THOUGHTS ON COOL MUMS

There seems to be a window of time in which you're not too young to be some silly uneducated girl who got herself knocked up and is now living on welfare handouts, and not too old to be, well, old, and if you're somewhere in that window and have a kid, for some reason people tend to think you're a "cool mum".

Let me give you some incredibly bizarre and completely misinformed reasons why people have sometimes labelled me as a cool mum:

Because I am under 30.
Because I don't have a proper job and am STILL at university (ten years and counting).
Because I had green hair.
Because I play music I like in the house.
Because my daughter says/does/wears weird/funny/amusing things.

Here is the reality behind those reasons:

I am under 30.
I am not earning much money and get asked questions like "So when are you finally graduating?" A LOT. I am also maybe avoiding entering the real world.
I do strange things with my hair sometimes.
I am selfish and have a low tolerance for listening to kids' music.
That's all her.

In case you aren't aware, I'm going to let you in on a little secret - there is nothing cool about being a mum. There are lots of things about it that are rewarding, and fulfilling, and joyful. Motherhood is many things but it is never cool.

Giving birth is not cool. Waking up every 2 hours to a screaming baby is not cool. Being vomited or urinated on is not cool. Feeling irrationally jealous of all your childless friends who can eat a meal from start to finish is not cool. Spending days where you might literally not have any adult contact or company is not cool. Dealing with tantrums is not cool. Getting rid of head lice is not cool. You get the idea.

Don't be disappointed though. The goal of having a kid, after all, shouldn't be to be cool - if it is, I suggest much cheaper, less painful options, like going sky-diving or getting a pet pig. Being a cool mum is not going to make your kid turn out any smarter or less annoying. It won't guarantee that they'll lead interesting lives or that they won't end up liking Billy Joel. It won't make you any more capable of raising a human. It won't make you a better person.

Nowadays if someone calls me a cool mum, I reply by telling the truth - that I'm as cool and uncool as every other mum. I have also dyed my hair a more natural colour, which makes me significantly less cool, for which I am grateful.

ON BECOMING THE PARENT I NEVER WANTED TO BE (AND WHY IT'S OKAY)

Before I became a parent, I had a pretty clear framework in my mind about the type of parent I wanted to be. This framework, I have since realised, was constructed on a foundation of ignorance, naivety and a very misguided assumption that parenting involves the one-way transmission of behaviours and values onto a passive recipient. The crucial thing I overlooked (other than the fact that you can't really learn anything meaningful about parenting without actually being one first) is that parenting is a dynamic process, involving the interaction between two parties, one of whom is their own entity who functions, thinks and behaves entirely beyond your control or your ideas about how they "ought" to be.

Some key things that I remember adding to my mental list of "How To Be The Best Parent Ever And Raise The World's Most Amazing Human" were:

• Absolutely 100% do not change anything about my life or myself. That damn baby will have to work around ME. After all, I've been here longer than it.
• Be like those trendy "French parents" that everyone seems to be talking about these days, who raise kids that dress better than I ever did or will, who quietly entertain themselves while their parents throw elaborate dinner parties, and who probably come out of the womb fully toilet-trained. (NB: this kind of parenting has as little to do with being French as it does to being a realistic expectation for expectant parents).
• Don't be a Helicopter Parent. This is basically a parent who constantly hovers over their child and is overinvolved in every aspect of their child's comings and goings. As the child of a Helicopter Parent, I knew first-hand that I didn't want my own child to be raised under a magnifying glass.

Ha.

So, obviously the first one is completely ridiculous. I only had to look at how much my identity had been shaped in those formative years by the influence of celebrity or pop-culture idealisations - people who I had never even met - and it's easy to see where my thinking went wrong. Part of the great thing about the social nature of humans is that we affect and influence each other - yes, sometimes in a negative way, but also in some of the most beautiful and profound ways. We are, after all, the sum of all our collective experiences, and I know I have taken so much from my parents, teachers, friends, lovers, even strangers I encounter... How could I have thought that I wouldn't be influenced and more importantly, want to be influenced, by arguably the most important person in my life?

Kids of "French parenting". I am sure there are people out there who have kids like that; I just haven't met any of them yet or met anyone who's ever met any of them. Perhaps it's because we are raising people, not cardboard cut-outs, and people do tend to make mess and wee and shit and vomit and occasionally throw themselves on the floor in a screaming, sweaty mess in the middle of the supermarket. There are many times when I wish my house didn't resemble a temple dedicated to the glorification of noisy, garish plastic shit and Peppa Pig, and that my hair was more presentable and washed. But I can't help but think, even if I did hold the secret to raising a mess-less, voiceless wallflower, would I even want to? 

The last one is rather more interesting because I still firmly stood (and still stand) by my original belief, but circumstance seemed to have other ideas for me. When M was diagnosed with a potentially fatal food allergy, I was suddenly faced with the dilemma of having to become that overprotective, constantly vigilant parent I had always been so scathing of, out of pure necessity in keeping her alive. It was, and continues to be, something I grapple with and find difficult to negotiate. I hate being that person that watches over her every move and preempts any engagement she has with her surroundings, but sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do, even if you don't really like it.

These days, my list is now called "How To Keep Your Child Alive And Happy" and consists of the following:

• Feed and water daily
• Try to win the sleep battle more often than not
• Be really silly all the time. Kids will never think you look stupid, they will think you're hilarious
• Provide good music for dancing
• Be open to things not looking how you thought they would (and sometimes they'll be better)

RESERVATIONS

From time to time, people ask me why I don't blog anymore. I usually give a reflex answer about not having enough time (a convenient fabrication). The other day, a dear friend made me stop and think about the real reason why - he asked whether I had any hobbies that I did regularly, and when I replied that I don't really have any hobbies (another reflex, and another fabrication), he said "What about your blog?".

Honestly, I had completely forgotten it existed. Further to that, I had never seen it as a hobby, more as an outlet (cheap therapy?). But the more I thought about it, the more I realised he was right - the process had become a hobby, a nice one, and it made me consider why I stopped.

I seem to fall into a pattern with hobbies. I start off full of enthusiasm, ideas and naivety, which affords me the space to participate unbridled and uninhibited. But then over time, I start to become more critical of my output, of my creative process, and of why I'm even doing it in the first place. Reservations start creeping in and take over to the point where it's easier to just stop creating altogether. You wouldn't believe how many draft blog posts I have on this thing that are complete but never saw the light of day because I doubted myself too much.

I wonder what these reservations are about. The aim of this blog was never to create an end product but to experience the process. It was never intended for (many) others to read. Yet the way I approach it is with the old schoolgirl Catholicism fear that I used to view life with: whatever you do better be good, because in the end you're going to be judged for it. Judgement is surely one of the biggest stiflers of creativity.

So after some time wondering if I should just delete this thing and be done with it, I thought I'd take the slightly more painful but interesting road and keep plugging away. I still have things I want to write about and thoughts I want to explore. And maybe over the coming weeks, those dormant drafts will get a second chance at life. Sometimes it's easier to just close your eyes and jump.

26/52

A portrait of my daughter, once a week, every week, in 2014.

A few extras this week, to mark the halfway point in the year. Can't believe we're here already. These photos pretty much sum up our year so far - a lot of indoor play (due to inordinately long bouts of sickness) that, although a bit tedious and claustrophobic after a long while, has enabled me to witness some genuinely beautiful moments of interaction, cooperation, imagination and love.

RAISING BABIES VS. RAISING CHILDREN

The thing about parenting is that everything changes, all the time. It keeps you on your toes because just as soon as you've gotten used to things being a certain way and think you have it all figured out, a new challenge arises and you're back to square one. The beauty of it is that it forces you to constantly evolve to be more creative, more patient, more resourceful.

With two kids of significantly different ages, I've come to appreciate that raising babies and raising children are two very distinct challenges, neither easier than the other, just different. The way I see it, it can be summed up as follows: raising babies is hard, but simple. Raising children is easy, but complicated.

This article has been circulating among my friends, and illustrates what I mean about babies being hard but simple. Dealing with sleep deprivation, constant monitoring, endless feeding, and total dependence are by no means small feats; they have a way of gradually eroding your general wellbeing and sanity in a way that can make you a stranger to yourself. But by the same token, the job is not overly complex. You are dealing with someone's basic needs, the purely physiological requirements of being fed, cleaned and sheltered.

By the time they reach school age, children can pretty much fend for themselves in that regard. You no longer have to worry about them accidentally killing themselves with everyday household objects, or wonder whether you've dressed them in enough layers, or deal with hours of unexplainable crying (hopefully). You'll be able to sleep through the night and wake up at a civilised hour. You'll be able to reason with them. You can engage in detailed conversations with them about current affairs or whether Masterchef is rigged.

But although things may be a lot easier in terms of the daily grind of domestic routine, it starts getting really complicated in terms of the emotional and psychological challenges they present. What do you do when your 8 year old is looking you in the eye and lying to you? How do you explain why their best friend has started ignoring them overnight, or what to do if they're being bullied, or why they have to do their homework even if it's completely irrelevant? How do you reconcile the values you're trying to instil with the sometimes questionable behaviour of those around them, including yourself?

I'm not sure whether I find raising babies or raising children more challenging. I recently mused to my partner that after a day with our toddler, I find myself reaching for a bottle of wine, while after a day with the 8 year old, I find myself reaching for a therapist. I can't imagine what raising a teenager will be like; presumably, it will involve a lot of drunk therapy sessions. But hopefully I'll still have it in me to keep evolving.

25/52

A portrait of my daughter, once a week, every week, in 2014.

Raisin toast for lunch with Dad. What could be better?

24/52

A portrait of my daughter, once a week, every week, in 2014.

Spots on spots at the local bus stop. Reminded me of one of my favourite artists.

23/52

 A portrait of my daughter, once a week, every week, in 2014.

No caption this week; those eyes speak for themselves.

22/52

A portrait of my daughter, once a week, every week, in 2014.

The cat obsession continues. It's a shame that most cats don't seem to be as keen for cuddles as she is...

21/52

A portrait of my daughter, once a week, every week in 2014.

As fascinated with the mechanics of bicycle wheels as her dad is. I love how much expression she conveys with just those two little hands.