exist. It grows. It strives. Its sole aim in life is to get stronger, taller, better, and to pass that on to its offspring.

Grow.

That’s the point. The point in life is to grow. If something isn’t making us grow – as a person, as a family member, physically or emotionally, then we probably shouldn’t be doing it.

I watched my children playing this afternoon. My son sparring with the mini boxing gloves I bought him. My daughter cartwheeling along the wooden ‘beam’ we made her, over and over and over again until she landed one on the wood. They were growing. Their skills improving. And the joy in their achievements was palpable.

I think my daughter’s right. I think she’ll grow more as a person doing gymnastics and dance; grow more confidence in herself and her body doing the thing she loves, than she will at karate.

My son still has a lot to gain from martial arts. The discipline, the listening, the learning to control his muscles and his temper. But is karate the right one for him? I’m not sure. I wish there was a Kendo class nearby. He gets his passion from football. Perhaps what he still has to learn from karate is humility. He didn’t think he’d fail today, and didn’t seem all that bothered when he nearly did. Sometimes I admire his self-belief, and sometimes I can see it landing him in hot water.

And me? I still have a lot to learn about this parenting and being an adult lark. Never mind growing, I’m still trying to grow up.

June Journals #18 ~ Exam Day

Karate Kids

Today it’s my children’s karate exam. I said back on day 5 of my June Journals that I didn’t know how I was going to get my daughter to do the exam when she was adamant she wasn’t.

In the comments I suggested a cunning plan of inviting Granddad to watch. It worked. Eventually.

To begin with, she cried and wailed when I said she had to do the exam because Granddad was coming. It felt like walking a tightrope. I hung in there through the tears and eventually we got to the bottom of her fear.

In the last exam, Sensei – the head of their particular club – came and ran through the bit of the exam my daughter finds hardest, the kata. It’s a sequence of moves (20 for hers) that have to be done in order. For the adults, it has to be done completely from memory, but the juniors have a ‘count’ and an indication of what comes next.

But Sensei was a little disappointed with their group and wasn’t afraid to show it. And if there’s one thing my daughter hates, it’s disapproval.

I’m afraid to admit (in case anyone who knows our karate club reads this!) that I put an image in my daughter’s head to ease her fear. An image of Sensei in a pink tutu and red heels – because for their last exam their examiner was a woman in high heels, who kicked butt doing the moves despite her footwear. And my daughter loves shoes!

I managed to get her laughing (rickety rope bridge across crocodile infested waters conquered!) and she admitted that she did really want to do the exam she was just scared.

That was a revelation for my husband and me. After the tears had passed, it seemed she wanted the push, she wanted to be made to do it: to have the decision taken from her. So, Miss Fanny P, you were right – sometimes you do have to shove them out their comfort zone.

My NZ Skydive

It reminds me of when I did a tandem skydive in New Zealand. I’m terrified of heights and was palpitating long before we reached 15,000 ft. If I hadn’t been strapped to the front of a person who had every intention of jumping from that plane, whether I wanted to or not, I would never have done it.

I was only in the plane in the first place because I’d met an 80-year-old granny who’d done it the day before.

It was amazing. I couldn’t breathe by the time we came out of free-fall, and I wouldn’t do it ever again if you paid me millions of pounds (well, possibly then), but when I landed I felt like I could conquer the world.

Fear. It’s a funny thing.

Perhaps my daughter and I need to read ‘Feel the fear and do it anyway’.

June Journals #13 ~ Dear Neighbours

Our Room of Noise

Dear Neighbours

I’m sorry I bought my children a karaoke machine. I know my kids are already noisy enough, screaming on the trampoline at all hours, and playing the drums. Badly.

I’m sorry my husband and I sang the whole of Bohemian Rhapsody, even though we’re terrible singers and it’s the first time I’ve ever sung karaoke (for that reason).

On the plus side, it turns out our microphones weren’t actually on. It could have been much worse.

I’m sorry our back garden acts like an amphitheatre and all noise is strangely echoed around the entire village. I know, because I hear them when I’m walking the dog, nearly half a mile away. I cringe. I feel your pain.

Blurry Rock Star

While we’re at it, I’m sorry I sometimes yell at them like a fishwife, with language a sailor would be proud of. What can I say? We’re not all born to be calm parents.

Look at it this way.

I hear your cars roaring as your teenage boys come home at midnight. And I know I have all that to look forward to.

I hear your babies screaming and having tantrums and I give a tiny smile of relief that those days are passed. Unless they’re your grandkids, in which case, I look forward to that with joy. Grandparents can give them back.

When your dog barks at your lawnmower for half an hour, I feel better about mine barking at the postman like he’s here to rob the house.

Neighbours, please accept my apologies for living our noisy crazy life. Be tolerant. It will be over in a few years.

I hope.

June Journals #12 ~ Reliquishing Control

It’s no secret that I’m a bit of a control freak. Not like I used to be: I don’t think you can parent for any length of time without easing up a bit. That or go bonkers.

But some projects I like to cling to. Others I’d happily share – cooking, laundry, getting up in the night – but funnily enough people seem quite content leaving them to me.

Painting the garden fence is a project I wanted to keep, despite the enormity of it. Partly for a sense of accomplishment. To be able to look out and say, ‘I did that. Me. All by myself.’ And partly because painting is kind of my thing, and I like it to be neat.

Stain, I’ve discovered, is anything but neat. I have three times as many little brown freckles on my arms and face when I finish. So when my son asked if he could help this morning, my ‘no’ was firm and immediate. Then my daughter came out in her painting clothes, and look so crestfallen at not being allowed to help, I gave in.

I thought I’d regret it, but it was mostly okay. I yelled a couple of times as they covered each other in stain, but actually they did a good job on the fence. The grass is also brown, but it’ll mow.

Oh my, but they were covered. I was quite happy when they started a water fight, but as fights soon end in tears, I suggested they wash the trampoline instead.

Genius. They had so much fun sliding around in the foam. Definitely storing that away for another day.