Mid-life mum

A wobbly over the wellies

Cari Rosen — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 10:57:22 +0100

Five things I learned last week:

1) Big hair can be a big asset.

Number of gifts given to my child by random strangers on the train from Manchester because they liked her locks - four (two packets of biscuits, a bag of crisps and a beaded key ring in the shape of a jester). I am wondering whether our next trip should be to the local Apple store.

2) It is best not to make offers in jest.

My mother said having my girl with her was her "best birthday gift" so I told her that it was a year's subscription (non-returnable). She wasn't best pleased when I reclaimed the offering after only 24 hours.

3) A very small thing can actually be a very big thing to a three-year-old.

I can only hope my daughter takes as much time and consideration over future life decisions as she does when choosing knickers in the morning.

4) I appear to be the only person who accepts that the UK is in a rather damp bit of northern Europe.

When the child's wellies started leaking I assumed it would be easy enough to buy a new pair. How wrong I was.

Shop 1: It's not the season for wellies. How about some sandals?

Me: I am wearing my winter coat and a pair of gloves. I'm not sure sandals will fit the bill.

Shop 2: It's not the season for wellies. It's the summer you know.

Me: Yes, in Spain perhaps. We have the heating on and last night I went to bed with a hot water bottle.

Shop 3: It's not the season for wellies. There's no call for them at this time of year.

Me: It is raining so hard that in the short trip between my car and your door I have ended up wetter than I am when I get out of the bath.

Shop 3: As I say, it's not the season for wellies…

5) Mummy never seems to have the answers.

Why did no one warn me that it's not so much the 'why?' years as 'who, why, what, where.?" As in…

Child: Why did we just stop in the middle of the road?

Me: To let that lady walk across the zebra crossing.

Child: What is she called?

Me: I have no idea.

Child: Why?

Me: Because she is a random stranger that I have never seen before.

Child: Where does she live?

Me: Please refer to earlier response

Child: What's she got in her briefcase?

Me: bangs head several times against steering wheel…

Child: Muuuuuum?

Me: Yes, darling.

Child: What's that lady called…?

So who's the cry baby in our house?

Cari Rosen — Thu, 12 May 2011 11:28:58 +0100

I wouldn't say that I have ever considered myself to be a heartless person. But it would be accurate to admit that in years gone by sentimentality was an alien concept and that even the most mawkish of movies would fail to move me.

Indeed, as a youth I recall clearly weeping with laughter all the way through a double bill of The Jazz Singer and Kramer vs Kramer - not because of anything to do with the films themselves, but entirely due to the fact that my companions - teenage girls both - were sobbing inconsolably before the opening titles had even finished rolling.

For decades on end my stony heart seemed set in… well, stone.

Then I had a baby. And everything changed.

Suddenly I was the one who would weep at the drop of a handkerchief - these days I cry whenever I hear someone singing Happy Birthday (no matter to whom). I cry at any advertisement featuring babies and/or puppies. I bawled watching Home and Away (though this may be largely down to the fact I found myself watching Home and Away in the first place). And when it comes to viewing the wobbly home movie of our wedding, I find myself howling even as I hit play on the remote control.

Whether this can be attributed to the pregnancy hormones wreaking irreparable havoc on my lachrymal glands, or to the love of a small girl transforming me from cynic to soppy old git, I cannot say. But one thing's for sure - put me within 100 yards of an emotion and I metamorphose swiftly into a gibbering, snivelling wreck.

As the child grows bigger there seem to be occasions aplenty that have me snuffling into a pile of Kleenex. For example, when we reached the stage where the choice was leaving her to get soaked or putting the hood up and decapitating her, I was forced to agree that the buggy we bought for her as a new-born might now be a tad too small. But when it came to dismantling it for the very last time I was in floods.

"It's the end of an era," I wailed to my husband, who was so busy celebrating the freeing-up of the hallway that he was no use whatsoever.

The farewell to nappies saw a similar scene. Husband doing a jig for joy, me blubbing about my baby growing up too quickly.

Another landmark event has been the arrival of the "big-girl bed". I should own up to a lump in the throat at very idea of taking down the cot. And a muffled sob when I saw how very teeny-tiny my girl looked in the full-sized divan.

It is fortunate that my child copes with such milestones far better than her mother, and so while I spent the evening on the sofa miserably trying to come to terms with the speed with which the years are flying by, she giggled with excitement until she fell asleep.

And other than a 2am blip (a crash followed by an anguished wail of "My big-girl bed!"), she has dealt with this most recent transition as admirably as the all the other ones.

As for me - I have no doubt that I shall continue to dab my eyes whenever she wins a prize at a party/every time she tells me she loves me/ on each occasion that she achieves something new.

It is fortunate that she has not yet reached the stage where I'm a total embarrassment. But even when she does, something tells me that having a slushy, mushy old mummy may not be such a bad thing.

Let that be a lesson to me

Cari Rosen — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 11:43:03 +0100

With the child's third birthday fast approaching, it is time to take stock. To look back over the past 12 months and see what I have learned. Namely:

1) A season is no longer a season: I'm quite sure that when I was a nipper we would buy wellies and woollies in the winter, and sun hats and swimsuits in the summer. Warm things in cool weather and cool things in warm weather. Hardly rocket science. But I appear to have missed the bit where everything changed, so it has taken me three whole years to understand that the season to purchase snow boots begins (and ends) in August and if you're after a decent winter coat, for heavens sake buy it before the start of the summer holidays.

2) Avoid cars: when every journey features a conversation along these lines it is definitely worth investing in a pair of stout walking shoes:

Child: "I need a drink of water."

Me: "I don't have any water."

Child: "But I need one now."

Me: "We will be home in five minutes. You can have one then."

Child: "I want one now."

Me: "I did not bring your water. And nor is there a tap in the car. Ergo, there is not much I can do to alter the fact that I cannot fulfil your request until we get home."

Child: "Can I have a drink of water?"

3) Sometimes you need to admit that you are fighting a losing battle: I have tried to persuade the child that she is not a cockerel and therefore that it is not necessary for her to wake at 5.30 each morning shouting cock-a-doodle-doo at the top of her voice. I have failed. I am very tired.

4) Be careful what you wish for: how I longed for the day that the child was toilet trained. But gingerly opening an eye to find her proudly waving a (full) potty above my head made me realise that nappies can have their plusses.

5) Expect the unexpected: possibly my favourite moment of motherhood so far came as I followed my stomping, growling two-year-old round the Natural History Museum and listened to her tell the many bemused passers-by: "I'm actually a brontosaurus". The following day I praised the child on her brontosaurus impression as she stomped and growled her way to bed only to be met with a withering look and the information that "I am actually a triceratops".

So clearly a lot left to learn..

Caught napping by my girl's sleep strike

Cari Rosen — Fri, 04 Mar 2011 10:08:29 +0000

To sleep perchance to dream… chance would be a fine thing.

The infant's midday nap is surely seen by many, if not most parents, as a brief opportunity to regain one's sanity. Perhaps a chance to cram in a bit of work; eat a meal without a small person demanding "can I have a bit?"; to make a phone call without having to break off to explain that, "yes, Monkey is a boy but no, he doesn't have a willie" every 30 seconds. To get things done.

Little wonder that I, like so many before me, have quailed at the very thought of this daytime sleep's demise.

Since the child has turned two people have been trying to warn me that it's on the way out. In response I have simply clamped my hands over my ears and sung "la la la la" very loudly until they've gone away.

But with her third birthday fast approaching the girl appears to be taking matters into her own hands and realising that she might be missing out on something way more exciting than a stint in a darkened room with Bear and Monkey. If only she knew.

While I can think of nothing I would like more than to snooze away an hour or two each lunchtime, in the eyes of my small girl an internet grocery shop is far more fun.

Day one of her resisting the daytime shluf and she's doing OK considering. Day two and cracks are starting to appear. Day three and she's so tired she can barely keep her eyes open.

"Bed," I tell her, as much for my sake as hers. "A lovely sleep and you'll feel so much better."

I just about make it down to the kitchen before she calls me back upstairs to inform me that she is not a meerkat. There's not a lot I can say to that so I smile sweetly, wish her goodnight and head towards the door.

"Mummy," says a little voice, "how many babies do you have in your tummy?" I am forced to backtrack - and to admit that they are actually Creme Eggs (sextuplets) - before leaving the room once again. Twenty minutes later and she is still singing to herself, a song (as far as I can make out) about the rabbi, baa baa black sheep and a nectarine. I admit defeat.

Day four. She's hanging on by a thread. I'm coping little better. I figure that some mother/daughter quiet time might help but the girl has decided to ration cuddles on the basis that "I already gave you some".

I try to explain to her that if you love someone then cuddles should be in endless supply. She considers this.

"I do love someone" (position myself in anticipation for huge hug) "Grandma."

I spot a chink in her armour, a stifled yawn and some furtive rubbing of the eyes. Too good an opportunity not to give it one last shot. Even better, she seems surprisingly compliant.

Bedtime story (dictated): "Once upon a time, long, long ago, I was a big girl. I dreamed of butterflies, had a smoothie, did a wee on the toilet forever and ever and ever. And we all lived happily ever after, the end."

And with that she sleeps. For two whole hours. Not just once but every day for a fortnight. I know it can't last so I'm enjoying it while I can. The work gets done. The calls get made. The girl thrives on some decent rest. Mummy gets a deliciously sleepy hug at the end of it and everyone is happy.

After months of struggle I've given birth… to a book

Cari Rosen — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 10:27:36 +0000

When I look back over the past three years I see that my life has changed in ways I had hardly dared to hope it would.

Yes, yes, I may have walked away from a well-paid and successful career and gained a dress size, a few grey hairs and a panoply of wrinkles, but I have also achieved my two greatest ambitions: to become a mum… and to write a book.

I was overjoyed to discover I was expecting. And despite a few scares early on it was a pretty textbook pregnancy, a heady mix of nausea, elasticated-waist trousers and industrial-sized bottles of Gaviscon.

My beautiful baby daughter has brought me more joy than I could ever have imagined. And, unexpectedly, she has also brought me a new career: first this column about what it is really like to be a "mid-life mum". And now The Secret Diary of A New Mum (Aged 43 1/4)" which will be published next week.

The gestation of the book has not been unlike a regular pregnancy: nervous excitement at the start (is this really happening?); stress (is it all going to work out?); a period of queasiness (I can't make this chapter work - heeeelp); a middle trimester where it all seems to go fairly swimmingly; then a lot of pain, pushing and agony to get the darned thing out.

All the same, I've loved every part of the process so far, even if I do occasionally have to pinch myself to make sure I haven't dreamed the whole thing up.

Even before publication, there has been the excitement of seeing the book on Amazon - and discovering that I'd made it into the top 10 in the rankings for Books > Humour > Doctors & Medicine. Although I wasn't quite sure whether to be flattered or alarmed that this listing put me just one place ahead of a book called A Little Fart.

Fun this journey might have been to date, but I would be lying if I were to imply it's been glamour all the way. There was the photo shoot for a national newspaper when the make-up artist turned up an entire week early. (How bad did they think I actually look?)

And while I was checking out venues for the launch party, the owner of one bookshop looked me closely up and down and said: "Self-published I presume". I clearly need to work on my image. Although, oh, the satisfaction of being able to reply: "Random House, actually."

(I admit this would have worked better as an exit line had I not then turned haughtily and walked straight into a large display of Dr Seuss.)

The majority of my new "baby" friends are young. And so it has not been without trepidation that I have publicly outed myself as a mid-life mum. Although I have a sneaking feeling that even if I had chosen to hide behind the hair dye, it would only have been a matter of time before my cover was blown.

But I am getting used to the idea that these new chums have never heard of Reg Varney, Kelly Marie et al. And that they laugh at the fact I'm quite happy to stay in on a Saturday night listening to my record collection - and indeed at the fact I have a record collection in the first place ("Do they really play on both sides?" asked one.)

I occasionally wonder whether going public has made me feel even older. On a day-to-day basis I like to think not - though it is true that on one recent occasion I was greatly alarmed by a sudden deterioration in my nighttime driving vision in the space of just two hours. "Middle age is truly upon me," I wailed, before discovering that I had been so deep in conversation when I got back into the car that I had accidentally put on a pair of sunglasses instead of my prescription specs. Great relief at not quite having reached that stage of ocular degeneration - although…"first sign of senility", I overheard one passenger mutter to another.

And as for the child - she is too young to read Secret Diary for herself, although she knows that's what I've been up to. "Look," she cried on spotting the distinctive cover, "you wrote that book about me."

"I did," I tell her pulling her close. "I wrote it because I love you more than anything in the whole wide world."

"Humph," she says. "You forgot the universe".

Here's a wee problem that's driving me potty

Cari Rosen — Wed, 22 Dec 2010 11:41:09 +0000

If I have grown 20 years older in the space of the last fortnight then I can attribute it to only one thing: potty training.

My desire to outsource this rite of passage was thwarted by the fact my husband is snowed under at work. So I am left with no option but to get on with it myself.

The child is enthusiastic, delighted by her big-girl knickers - although rather less so at having to remove them to perform. The washing machine is pressed into overtime. At least I finally manage to coax her into sitting on the loo - trouble is, once she's there, she's happy to stay and chat for hours while her mother becomes crippled by cramp from squatting on a cold floor for so long. And there's still not a drop to show for our trouble.

It's Friday morning and we're at the shul playgroup and headed for the ladies. She sits. I stoop. Nothing happens.

A fellow congregant has the misfortune to select the stall alongside us.

"What's that noise mummy? What is the lady doing? Can I watch?"

Little wonder our neighbour's ablutions are completed in record time. Unlike ours.

So still no result. Though no accidents either - at least during waking hours. As soon as the child's asleep it's another matter altogether.

Despite the fact she's still in nappies at night, they prove wholly inadequate under such duress and the washing machine suffers a nervous breakdown.

By the weekend I have abandoned all my principles and resorted to good old-fashioned bribery. Having hitherto been horrified by friends who had encouraged their small fry with sweets, I am now offering chocolate coins with gay abandon. The child wavers briefly, but stays strong in the face of temptation, and nothing changes.

It is now five o' clock on a Tuesday morning. I should be slumbering under a duvet dreaming of cheesecake. I am, in fact, sitting on the freezing bathroom floor and coaxing a sleepy two-year-old into getting a move on. She has insisted that she must sit on the toilet "right this minute" – but 32 (interminable) minutes later there is still no joy and I am cold, tired and grumpy.

It is becoming increasingly clear that toilet training may not be my forte. Pass me the Yellow Pages if you would - I'll just check under 'S" to see if Supernanny might be free.

Wake up, it's time to trampoline

Cari Rosen — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 11:03:57 +0000

It is 6am on a weekend morning.

This is an hour I have not cared to acquaint myself with since… well, ever really. And since the child was a new-born, to be fair, I have not really had to.

With very little instruction she has adhered rather nicely to the seven till seven rule - and on the occasions that she does wake early she will happily chat to her toys, the curtains and the towel hanging on the back of the door until her mother staggers in to bid her good morning.

But today, for reasons I have not been able to fathom, it's all gone wrong.

She's not happy. After a late night we're not that happy either. And so, for the first time ever, we bring her into the parental bed in the hope that we will all get a bit more kip.

Alas, she does not recognise our sanctuary as a place of rest and relaxation - and having hitherto claimed our mattress as her personal trampoline, sees no reason why a spot of early morning bouncing won't go down a storm.

It doesn't.

"Lie down, darling. Show us you are a big girl and put the covers on just like mummy and daddy."

She lies down between us and for a moment I think that we've cracked it, but… thwack! My head lands on the mattress with a thump as she pulls my pillow towards her, saying: "Come on mummy, let's share".

And then quiet. An opportunity for two very tired grown-ups to fall straight back to sleep. Except…

"Help, help," a little voice cries from the other end of the bed where my pillow now appears to have turned into a small land mass marooned in a sea of duvet. "I am stuck on a little island and I'm feeling a bit left out."

I would like to say that it is my superlative parenting skills that persuade her to come back and lie quietly between us - but that would be a lie, and once again I am forced to credit my achievements to good old-fashioned bribery and corruption.

Blissful silence.

"Mummy, can I ask you a question?"

"Um, OK."

"Mummy, can I say the brachah for wine?"

"As long as I can keep my eyes closed, that would be lovely darling"

"Baruch ata… hagofen Shabbat amen."

"Very good, darling"

"Aren't you going to give me a clap?"

Desperate for respite I pull the snowy duvet over my head.

"Oh look, " cries an excited small girl. "It's a white horse"

She bounces up and down on top of me. "Come on horse. Clippety clop. Giddy up. Bye bye, mum and dad."

"Where are you going?"

"To Banbury Cross, of course"

If sleep is for the weak then it appears that I am Samson before the haircut.

We get up.

It is now lunchtime and I have to admit that I'm fading fast. So forgive me if I take my leave - I'm off to grab 40 winks in the shed.

My girl's in pain. Keeping calm is not an option

Cari Rosen — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 11:33:38 +0100

It is a regular Tuesday afternoon and we are rolling up our sleeves to wash our hands before tea (although by "tea" perhaps I should clarify that the repast to which I refer may be better known to you as "supper" or "dinner" depending on what part of the country you hail from. This has been a source of some confusion, not to mention embarrassment on more than one occasion since I forsook the north in order to search out fame and fortune in the south).

But anyway… there we are, rolling up our sleeves for the umpteenth time that day, when suddenly the child starts to shriek.

Up until this point she has been in the finest of humours, marching round the room with a muslin clutched round her waist ("It's my beautiful wedding dress") and, although there are still over seven months to go, ensuring that her mother is fully aware of what she wants for her third birthday (an umbrella, some crisps and a party bag since you ask).

But…"owwww, oww!" she is sobbing, though I can see nothing that might be causing such distress and so continue to chivvy her towards the sink. It soon becomes clear that there really is something wrong, although I can't for the life of me work out what it is (this despite the fact that she is begging me to "hold my arm, don't let go. My arm hurts," which, with hindsight, would appear to be a clue).

She curls up on my knee and howls, barely drawing breath and completely ignoring the cupcake I have saved her, so now I know it's serious. Because I have not thought this through terribly well, I have plonked myself down in the middle of our kitchen floor and am now slowly developing cramp in my left buttock and what appears to be rigor mortis in my right.

It is also hard to conduct any form of thorough examination when you are trapped under a writhing mass of weeping toddler, although by good fortune my husband returns home early from a business trip and is therefore on hand to assist/dispense medication/join in the general brouhaha

Our manifold ministrations do not seem to be improving the situation so we figure that hospital is probably the place to be. Thing is, how to get there? We could walk, but would bouncing the child up the road in a buggy be such a great idea under the circumstances? Or we could drive, but given we can't move the arm without causing considerable pain, how are we going to get her in the car-seat?

By the time we finally make it to the waiting room the child is slightly calmer, content to lie across our legs in her somewhat eclectic outfit of vest, jeans, wellies and fairy skirt, explaining mournfully to everyone within earshot: "I in pain".

The medic we see is kind and reassuring and spots the problem immediately. The offending elbow is put back into place with a click and immediately the child is right as rain.

As we leave we each take one of her hands in ours and she looks up with a grin and says: "Will you swing me? Can we go one, two, three, wheeee?"

Er, perhaps not.

Fortunately she is distracted by a new audience in the waiting room and takes great pleasure in greeting them with an enthusiastic: "Hello, everybody. I'm all better now and I'm going to go home and have some green beans and a kiwi".

And, indeed, she does.

Driving me mad

Cari Rosen — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 13:24:16 +0100

We are in the car, heading north. We have no sooner turned out of our road when the child starts demanding snacks. It is 8 o' clock in the morning. There are still 200 miles to go and I have already sat on the one box of bread sticks I have packed and I can't for the life of me find the raisins.

I am wrestling with my conscience - give up all the principles I have held dear for the last two years, or stop at the nearest garage to buy a large bag of sweets to keep her quiet?

The scruples win. Although my nerves soon come to regret the blanket ban on junk food.

The situation is not helped by the fact that the child appears to have decided to cram the terrible twos into one three-hour journey. Before we have even hit the motorway she is crying because (in no particular order):

● she needs a big girl bed;

● she has dropped her water;

● she doesn't like witches or wasps;

● she needs a sandwich;

● she has spilled her water.

I address each crisis as best I can, namely by:

● informing her that there is, alas, a dearth of drive-through furniture stores on the carriageways of the M1 and the M6 but I will do my best at some unspecified point in the future;

● wrecking my back and my shoulder in an effort to pick up the beaker (rest assured that I am not the one who is driving);

● insisting that I have checked the car for witches and wasps and the coast is clear;

● pointing out (more than once) that we have just had breakfast;

● snapping that: "It is only water and it will dry."

It is unfortunate that a disturbed night (mine) thanks to a bad dream about an octopus (hers) has not left me in the best of humours to begin with. I want peace. I want quiet. I want a snooze. The need for sleep is so great that I start to hallucinate, floating off blissfully towards a mirage of fluffy pillows and feathery duvets until I am brought back down to earth by a toddler screaming "STOP THE CAR" somewhere south of Daventry.

"I want to drive," she sobs. "It's my turn. It's nice to share."

A crumbled breadstick doesn't offer much in the way of consolation so we go for distraction techniques and a nice game of "spot the yellow digger" which works beautifully until she gets upset that she can't see any pink buses instead. And then, she announces, all the craning has made her feel sick so we go through the drink water, drop water, spill water scenario all over again.

Small wonder that by the time we arrive I feel as though I have aged a decade. Slightly larger wonder that, come the homeward trek, the child has regained her joie de vivre and is angelic throughout. But I think we'll be staying put for a while, just in case…

Obsession with illness isn't healthy

Cari Rosen — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 11:10:10 +0100

I had never really understood the phrase "enjoying ill health" until the child turned two - and became a raving hypochondriac.

Nor had I realised quite how bad things had become until 3 o' clock one morning when I rushed (well, staggered) to her aid after hearing her sobbing: "Ring the doctor, ring the doctor."

As it happens on this occasion, her call for medical assistance was based solely on the fact that Squeak Squeak (her toy mouse) had fallen out of bed. However, this is but one example of her ever-growing preoccupation with matters of health.

She traps her finger in a book: "Take my temperature. I need medicine."

She stubs a toe: "I must go to 'hosdibule'."

She sneezes: "Little bit of pink medicine please. We better visit the doctor."

I have no idea how all this started, although my husband attributes at least part of the blame to the fact that I spent most of my pregnancy glued to re-runs of ER.

Wherever this obsession stems from, it now comes as no surprise that the child's favourite plaything is her medical set, her favourite pastime a game of "doctors". While her contemporaries treat their dollies to "picnics" and other wholesome frolics, in our house soft toys are lined up three times daily to be "cured" with massages and medicines, regular doses of lotions and potions.

In terms of medical know-how she clearly has a lot left to learn - I am constantly forced to explain to visitors that the reason they have just been stabbed in the calf with a small plastic implement is because they are having their temperature taken. And beware any "patient" who doesn't emit a convincing "boom-diddy-boom" as she approaches with her stethoscope.

It is perhaps ironic that when she is in robust health her pleas for medicines, tablets and nurses last from dawn till dusk ("I am a little bit sick after all"), yet when she is actually under the weather she is the most exemplary of patients.

A nasty bout of chicken pox passes without complaint, coughs and colds are met with stoicism and good humour. Though she is, perhaps, the only child who weeps when she has to leave the doctor's surgery.

The highlight of her first (and only) holiday abroad was, I am given to understand by everyone who has come into contact with her since, not feeding the chickens, roaming the stunning countryside nor even sporting her new swimming armbands on the only occasion it didn't actually rain… but the day she got concussed.

To spare myself unnecessary trauma I shall not go into too much detail but shall summarise thus: Bed. High. Floor. Hard. Head. First.

And so to the paediatric department of the local (albeit not actually very local at all) hospital where we establish that: a) yes, it is indeed concussion and b) it is a very long time since my French A level and packing an English-French dictionary would have been a good idea.

Once the child has regained her senses and done with the vomiting she is happy as larry. A day under observation? Doctor after doctor? Temperature taking as regular as clockwork? What's not to like?

As the day draws to a close and we are granted release there are tears aplenty. The child cries because she doesn't want to leave. And her mother weeps with relief and prays that it will be a very long time till we see a "hosdibule" again.