One way ticket for four…

Picture the scene… you’re just about to leave school after dropping the boys off; looking forward to your first day off from the big boys after a long old three week Christmas holidays. The only thing on your mind is a day wandering the shops on your mum’s last morning with you, without the guilt of dragging the boys around with you, only to be called to one side by your eldest son’s class teacher who informs you that he’s been misbehaving in school…. boom, care free day out the window!

My Regy, the boy who has been known to choose a day in (his previous) school rather than have a day off with Chloe (who was looking after Jesse for the day), had been playing up during lessons. Now I’m under no illusion; I have four brothers, and a Rhys..  I know what boys are like growing up, but what I did know was that there was definitely more to this story. See, It had been obvious to us that, for some time, Regan had been struggling. He hasn’t been himself for a long while, and we had an inkling that he was unhappy, but it wasn’t really until we spoke to him after this incident that he broke down and told us what we probably already knew: he wanted to go back to his old school. He misses his friends and his family, he misses going out to play and he misses chatting to anyone and everyone. What is that saying?  ‘A child seldom needs a good talking to, but a good listening to’. He needed us, sitting there and breaking everything down for him to realise that it was ok to tell us what he wanted without worrying. He asked me a few days later if I was mad at him for making this decision which, to me, shows he’d been mulling over it for quite some time.  All I could do was reassure him that him being happy was all that mattered and that of course I wasn’t mad at him.

We had built him up for this move and he honestly couldn’t wait. None of us could. And at first it seemed that everything was going exactly how we’d wished for it to… Both he and Jesse had the summer of their lives: a pool outside their back door, ample space to run, plenty of exploring to do and the weather to compliment it all….And then September came and with it, the reality of what his new life was going to entail. 

In hindsight, we probably should have been more realistic with him about how hard moving school was going to be, especially given that he’d be moving to a French speaking school. Instead, we did what we thought was true: we told him he’d fit in easily, that he’d learn the language in no time, that he’d be fantastic at the new ‘tackling’ rugby he’d been so excited to play….needless to say, it hasn’t quite worked out like this. Nearly 8 months in, he’s definitely picked up a lot of French, but nowhere near enough to even begin to understand what his teacher is saying all day. He has a friend in his class from NZ, whose family are in a similar predicament to us, and there are three other English girls in the school with whom he is friendly, other than that, he hasn’t really gelled with the other school children (again, the language barrier). The rugby he’d been so excited to play meant him playing in an u10s team and, at 8, the difference in size was not only noticeable, but also had a huge impact on his confidence. When we went home in October, Regan played for his old team, Bridgend Athletic, and the enjoyment he got from that morning playing was so uplifting for both he and us… But this obviously didn’t help the cause, and perhaps added to his frustration.. It has also become increasingly clear this his school work has been lagging behind. Although he has one or two hours a week out of class with an English speaking classroom assistant, it really hasn’t been enough and other than maths, it seems as though he’d been getting away with doing very little work since September. 

Of course, as a parent you question everything you’ve done. You can see your child changing in front of you; developing an attitude, a temper, becoming just generally unhappy, and upset and you blame yourselves. He didn’t ask for this, to be thrust into a situation in which he would struggle. We, as parents, made that decision for him, hoping above anything that we were providing a fantastic opportunity for him. 

Looking back I wonder whether, in preparation for the move, I should have read the studies which suggest that by 8, a child’s language learning skills decrease significantly and it’s only in adolescence that they improve again, or that by 8, a child will find it harder to adjust to the fact that he or she has left friends, family and familiarity behind. Would knowing any of this at the time have changed our minds about moving? I doubt it.. we’d have told ourselves that Regan’s a clever boy.. he would defy the ‘studies’ and be fine. Or, on the days I’m being a little less hard on myself, I can put it down to experience and realise that this was something we absolutely had to try for our family (nothing at all would have put Regan off coming here back in June). I really don’t know the answer, but I do know that neither Rhys nor I could see him unhappy anymore so something had to change.

And what about my little Jesse? At 3, he was the perfect age to move. He loves school and he no longer relies on playing with Regan at break times but plays with his own friends. Surely I should prepare him for another move? So I asked him, “Jesse, would you like to move home?” And, with a sad little face, he said “Yes” (actually, he said ‘Wes’) so I asked him where home was and he said, “Wales, by nanny and bampa, nanny Deb (etc)”. Right…well that’s that then.

So what are our options? I could homeschool him, right? I’m a qualified teacher; surely it’s a given that this would be the next step? Well no, actually.. with a baby in the house and a maths ability that has probably been bettered by Regan already, this isn’t an option. Coupled with the fact that Regan is a sociable child; he likes having lots of friends around to play with and, unfortunately, there simply  aren’t enough extra curricular opportunities around us here to make this a viable option.

I could tell him to ‘dog it out’, ‘suck it up’, ‘get on with it’. See out the year. Ban any visitors from coming over to see if that helps him settle. Again, unlikely to help and I’m actually sure that having visitors to look forward to has kept him (and us) going until now. Telling him to keep going despite his unhappiness is just not a scenario that I’m comfortable with. And how long is long enough for a child to be unhappy before you intervene? 

So short of controlling the weather and making it a year long summer, moving family and friends over and keeping him off school indefinitely.. I don’t think there really was any option other than to come home. Sure, I could talk my way around that being a bad idea, too. But realistically.. I think this option is the only way my little boy is going to be happy. In fact, it’s as if since telling us, a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders and he’s been a lot happier. Of course, there are moments where I have doubts: is this really a realistic idea? Leaving Rhys here and taking the boys back? But the truth is, I don’t really know what it’s going to be like. I know it’s going to be amazing being around family and friends again and it’ll be lovely to not have to stare blankly at someone who speaks rapid French to me in the supermarket or remember ‘passenger to pavement’ whenever I find myself driving on unfamiliar roads and my instinct is to come off the roundabout the wrong way (again). But it’s going to be horrible being away from Rhys.  Now I’m ok with my own company, I’m a bit of a hermit anyway, and we’re only 7 hours door to door away, but still.. it’s that extra pair of hands around;  the company you enjoy sitting in silence with after a long day of finding  responses to satisfy Jesse’s constant intrigue; a different (and apparently more authoritative) voice for the boys to hear telling them to “LEAVE EACH OTHER ALONE” or him being there take the boys outside to practice rugby drills in the garden.. Either way, what we both know is that their happiness and their fulfilment is paramount, and we’re so so proud of the effort they and their friends have put in trying to adapt to their new lifestyle. 

So (in a few weeks) we go again, on another little adventure. Only this time to more familiar territory…..

A Labour Of Love….

I had an epidural….

After two very straight forward and quick births, Regan a four hour active labour and Jesse two hours start to finish, it came as a slight surprise to me that at 6pm last night, after getting to the hospital at 2pm, I still didn’t have my baby in my arms, nor was he anywhere close to being there. 

Gone were the visions of a mental dash to the hospital, the baby barely holding on in until we got to a delivery room; gone was the realisation that, had there not been anyone around to have the boys and Rhys would have to stay with them, I’d be ‘fine on my own’ (in fact, of all three, I could not have done without him throughout this one). However, in all of this, there was one definite.. the pain of this labour was getting worse! 

I’m pretty sure it’s routine in France for women to have epidurals. I had a routine appointment with the anaesthetist at 36 weeks to go over everything for when the time came to have my baby, and I’d been met with sheer surprise that I hadn’t had an epidural on my last two deliveries. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m not by any stretch averse to the idea but only if I definitely need one..’ again, I was licking my lips at the prospect that this labour would not last anywhere near long enough to warrant me needing one. I’d use gas and air, I thought to myself… job done.

However, when labour was in full swing, and as I pushed on through the centimetre dilation landmarks, enduring the horrendously deflating news that I was still as dilated as I’d been an hour and a half ago, I realised there was no sign of gas, air, pethadine or even paracetamol! I’m sure, at this point, it comes as no surprise the the word lurking at the back of my mind was growing stronger with every pain….’epiduralllll’ was all I could think. 

I eventually ‘gave in’ (‘giving in’ to what though, is the big question.. my ego? My pain? Who knows) and begged for the magic pain relief after my sister in law (through Rhys) encouraged me to try it as I’d feel as though I’d be ‘floating through the clouds’. That sealed it… and it was honestly the best decision I made. It took so long to set it all up that I was, it transpired, already 8cm by the time it was done but it just helped my whole body relax and, as such, my little Rèmi was born just 40 minutes after that first, beautiful painless contraction (and I did get a sort of repeat of the mad dash as the baby just about hung on for the midwives at the end to deliver him safely, but for any male readers, I’ll forgo the details).

Now I’m not sharing this tale simply as another birth sorry, which by the way I absolutely love to read, but simply as perhaps a small warning of the dangers of setting #InstaGoals. There are so so many mothers documenting on instagram who have managed to get through their entire labours using ‘hypnobirthing’ or other various, non medical ways of getting to the end.. Countless women have been able to get through their pain barriers with a canister of gas and air or half a shot of pethadine… I say half a shot because this was my particular badge of honour after having Regan… ‘I just had HALF a shot of pethadine with Regan’. And, honestly I cringe slightly now because before I asked for the epidural, all I could think of was my previous two experiences whereby I’d not needed one. I felt, if I’m honest, that I was giving up, taking the easy way out… as it were.. and as I sit here, next to my new baby, reflecting on my labour I’ve realised that what I did was neither of these, what I actually did was listen to my body and do the most sensible thing for it. I was an instantly different person after the injection into my back began to take affect. I was nicer to the midwife, I caught my breath for a bit, helping to ease the tiredness that was taking over and I even gave Rhys a smile. It gave me a little break before the unending task of being a mum began.

So my point it this… why on earth does how we get these babies out matter? What exactly had made me even bother to question whether I should or shouldn’t have an epidural? So when I talk about my natural labour I could add an #NaturalDelivery under his newborn picture? I really don’t know and, thankfully, I really don’t care. I am evidence that every labour is different, and even the most well wished, well imagined plans have a way of going by the wayside. I am now 100% certain that had my previous two labours lasted as long as this one (and in comparison to a lot of women, this wasn’t even that long), I would definitely have had an epidural before. In fact, when she was in labour, the same sister in law said she had no idea how I’d done it without an epidural and I did remind her that neither of mine had been long enough to warrant needing one.

I do know that, for childbirth in particular, there are unrealistic expectations for women but these are only expectations we set for ourselves. Take the England footballer Harry Kane, for example… he posted a picture of his wife and new baby a few months ago and said how proud he was of her completely pain relief free delivery. He received a lot of criticism for this post, with many calling him out for highlighting this fact as it made other women feel as if they were a failure for not emulating her experience. But why? Why shouldn’t he post about how proud he is of his wife? It doesn’t for one minute mean that anyone else has to try to do the same as she did. Each pregnancy, Labour and birth are as unique as the resulting baby, so how could any women possible try to do the same as another?

I am just entirely grateful that my baby, who at one point decided he didn’t like contractions anymore and resulted in a plummeting heart rate, is here, safe and sound and sleeping in a crib next to me. And so to all of you fortunate enough to be able to go through the amazing experience of childbirth, whether it be it with drugs, intervention, c-section or in your garden on your own whilst you document the whole thing to stream on YouTube (not me, obvs)..you are doing something amazing!

So wherever you are in your journey to becoming a mum, good luck, or well done. It doesn’t matter how you did it, what matters is that you did! 

The Sacrifices we make and the resulting FOMO (fear of missing out)

I read an article recently posted by Luisa Zissman (business woman, Apprentice, Big Brother etc). It was by an a American Psychologist who argues that children should not be considered the most important part of your family, that you and your partner shouldn’t put their every need first. I get that, and I completely agree that children should never be brought up to feel that what they say goes. However, I really don’t think it’s as easy as that when everything we do is essentially to keep them comfortable. This also got me thinking about how much we change and give up once our children arrive. If they’re not considered the most important little things in our world, why do we give so much up and do so much for them?

Example: For a few weekends now, I’ve been sat on my kitchen floor, or if Jesse allows it, the sofa- Peppa, Mr bloody Tumble or other such things blaring from the TV. Surrounded by jigsaw pieces, or having books thrust at me, a smiling little face eager to hear the same story again, despite the fact he’s ripped 3/4 of the ‘pop up’ bits out, rendering the ‘surprise’ element underneath non existent. It’s this same smiling face that’s had me up since 5am.

It’s in the midst of this early morning chaos that I scroll through my phone- catching up on the latest goings on in the social media world. Having exhausted Instagram and Twitter, I open Snap Chat and see that my friends have posted just a few minutes ago. Strange? I think- I’m sure they went out last night. 5.45am is very early for them to have emerged? Ah…. my heart sinks a little. You see, whilst I’ve been up getting on with chores like ironing, changing nappies, breakfasting the boys (whilst trying not to give in to my own hunger pangs at such an ungodly hour or, before you know it, I’d be eating lunch by 10am!) being used as a climbing frame and being forced to watch the same two series of Peppa on Netflix, my friends are still out. Still partying. And whilst most of the time I can say I’m more than happy to be waking up fresh as a daisy (maybe more a slightly wilted daffodil, but still) sometimes, there’s that pang.. that feeling of missing out.. that feeling of wondering whether all of the above is really better than being out partying every weekend.

Take last week, I took Regan on the train to Cardiff to watch the match with Rhys’ mum, dad and sister. I decided I’d forgo the car and a nice cozy spot in the stadium car park, and get the train up so I could have a few drinks. I was adamant I didn’t want to go out after the game, despite Rhys’ older sister, Nicole, insisting she’d stay with Jesse. Needless to say, after a few drinks in the Cardiff Transport club on Tudor Street (£1 entry, cheap drink and normally easy to get a seat 👌🏻), and a bit too much Rose in the stadium, I’d changed my mind. I decided to go out…. *** Que massive meltdown by Regan at the thought of me staying out*** alas, the night ended there. We waved Chloe off to join the girls and to the train station we departed, ready for a night tucked up in bed together. In hindsight, it was probably a good thing, Jesse was up at 4.45am closely followed by his older brother and I have a feeling that, being quite out of practice, any more drink would have probably tipped me over the edge (basically, I’m a lightweight at the best of times). Still, there was a part of me that was genuinely gutted that I couldn’t stay out. Yes, I could have just told Regan not to be so silly and gone anyway (we did try to bribe him with a trip to Smiths Toy Superstore but even that didn’t work) but it really isn’t as easy as that. So, yes, I missed out on a night out, but.. Regan is a sensitive little sole, and with his dad away quite a lot at the moment, I just didn’t want to make it any worse for him. He doesn’t take well to things being sprung upon him and I tend to have to pre warn him about these things. Does that make me a ‘part of the problem’ when it comes to children growing up and feeling entitled? No- I just couldn’t justify leaving him with his grandparents in such a state just because I had a fleeting urge to carry on drinking.

I really do believe that as a parent, particularly to such young children, that these are the sacrifices you make and your feelings rarely matter when it comes to them. Do they care that you’re missing out on a night out? Nope. No matter how much you try to think other wise, they know that they’re the centre of your world so why would they even think to consider the possibility that their existence might be a little bit of a hinderance from time to time :-|. Chloe text me the next day to say she was so tired she got a taxi home on her own, I felt awful.. she should have just come with us… I needn’t have worried, however, because it turns out that her early was 5am…. EARLY? I hear you cry…. and yes, I know. I’d been to sleep and woken up again before she’d even come home and our other friends were yet to leave the bar they were in. Even if I wanted to, I honestly don’t think I could stay out until that time. I’m pretty sure I’d be counting all of the hours of wasted sleep that I wouldn’t be able to make up for until my children finally sleep all night (not happening any time soon 😂).

A similar story a few weeks ago. Rhys had booked a night in the Celtic Manor for us during a rare weekend off. Great, I thought, a whole day and night to ourselves. But it never works quite like that: we went once Rhys got home from training, got stuck in traffic and had to be back by 11 the next morning for a kids party and some other work commitment Rhys had on. “We’re always rushing whenever we have a bit of time away” I moaned to my mum and she was quite quick to remind me that, when you have children, that’s just what happens. And it’s true- in fact, when I look at Regan’s ‘column’ on the calendar, it’s jam packed with parties, rugby games and plenty of other activities. If children aren’t the most important part of our family, why do we dedicate so much time to them? The simple matter is because they need us and rely on us for everything and we have no other choice but to oblige.

Do I think dads have to make the same sacrifices? Obviously I can only speak for myself and maybe close friends but no, I definitely don’t think Rhys makes the same sacrifices but that doesn’t mean to say he doesn’t make any. Recently, the girls have been making plans to celebrate our 30^th Birthdays, or nights out to watch different gigs and concerts. Now I don’t want, or am I trying to induce, a pity party, but I don’t ever agree to these plans until perhaps the week before. I never know where Rhys is from one week to the next and therefore am really reliant on grandparents, family and friends for babysitting duties. However, if Rhys has something on, he doesn’t need to worry about babysitters, he knows that I’ll be there. He can plan weeks or months ahead, it makes no difference. He makes sacrifices in an entirely different way. For example, the day Jesse was born, Rhys was on the next flight out to Ireland to play. Two months later, he was en route to Switzerland for the first of the World Cup training camps. I might miss out on things like nights out, but he misses out on the really important things: Regan’s rugby matches, school plays, Jesse’s firsts and all sorts of other things. I think whichever way you look at it, whether it’s your social life, career or family life, you inevitably make sacrifices in order to make life easier or better for your children. You will miss out on things, you will go without things in order to buy them something instead of yourself and you might feel a bit aggravated at having to make these sacrifices from time to time. What other option do we, as parents, have? And, when it comes down to it… do I really miss it? Of course there’s that pang, but it goes as quickly as it comes (the fact I was ‘born middle aged’ as my best friend, Abbie, puts it, does definitely help).

However, whilst being cuddled up with a good series in front of the fire, nice food on my lap and no hangover the next morning is the way forward most of the time, now and again, I think everyone needs to have a blow out- some time to yourself to enjoy being yourself and not just a parent to make up the swimming lessons/rugby training/kids parties you have to endure 😜! My children (mainly Jesse) are in bed by 7  so I get a few hours to myself and I’ve got a few night’s out coming up and I cannot wait (Regan has been pre warned and there will be no meltdown to stop me going ;-)…. ). Hey, we all need to let our hair down now and again, don’t we? So yes, my children run my life, and yes they’re the most important things in it, but that by no means suggests they’re spoilt or entitled. They know when no means no (Jesse ignores it anyway but I’m hoping that’ll come with age 😂) and I really do think they (and by they I mean Regan) is really appreciative of what we do. Them being happy is key, and if that means making a few sacrifices, then I’m completely fine with that!

A Reply Of Sorts….

Christmas 2016, you’ve been a blast! A lovely but hectic couple of weeks led up to the big day and included plenty of food, drink and, my favourite, family time… so obviously, getting together for our annual family girls’ night was a must. We often try different places but, for the last two years, we’ve gone to the Bryn Owain on the A48, just outside Cowbridge. This year’s party was bigger than ever with 34 of us (including the kiddy winks) descending upon them with our pre ordered food choices and excited little ones…. and it was our children, excited to see each other and high as kites thanks to the imminent arrival of a certain bearded man, that were the source of some harsh words to a local newspaper by a fellow diner.

So, this blog… our attitude towards children. Admittedly, on the evening in question, our little rabble were quite loud and as much as we tried to keep their noise to a minimum, it just wasn’t happening. They were merry (surely that’s the norm, given the time of year) and were running around enjoying themselves, playing games with each other whilst waiting for their dinner to arrive. However, I do not feel as though their, or our, behaviour warranted the kind of letter written by a typical keyboard warrior to the local paper. The person who penned this letter described us mothers in the group as ‘lazy parents’ and called for us to put down our ‘phones and glasses of wine’ in order to engage with our children as they are currently on their way to becoming, ‘selfish, thoughtless and spoilt’. Well, sir or madam, (they conveniently opted to not include their names) how dare you suggest that you know our children after a brief encounter with them on one Sunday evening at a restaurant. How dare you suggest that our children, who are also regularly complimented on their excellent manners and politeness, display behaviour far inferior to that of your three children. How dare you suggest that we did nothing with our children when in fact I for one was on my feet with them for most of the evening given that my 19 month old was tinkering far too close to the stair case and the other parents and relatives took turns to check on our children. Yes, them throwing part of a Christmas cracker over the edge of the stair case was definitely not appropriate behaviour and they were sanctioned accordingly for doing this. However, them enjoying themselves, enjoying each others’  company, playing games, building lego sets gifted to them that evening or colouring the books they had been given- was certainly not behaviour that called for such a scathing letter to the Gem. The letter written also questioned whether us mothers believe that teaching our children to behave was actually down to teachers. Ironic, really given that four of us are in this exact profession. What’s more, and this is my biggest bug bear, I wonder why you didn’t think to approach us on the evening in question, if we were such awful patrons? The staff at the pub couldn’t have been any more helpful and were most accommodating, so if we were so bad, why were we not approached by them to lower the ‘decibels’ produced by our children.

You see, it’s at this point that I always think about the difference in attitude towards children between us Brits and those in places such as France and Spain. Whenever we’ve been away to these places, it’s clear that children are as much welcomed guests as the adults and not the nuisances that some people seem to believe they are. In Spain for example, children are expected to take pleasure in their inclusion within the adults’ world. People rarely look at these children with a mind to criticise their behaviour but recognise that they are a part of their family, not an extension. They don’t alter their lives to accommodate their children but welcome them into their plans.

Don’t get me wrong, of course if would be easier if all children sat and spoke quietly to one another, mindful of the adults that have ‘allowed’ them to accompany them on their outing. It would be easier if all children barely raised their voices above a quiet tone at all times, but our children are not like that. We are not fans of the archaic belief that ‘little children should be seen and not heard’ but rather welcome and encourage their personalities. Our children are loud, they are boisterous (both the boys and the girls) and they are lively. However, they are also considerate, polite and extremely loving.

I would also like to suggest, sir or madam, that you pick up one of these, ‘babysitting devices’ as you so brilliantly refer to them, and have a look at some world news- it will perhaps help you realise that allowing our children to move from their seats whilst out for dinner or be a bit louder than you’d have liked, is not ‘bad parenting’. Nor is allowing them to use an iPad ‘bad parenting’. Perhaps if you’d have taught in deprived areas, as several of us have, you’d see what ‘bad parenting’ is, or knew the background of my foster sisters, who were also at the meal, you’d understand what ‘bad parenting’ is. So, Mr or Mrs/Ms/Miss, whilst I am very sorry to hear that your evening was so awful that you felt the need to write into the paper in order to criticise our parenting skills and to criticise our children, I will not apologise for allowing them to enjoy themselves at this little Christmas party. Perhaps, in future, you could cast your mind back and try to remember what if felt like to be an excited child around Christmas time. Alternatively, maybe opt for an adults only restaurant?

A Little Bump In The Road…

And here we go again….. another little setback in Rhys’ career. Which got me thinking about my next blog… how do athletes keep their head in check when their career has just (momentarily) fallen to pieces due to injury.

Since being with Rhys, he’s had quite a few injuries…He’s undergone three knee reconstructions, two shoulder reconstructions, a repair to his Lisfranc ligament (I’d never heard of it either) and he’s about to undergo a ligament repair to his right ankle. Phew…. a long list of battle scars, all in the name of being a professional rugby player. He really has been unlucky when it comes to injury, particularly with the last two which basically occurred because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Had a ball gone a different way or a player moved in a different direction, they may not have happened. Either way, there’s no getting away from the fact that they happened- he’s injured and it’s time for the road to recovery.

It’s a similar story to a lot of athletes. Take my brother, for example, a former Blues player- he was another unlucky one when it came to injuries. He also had two knee reconstructions, nose and cheek socket reconstructions and, in the end, a career ending neck injury, the pain of which still blights him today. But how do they do it? How do they keep going despite everything in them telling them it’s ridiculous to keep putting their bodies through these serious injuries?

When Rhys injured his foot in the World Cup warm ups, it was horrible. He was devastated. We were devastated for him. He’d missed out on quite a lot of Jesse’s first weeks in order to prepare for the event and yet no preparation could prevent the weight of a load of rugby players piling on top of him and causing his ankle to bend in such a way and effectively ending his chances of partaking on the biggest platform in Rugby. The only thing that helped a tiny bit at the time was that Regan, his little shadow, was there to basically cling to him before he departed for hospital.
He’d recover in no time though, right? That’s something we all just assume… ohh a quick op, a bit of rehab and they’ll be back in no time! The truth is, the injuries are a huge physical blow but the mental implications are, at first, a lot worse.

I read an article the other day about a female raging driver, Susie Wolff. Her career was going brilliantly- she had the world at her feet and everything was rosy…until she broke her ankle. She lost her sponsors, her place on the racing team and essentially, her dreams. She admits that, at the time, the injury took her to a ‘dark place’. A place from which she believed she perhaps would never fully recover. However, she notes how, despite not wanting to risk failure again, she had no choice but to listen to that voice that was telling her to ‘keep going’. Although everything was going wrong for her, she eventually managed to pick herself up and made a huge success of herself. But how do they do it? How do they recover when they see someone else doing what they feel is their right: taking their place in the Olympic team; taking their place for a football match or wearing their jersey at a rugby game. I really don’t know if I’d be able to be so positive when everything is going so bloody wrong.

So how does Rhys do it? Well, there’s no magic formula. He, like all the other injured athletes who go through injury, don’t have a magic potion… it take a lot of hard work. Ask anyone, Rhys is a freak when it comes to training. I’ve never met anyone who enjoys exercising as much as him. Often a relaxing dog walk to the Sand Dunes will escalate into a quick sprint session up the gigantic hills and I wonder why I’ve once again been fooled into thinking that anything in Rhys’ company can ever be relaxing. Getting up early to go to spin in the morning is a breeze and he’s always first into training ready to start his day. He’s so, so motivated and I have no doubt that it’s this attitude that helps him in his recovery. Nevertheless, I’m sure you can imagine how hard it is for this bundle of energy to be sidelined for so long through injury. Even with his level of motivation, the process is ridiculously tough.

So of course, it isn’t all positive this and positive that.. he replied to someone on twitter the other day that he didn’t know how many recoveries were left in him (an unsurprising comment given the amount of comebacks he’s had). It takes a huge toll and I can’t even imagine how it must feel to watch your team mates running out on the field in front of huge crowds, knowing you should be there, too. Watching your team mates celebrate a success or come together to get over a loss and not being a part of it.

So what happens next?

Directly after the operation, when he’s in pain, can’t sleep or move very far, when he can’t burn off the energy he has in abundance, it gets tricky. His injuries affect the whole family and, I’m not going to sugar coat it, it’s tough for everyone. Rhys is quite demanding at the best of times, let alone when he can’t do anything, and he can be a bit of a pain in the ass when he recovers. His mum and I often joke that she’ll bring his bell down next time she comes because we do effectively become his maids. He can be miserable, and we have to be careful about the topics of conversation we choose.. we’ll keep Jesse away from him whilst the pain subsides because, at 18 months, a foot wrapped in plaster and bandage is just another interesting thing to explore and we’ll accept the fact that sometimes, he won’t want to reply or have any input in a conversation we’re having. But that’s ok.. it might sound cliched but we’re there through the good and the bad. We enjoy everything he provides for us so how could we not accept the Rhys that emerges during an injury?

So when I hear… “Dellllllllll” being called for the 100th time that day I do sometimes take a deep breath, whisper and expletive to myself and go to see to him with a smile of my face (hey, we all need to be positive, don’t we?) and we’ll just be there.. waiting to make everything as easy as possible for him whilst he mentally prepares himself for the imminent rehabilitation process. We’ll be as excited as him when it gets to the point in his rehab when he can start running, or to his first ‘contact’ session and we’ll be there cheering him on (whilst watching through our fingers) when he gets back on the field……….

The Real ‘Mummy Diaries’?

My friends and I went on a trip to London recently to celebrate both a 30th birthday and the return home of two of the girls from a two year stint in Aus. On the bus returning home, hungover and running low on conversation after two hours of reminiscing about the night before, the mums of the group started chatting about our favourite topic- the kids. It was at this point that Rhys’ sister asked if we’d seen Samantha Faier’s (from The Only Way Is Essex) new reality series, ‘The Mummy Diaries’. I had to admit that I hadn’t, after the pilot episode a few months back, I was a bit put off (her boyfriend flat out kisses his mother with lingering kisses on the lips) but was curious to know what it was like. Nicole basically explained that it really made her question herself as a mother and wonder why she couldn’t be as confident in calling herself a ‘great mother’ or an ‘earth mother’ as Sam openly labels herself. “Why don’t I feel like she does all the time?” She asked, and we all reassured her that we definitely didn’t feel the same overwhelming love that Sam feels for her son every second of the day. However, Nicole is an amazing mother to our nephew, Rohan, and has brought him up to be a lovely, polite and loving little boy- so why on earth would a programme manage to make her question herself so much? I was intrigued to see exactly what is was that could make someone feel this way. So, whilst Jesse napped I grabbed a cup of tea and sat down to watch…and honestly, I really struggled to watch it all the way through without thinking… WHAT!!! I could, though, see exactly what Nicole meant. It seemed to me that ‘reality’ probably wasn’t the right term to attach to the series. Or at least, whilst it might be Sam Faier’s reality, it certainly isn’t the reality of a lot of mothers I know.

 

The reality according to us. 

Rhys and I had Regan when I had just turned 23 and Rhys, a spring chicken, was 21. We weren’t young in comparison to teenage parents, but we were still relatively young to have been given responsibility of this teeny tiny little bundle and I can honestly say, those first two weeks after having him were amongst the hardest of my life. You see, whilst we were obviously head over heels to have this gorgeous little man and beyond relieved that he had arrived safely, we found it hard. The sleepless nights were a shock; trying and trying to breast feed with sore boobs and tired eyes was a shock; a baby continuously crying and the realisation that after feeding, changing, winding, singing ridiculous songs, you still have no idea why it’s crying, is a shock. Basically, becoming a parent is one big shock to the system and not, as Sam Faiers seems to portray, the most amazing experience of one’s life. I’m telling you now, I would rate a full body massage and an overnight stay in a hotel far higher in the experiences department than waking up every hour to feed your hungry baby or rocking your colicky baby for a few hours straight whilst the pain in its poor little tummy subsides. I appreciate completely that she might think differently to me, but what I find really hard is that she gives off this image of everything being so straight forward, so easy and so amazingly natural and presents this image to such a big audience, to a huge amount of women, when this is rarely what becoming a mother or father looks like.

There is a point in the first episode when Sam and her boyfriend, Paul, are discussing parenthood and they both sit there and repeat over and over that they ‘love being parents’ and laugh and giggle to each other over this statement whilst looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. That’s great, I love being a parent, but having a baby puts a lot of pressure on a couple- when Regan or Jesse would cry and cry and when you’re dealing with all of this on top of having a severe lack of sleep, it’s inevitable that there are arguments and tension between couples. Adjusting to putting another person before you or your partner’s needs can take time and sometimes, can take you to the edge of your patience. Meanwhile, Sam and her boyfriend couldn’t be more in love. Again, great, if you’re lucky enough to experience this every second of the day, but I just really struggle to see how it’s fair to provide such an unrealistic portrayal of life after having a baby. Things just are not rosy 24/7!

The way you feed your baby is a topic that often sparks a huge debate amongst mothers old and new. Sam highlights that even before giving birth, she was going to breast feed no matter what and has enjoyed it ever since… um that’s great, Sam. She states that she’s ‘really proud’ of herself for feeding her baby for so long and not giving her son even one bottle at all. It is an amazing achievement; it really is, because breast feeding for any length of time is bloody hard! But, does she then give the impression that a mother shouldn’t be proud of herself because she hasn’t managed to emulate Sam’s success with feeding her child? I don’t think so. I managed three months feeding Jesse and about two weeks on Regan before going back to university, but they were both fed, both happy and both thriving… It really really gets to me how much pressure there is on mothers to do anything and I feel that programmes such as this just ramp that pressure up! Surely, as long as your child is happy and healthy, you should just do whatever it is you feel comfortable doing… yes breast feeding is natural, so why does Sam feel the need to push how proud she is of herself for doing this?

Am I being too critical when I suggest that surely, by acting like this, speaking in this way, and sitting there looking ridiculously beautiful with her full face of makeup and perfectly groomed hair, that Sam is providing a totally unrealistic portrayal of parenting? Of course it’s not just her, It’s the same with celebrity mothers like the Kardashians who have recently upped their workouts and healthy eating regimes all whilst being amazing mothers to their children. That’s great and all, and if I had a nanny on tap to watch my boys whilst I went to the gym twice a day to work with a personal trainer or had enough money to only buy gluten free and organic produce or have someone cook my children the healthiest meals with the best ingredients, I’d be laughing. But the fact is, this isn’t reality. If I want to exercise I’d have to find someone to watch the boys so sometimes I get up at the crack of dawn to do a quick session before Jesse gets up or wait until he’s napping and do something then (also because by the time 7 comes and the boys are in bed, I’m too tired to even contemplate a trip to the gym). But that’s real life! Also, after feeding Regan pretty much solely on jars when weening him, I was adamant I’d give Jesse nothing but food I’d made myself…this was great for the first few months, when it was easy to feed him the meals I wanted him to eat, but as soon as he could feed himself and developed his own likes and dislikes, the avocado and broccoli bake would end up on the floor in favour of his brother’s chicken nuggets..(Regan, not a great eater, loves that he can slyly get rid of his meal by shoving it Jesse’s way).

 

Now don’t get me wrong, my children are the most important things in my life and their needs come before anything else. I’d do anything to keep them safe and happy and yet, I go to bed most nights thinking right, I must be a better parent tomorrow. This is a common statement I’ve heard from my friends, too. But, by the time the next day swings by, we’ve still managed to lose our patience and shout at our children, accidentally ignored them for a few minutes because we’re too engrossed in our phones or realise we’ve forgotten to read their books with them more than once this week (basically because we were away celebrating our friend’s 30th instead of staying in whilst they read aloud about the adventures of Biff, Chip and Kipper 😜).

I’m the first to admit that there have been times where I have told Regan to just stop talking because his constant questions about Lamborghinis or the speed of a Nerf gun bullet are starting to give me a headache- but then I worry later that I’ve stifled his creativity. I’ll panic that by telling him to stop following me around the house whilst I complete mundane household tasks might make him think I don’t enjoy his company or if I shout at Jesse in sheer frustration when he won’t lie still for me to change a dirty nappy or want to tear my hair out after being in his very busy company since 5am, I feel as though I’ve been a bad mother. I also feel awful if my children haven’t had at proper homemade dinner in a day and have instead dieted on jam sandwiches, chicken nuggets and chocolate. But then I remember that they’re healthy, well fed and watered and realise that actually, it isn’t the end of the world. I make no secret of the fact that by 7 (Pm, but sometimes am 😜) I am more than ready for their bedtime and look forward to some time for Rhys and I to have a sit down and watch anything other than Peppa Pig or Tom and Jerry. Is this selfish? Do these hiccups make me a bad mother? No, I don’t think so. But I do think that day to day, mothers and fathers feel guilty enough about decisions they make with regards to their children and have a nagging sense that they’re not doing a good enough job, so do we really need ‘reality’ programmes such as these making us feel even worse about the job we’re doing? Ummmm NO! Parents have enough to contend with without having this unfair perception to try to live up to. And, if even one mother is made to feel inadequate after watching Sam’s documentary, surely that’s one mum too many?

I Went Back To Work…

It has been about six months since I finished working as a teacher. Before finishing, I questioned, or rather, justified, my reasons for giving up a secure and stable job in order to stay at home with Jesse. I knew it would be a risk: What if I was making a huge mistake? What if I’m bored at home? What if, what if, what if? I obviously didn’t have the answers to any of these questions, and it was getting really tricky juggling childcare, school pick ups and drop offs with Rhys being away so much, so it was a risk I was just going to have to take.

 

So how has it been?

Truthfully, it’s been great. I haven’t been bored: a nearly 18 month old Jesse dragging me around to partake in which ever activity he is currently engrossed in, means I’m rarely short of entertainment and my days are still flying by. I quite like being a port of call for brothers and sisters in law when a babysitting emergency strikes and most of all, I love knowing that I’m always there to pick Regan up from school or be able to pick him up if he’s unwell. Sure, there’s the occasional argument where Rhys will bring up the fact that I’ve been home all day whilst he’s been hard at ‘work’ and I’ll fire back with the fact that I’ll happily go back to my career, if he’s willing to give up his.. but hey, that’s just life and I would argue, an inevitability when one half of a couple is at home all day (still, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t get as much done as I do in a day if the roles were reversed 😉 ) So why, if everything is so rosy, I hear you ask, have I gone back to work?

 

Now, before I lead you to believe that I’ve completely gone back on my first blog post and thrown myself back into full time work- I have not. I have, however, signed up to a teaching agency in order to do a day or two supply per week. Jesse has been packed off to nursery for a day and a half and, a ‘supply day’ means getting us all ready to leave the house by half 7 in the hope that I’ll get a call to go to a school. If I do it means a quick drop to nursery for Jesse then it’s Regan’s turn to be dropped at the breakfast club put on by his school. Phew..! It was always my intention to do supply, to ‘keep my hand in’ and not completely fall into teaching obscurity.. but again, that wasn’t my reason for going back.

 

Given the choice, I definitely wouldn’t be doing it. So why am I? Well, it’s what everything seems to boil down to- money! Yes Rhys gives me money to live off each month and, thankfully, he really is generous and if there’s something that my monthly ‘pay’ wont cover, he won’t hesitate to provide a little extra. But, it’s Christmas and Rhys’ birthday just around the corner and I love nothing more than building up the boys’ Christmas sacks and stockings full of useless junk that seems cheap at £1 a toy but soon adds up to ridiculous amounts and basically never gets used again a few days after Father Christmas has delivered them. I know, not really a reason to start working again, but seeing Regan’s face when he sees what has been ‘left’ for him on Christmas day is more than worth it. Also, I just can’t bring myself to buy Rhys a birthday present from the money he gives me each month. I can just imagine it: “Happy birthday, babe! Hope you like your pressy but I’ll need a bit extra this month to cover what I spent on you. Cheers!” I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t even mind, but I do. I just want to have that little bit extra so as not to have to be in this predicament.

However, I’d probably be lying if I said that a day or two off a week from spending my every waking moment with Jesse isn’t nice. He is a beautiful, hilarious and ridiculously affectionate little boy, he is also extremely strong willed and rarely sits still. So much so that it can be a battle to get through even the most basic of tasks with him: getting dressed, changing his nappy etc are all a challenge as they mean he has to stay in one spot for a few minutes. I often find myself chasing him around to do the last popper on his vest or to put another sock on and the chairs that go with the little table I bought him are normally confiscated by 7am as a result of him using them as climbing frames to reach the things he’s not allowed. It gets to the point where I annoy myself with how much I say ‘No, Jesse’, particularly as he basically either ignores me or laughs hysterically and does it anyway. Anyone who knows Rhys will know that sitting still is also something he finds tricky, too- we can’t go to the cinema (five minutes in to a film and he’ll already be bored, throwing popcorn or huffing and puffing whilst jiggling his legs in frustration at being stuck in one place) and he is always out the house about an our before he needs to be because he cannot sit and wait- hardly surprising, then, that Jesse is the same. So having a tiny version of this running around can be quite tiresome. However, after a day or two in work, I can’t wait to get home to see my boys and I appreciate the time I have with them a lot more.

So do I regret giving up a secure and stable job, only to go on supply just 6 months later? Absolutely not! The great thing about supply is that I can turn down a day’s work if, for example, Rhys is away or I’m struggling with childcare. Also, I don’t have the stress of tracking pupil progress, reports, parents’ evenings or the copious amounts of marking that teachers have to take home every evening. I get to come home and switch off. I don’t envy these teachers. They deserve medals for everything they do and for dealing with the pressures of working within a school and seeing this again has definitely made me question whether this is the career that I’ll go back to once Jesse is in full time school. But there’s ages ’till then (…an age which seems to come by way too quickly 😦 ) So I’m going to enjoy being lucky enough to have this bit of freedom to dip in and out of the working world.

I Now Like Beetroot…

I now like beetroot

A few weeks ago, my mum gave Jesse some beetroot, he loved it! At this point I thought, right, she’s been telling me how nice this stuff is for years and I’ve refused to even contemplate trying any. But there, in front of me, was my one year old, stuffing his face with it (standard practice for him though). Right, come on, get it down you, I thought- I popped some in my mouth and, low and behold, I loved it and I now have it with every salad, omelet and, come to think of it, most food I have. So… this brings me on to my latest point. Taking and giving advice. See, if I’d have taken my mum’s advice years ago, I wouldn’t have missed out on all these years of beetrooty enjoyment. My salads would have been more scrumptious and I’d have had a few more years of realising it’s essential to wash your hands straight after handling the stuff to avoid spending the day with purple fingers. I chose not to listen to that little bit of advice, preferring instead to turn my nose up at it. So yes, I missed out on that pearl of wisdom, thankfully not a serious miss, but when is it ok to dish out advice and, more importantly, when do we know when to take or dump said words of wisdom?

I consider myself to be quite strong minded. If I’ve set my heart on something, it’s very unlikely that anyone’s advice will sway me from doing it. But is that a good thing?  Take my tattoo, for example: when I was in uni in London, A few friends and I made a rash decision to get our first initial tattooed somewhere on our bodies. I’d decided to have a D on my wrist and my friends, both with and A as their first initial decided on a similar position. We got to the shop, and were quoted £50 for a tiny little tattoo. My friends backed out, “That’s ridiculous money, we’ll look somewhere else, and anyway, I think we should think it through first!” My friends insisted that their minds were made up and tried to persuade me to do the same. But, I’d made up my mind and I had it done anyway. Needless to say, nearly ten years later, I wish I hadn’t and I can think of far better things I could have done with that £50! However, there’s also the time I decided to drop out of said uni. Despite my mum’s protestations, arguments, rants and her insistence that I would completely regret my decision, I went ahead and dropped out anyway. I wasn’t enjoying it and the course wasn’t what I thought it would be. Turns out, it was one of the best things I ever did and I haven’t ever regretted it. So, there we have it, two examples where taking advice could have helped and could have hindered me. And obviously there have been countless other times where this has been the case. Times I should have listened to others and times I’m glad I stuck with what I thought to be the better option.

I do though, find there’s nothing better than having a chat with friends or family when there’s something playing on your mind; listening to their advice and wondering whether to act upon it. The same goes for when a friend has a problem- boyfriend/jobs/family woes are topics we regularly sit and discuss, trying to figure out the best course of action to take when one (or all) have caused us a headache. Although I’d love to say that there is nothing that can’t be solved with a nice cuppa tea and a chat, sometimes, no matter how good the advice, the comparisons, or the listening ear, some things just have to run their course (yet we do still manage to sink a few pots of tea whilst chatting, anything’s worth a try, hey!). It’s with this in mind that sometimes, after I’ve been chatting and giving my opinion on a friend’s issues, I sometimes think, God I wish I had just shut up. See, not everyone wants to know what you think or your experience or how you did something a bit better. Yet I’m pretty sure we all still do it.

Take children- I find that other mothers are the first to give advice and you’ll often see some women, and men, put statuses on Facebook or Twitter asking for advice on how to do something concerning their child. Weaning their little one, potty training, how to deal with tantrums are among the countless concerns we feel like we need advice for. Great, if they’ve asked for it, provide it! But what about if a mother or father hadn’t asked? Is it ever ok to impart your experiences on them in order for them to change the way they do something? Is it ever ok to say ohhhh no, don’t do it that way! (As if the parental handbook was written by your fair hand).

Still, I’m forever dishing out parental advice or feeding on bit of information I’ve been given by other parents but that’s not to say that it’s of any use or that it’s even welcomed. I can’t help but think that sometimes, just listening to a new mother venting about the fact that her newborn is up every hour, or a friend who is having boyfriend woes, is good enough. Why do we feel the need to give our ten pence worth… ? Yes my children were (are) awful sleepers, I’d love for someone to give me a magic formula to guarantee Jesse would stay asleep past 5am but, it’s not out there (I’ve tried bloody everything).  To add to that is the constant email updates (signed up to when the boys were but bumps) advising me what my child should be doing at each particular milestone. Again, it’s all interesting but sometimes all of this advice, wisdom and experience can be a huge hindrance.

EXAMPLE– potty training! I remember discussing this topic with another mum whilst studying for our PGCE-

“well” she said, “both of mine were potty trained, day and night, within 4 days.” Wow, I thought.. “I don’t know” she continued, “why some parents take so long to do it!”

I managed a nod and a smile- but inside I was thinking, shit! (Obviously I wasn’t going to give the game away that I was nowhere bloody near this effort and I was more like 4 months and still trying with this particular task). At the time Regan was nearly three, just about getting out of accidents in the day, and no where near dry in the nights, so you can imagine how well hearing her experience went down. It immediately sent me into panic mode. I tried that night to get rid of nappies, waking up to pop him on the toilet before putting him back to bed in the hope that he’d be dry in the morning. No luck that time, or, for that matter, for a good few years. I went out and actually bought books; read every internet post I could find on the topic; put a potty in his room; contemplated getting rid of his much loved ‘ladder bed’ for a normal single bed so it would be easier for him to use said potty and, of course, racked the brains of grandparents and friends with children. Again, no luck. In the end, it actually took until he was 5 before we finally got him out of nappies in the night and we’re still not without the odd accident. We got there, though, and it didn’t matter that it took a few years instead of a few days. But as a result of hearing how well the woman potty trained her children, I still wonder if I did something wrong when I went through the process with Regan. Would it have changed the way I went about things had I not heard her experience? Who knows, eh!

Similarly, when Regan was born and I’d sit there cuddling him, I’d always be thinking of the advice people had given- don’t hold him too long, you’re making a rod for your own back, they’d say. So I’d put him down instead of snuggling on the sofa with him… I regretted this for a good few years. I felt I’d missed out on a lot of little cuddles because I’d listened to other people’s advice. And, as soon as he could move, his cuddles went out the window. It took until he was about three before he’d sit and snuggle up again and I’ve definitely made the most of any cuddles up for grabs with both of my boys every since. However, watching a mother carrying her newborn baby the other day, whilst he slept in her arms, her partner beside her pushing the pram, the first thought I had was, oh no, you’re making a rod for your own back. Why? Knowing the regret I had from listening to people who said it to me. Anyway, there’s no way I would ever say that out loud and, if anything, I’d encourage any mother or father to make the most of those little snuggles and not worry about those who tell them other wise. I’m sure though, there are some who would say that providing that bit of advice is wrong, too. It’s a blumin’ minefield!

Now obviously I’m not saying not to give advice, I’m not suggesting that using your experiences in order to help people is always a bad thing, either. I just wonder whether sometimes, unless asked, is it better to keep from overbearing others with your advice and experiences? Take Rhys, for example, he often gets people coming up to him after a game or in the street, advising him on what would have been a better method, or what he could have done differently. Fortunately, Rhys is the type to just smile, nod and give a “yeah, cheers” once they’ve completed their analysis of the game. Is that ok, though? Arguably, if you’re in the public eye you open yourself up to moments such as these but is it ever ok? I remember once doing something similar myself, I just dropped into conversation that maybe he should try and get the ball out a bit quicker. He just looked at me and laughed with an accompanying WHAT? I don’t really know why I said it, probably because I’d read what someone on Twitter had written (and obviously their advice is gospel, right?) because I really am not great with the rules or anything to do with rugby- basically, I haven’t got a clue and rely on my best friend to explain what’s going on. Needless to say, he didn’t feel the need to act on my ill given words of wisdom and that was the last time I felt the need to advise him on his techniques.

So yes, we all do it, provide advice, and I think even when it hasn’t been asked for, it’s rarely dished out as a negative thing. I know whenever I’ve felt the need to give my view (happens a lot- see above comment about knowing when to pipe down) it’s never to cause any hurt but I genuinely feel as though I could be helping someone out. But sometimes, I wonder whether it’s a case of stepping back and realising that, sometimes, some things are just better left unsaid……………

A clean house is a happy house……..

A clean house is a happy house….

Cleaning… I am, admittedly, a clean freak. I count unblocking drains and skip runs as favourite household tasks and if my house smells nice and everything is in its place, then I’m a happy girl. Not much to ask, hey? Well, yes, it is when your house is full of what I can only describe as all the training kit of Tesco and the space of Spar, coupled with two over indulged children who have ridiculous amount of toys. Still- I try. Sometimes, though, I wonder why it is so important for me to keep it all clean and tidy? Yes it makes me feel happier when there’s a touch of order around, but does it really matter? Who, exactly am I keeping it tidy for? I don’t think it’s just for my benefit, I have a sneaking suspicion that I keep my house that way because, who knows who is going to pop in unannounced! (Because of course, if I’ve been given notice of an impending arrival I will be straight to the cleaning cupboard!) I’m pretty sure I haven’t always been like this and I think it probably started once Rhys and I first moved into our own house. When it becomes your responsibility to keep everything tidy, it changes how you think about cleaning because I certainly wouldn’t have enjoyed cleaning or keeping the washing basket in order when I was still living at home. 

 

So I suppose from then to now, my mum in particular would agree, it’s quite the drastic change haha! So, a few examples of what I mean: I remember when Regan was younger, my friend took him upstairs to run him a bath. As I climbed the stairs to join them I heard her say, “oh, let’s clean it first.” I sprinted up the remaining stairs, horrified at why the bath needed cleaning! Once I got there I could see the remnants of Rhys’ leg hairs, freshly shaved for a game that night (yep, it’s a regular thing for him to do, more regularly than me, in fact). “It was Rhys!!!!!!! Not me!” I quickly announced, as if one of my best friends would think any differently of me for having a less than spick and span bath. I know this, but at the time it was imperative she knew it wasn’t me who had left the mess. I suppose I didn’t want her to think of me as anything less than an organized, clean mum.

 

In fact, before finishing work, a supply teacher in the department-already cottoning on to my enjoyment (compulsion 😂) of cleaning despite only being there a few weeks- told me to make sure I didn’t spend my days doing it, “there’s way more to life than a clean house, sweetheart!” OBVIOUSLY, I scoffed to myself……But was it that obvious? It’s easy to get into the habit of hovering and mopping on a daily basis, particularly as, when he’s decided he’s had enough of his meal, Jesse will swipe everything off his tray table, sending remnants of whatever he’s had for food hurtling across the kitchen. Sometimes I think, what’s the point in tidying it up now? I’m completely aware that he’ll do exactly the same at lunch and dinner, yet I’d rather drag my Henry out of the cupboard several times a day, instead.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I am a complete advocate of letting children be messy- we often bake/paint/playdough and the mess is ridiculous, but I will clean the area the second they’ve finished. In fact, on a horrendously rainy day last week, I made some homemade ‘magic sand’ with Regan… Jesse got bored of it quite quickly though so I took him in the other room to entertain him with something different. Within twenty minutes, Regan called to say he’d accidentally spilled some sand on the floor- no issue (I thought) but during the small time he’d been left to his own devices, he had literally gone to town on the sand- instead or the cream coloured ‘sand’ I had made him, the ‘experiment’ he had now created resembled something entirely different- something disgustingly brown and wet. Furthermore, the small bit of sand he’d dropped on the floor actually turned out to be red food colouring (he’s been digging through his science experiment boxes, hence the sticky brown mess) splashed all over our cream cupboards, floor tiles and leather chairs…..disaster. I took a deep breath, explained (probably not quite as calmly as I should have) why the experiment had to come to an end and got to scrubbing. Kids, eh!

 

Now, I love to cook and bake and I enjoy feeding people (despite my recipe plans not always turning out quite how they should). However, until everything is put away in the dishwasher, fridge, cupboards etc, no one gets their food!  I plate it all up and then tidy everything away before Rhys, looking on longingly, will have his food. He often calls me up on it, asking if he can have his food warm tonight (It’s always warm, he’s very dramatic). I just like the idea of sitting down and relaxing with my food without the dread of having to tidy up after me. I think it’s probably behaviour like this that earned me the title of ‘Suzie Homemaker’ from my friend (I told you I was born middle-aged!!) but for me, that’s perfectly apt. I just like and enjoy ‘keeping house’.

 

Interestingly, a few years ago, I remember explaining to someone how I don’t like to go out leaving the house in a mess. She agreed and believed that this was a way of showing people that you’re coping. I disagreed, at the time, silently thinking that I really didn’t care about whether people thought I was coping or not, I just liked the tidiness. But actually, over the years, I’ve realised that she was probably right. If a friend or family member calls over and your ironing basket is empty; your floors are clean and sparkly and your bathroom basin isn’t covered in toothpaste, you can hold your head up high and think, yep, you’ve got it together, right? As if they’d actually be walking into your house with a mental checklist:

 

Clean Toilet ✅

Empty ironing basket ✅

Hovered floors ✅

Sparkly kitchen tops ✅

Toys away neatly ✅

 

“Yep- they’re good- they’re coping juuuuuust fine.”

 

Would I walk into someone’s house and do the above? Absolutely not! So why do I think that anyone would be thinking the same when they walk into ours? Why do I insist on spinning the ‘excuse the mess’ line whilst welcoming them over the threshold. My mum will sometimes use this line if she has an unexpected visitor, but actually, she doesn’t give a monkeys what anyone thinks of her house and you can guarantee that you’ll have a layer of dog hair on you when you leave but you will also have been given a lot of affection from her two Welsh Springer Spaniels, Bryn and Morgan, whilst there.

Here’s the real clincher though: my upstairs is, nine times out of ten, a tip! It’s like the shop window effect! Regan, unable to put anything away after him, often has cupboard doors open with a pile of clothes pulled out at the bottom of it, Rhys, just as bad, has boxes of kit that he (I) hasn’t found a home for yet piled in the spare room (although the last time he went away, I basically moved every box and kit bag and put them in the garage,  leading to a hide and seek game for him when he returned), the washing basket is often spilling over (as well as clothes that the magic washing fairy hasn’t quite gotten round to moving from the floor and placed in said basket) and we have towels draped over any available door or bit of banister, drying ready for another use. However, you can guarantee that if we’re having people over to stay, or the girls are coming over to get ready before a night out, there will be nothing but perfect order upstairs. Surely that’s just not me, though?

So yes, I know I should chill out, I know I don’t need to tidy up immediately after Jesse is done looking through his books or throwing his Duplo Lego across the living room. I also know that it wont hurt at all to leave the remnants of his food on the floor beneath his high chair for a few more hours and just do one job lot of tidying once he’s done eating for the day.

Yet, I doubt it will happen. In fact, I know it won’t…

However, If there’s one room I have turned a blind eye to, it’s the playroom- my least favourite room in the house. My sister in law once told me that she has a great way of keeping my niece, Lily’s playroom tidy during the school holidays, she just closes the door and turns a blind eye… it’s safe to say that that is exactly the mantra I’ve taken over this last 6 week…. See, I can do it 😉 ish…

Honey! We left the kids at home!

Picture the scene: you get to the airport, you queue for the check in, drop your bags off and, well, that’s it! There’s no chasing children around, no stopping them from climbing on the luggage bands and no shouting, ‘NO! Don’t trip your brother up’ across the check in hall. This can only mean one thing: we went on a holiday without our children!!

When Rhys suggested we have a break away without the boys, I must admit I definitely welcomed the idea. Don’t get me wrong, I love being with my children, but as any mum knows, the summer holidays is a looooong stretch to try and fill. I had a little look online, looking for some good deals for a quick city break to Bath or even Cardiff. Wherever really, just two nights away to recharge before commencing the rest of the school holidays. However, Rhys had other ideas. He text asking if Ibiza sounded like a good idea? Ummm obviously! But I was adamant we needed to double check we had babysitters first. He agreed, or at least I thought he did! Next thing you know, he comes in and said he’d booked the flights- 5 days in Ibiza…… WHAT!!!!! (This, by the way, is completely typical of Rhys and I should have known, ha!)

I instantly went into panic mode with all sorts of things flying through my head: but I haven’t asked the nans if they’re ok to share the babysitting duty; 5 nights is way longer than I’d imagined and, most of all… I’ve never left my children for that long before! I voiced my concern to Rhys and he replied with: ‘OK, no problem- I’ll book you an earlier return flight then.’ Clearly not quite as concerned about these issues as me, then!

I felt awful that we weren’t taking them, and when I told people our plans I’d be thinking of reasons to justify leaving them behind, (as though we were really awful parents) only to realise that most parents would jump at the chance of a few nights away and often left their children for mini breaks.

Telling Regan, however, was a different story. I’ve always taken him everywhere with me. Food out with girls would often mean Regan came too, holiday with the girls, yep, Regan too and he’s recently started joining Rhys on boys’ trips to Nandos or is fully included when Rhys and his mates meet to watch the football. He’s cheeky and often very mischievous but he’s our little buddy and we knew breaking the news to him would be quite the ordeal. We ummd and ahhed about bringing him with us, but finally managed to agree that it would defeat the object of going away on our own. He was unimpressed, at first. He really really didn’t want us to go and we panicked that he’d be hysterical when it eventually came to it. However, it was, it seems, only us worrying, though, as when it came to it, he couldn’t wait to leave us. He had a jam packed few days planned with both mine and Rhys’ families and I think he knew he’d be spoiled rotten. My little Jesse cried as he realised I was waving good bye to him and we we weren’t actually waving goodbye to his grandparent in order to go home. I did feel awful at this point and Rhys basically dragged me out of the house, convinced I’d start crying too and cancel the whole thing. I made Rhys phone ten minutes after we’d left (just to double check) and I was reassured that Jesse was completely fine within minutes of us leaving…..

And, just like that, we had five nights to ourselves!

IBIZAAAAAAA!!!

We arrived at our hotel after the easiest flight we’ve had in 5 years (no planning naps around take offs, ensuring I save the bottle of milk ’till we’re just about to leave or lugging/folding/unfolding strollers) and eventually got checked into our lovely room. We unpacked, had a wander round to get our bearings and went for a lunch in the buffet hall. It was quite strange, normally Rhys takes Regan to choose his meal whilst I carry Jesse round trying to gather a few bits for him to scoff. We then take it in turns to go and get our food which will be consumed in about 3 minutes, flat, in between picking up the food Jesse has launched from his high chair and encouraging Regan to eat, ‘just 3 more spoons’ (eating is a huge inconvenience for him). There wasn’t any of that, we even managed to just sit and let our food go down after enjoying a quiet plateful (or three). After this we sunbathed on our little terrace, had a leisurely dip in the pool and then, mainly because we didn’t know what else to do with all our free time, we went to the gym- (Yep, I took my trainers and gym kit with me) we were that annoying couple! After this, it was dinner and a dash to the shops to look for what we could buy as presents for Regan and Jesse.

….And our days would pretty much go like that. We had so much spare time but, used to being busy with the boys, we managed to fill it with various activities: kayaking, stand up paddle boarding, long hikes, early morning swimming, the gym and, my favourite, riding around the island on a scooter. There were no wild nights out to Ushuaia or any of the other big name clubs and bars on the island. In fact, Rhys and I barely touch an alcoholic drink when we’re on holiday. you’d think, given that we were child free, we’d embrace this and hit these clubs… alas, it wasn’t to be. We were both born middle aged and prefer to end our (early) evenings with a cup of tea and a book.. yep, we really are that boring!

Still, we hired said scooter, we braved the crazy drivers whizzing around the streets of Ibiza, so maybe we’ve clawed back a tiny bit of ‘coolness’? haha.. maybe not. Having said that, anyone who knows Rhys will be completely aware that getting on the back of a scooter with him is not a decision that should ever be taken lightly. His parents are still in shock that I even agreed to it and his older sister has said that she would never ever get on the back of anything like that with him. He gets quite excitable and this can sometimes lead to him forgetting himself (and also the Highway Code) so there were many a ‘SLOW DOWN’ and ‘RHYS!!!!’ shouts on my part! Still, it was fun and I did manage to really enjoy it and we saw much more than we would have on foot.

Despite this, despite the fun, the relaxing meals that didn’t require us to entertain Jesse throughout and despite the fact we had no one asking for us to play every ten minutes, our boys were rarely far from our thoughts. We’d walk round the hotel and notice things that would be ideal for them or things that Regan would love or things that would be perfect for Jesse. One evening we saw break dancers whilst walking around Ibiza Old Town and both immediately got our phones out to record them to show Regan (he loves watching street performers).

 

We missed them ridiculously, of course we did, but I’m not going to feel guilty about admitting that, yeah, we did enjoy the novelty of it being just the two of us. It was nice to have a few days that didn’t revolve solely around the boys’ enjoyment and lovely to be able to take that bit of time to think about what we wanted to do. I genuinely thought I was going to be so bored and desperate to get home, but, actually, we probably could have quite easily lasted the whole week. However, it was so so lovely to get home to them and within minutes it was as if we’d never been away. I was soon chasing Jesse around after he’d somehow managed to get an open packet of Weetabix and proceeded to shake them whilst running through the house (Weetabix EVERYWHERE) and picking up numerous bullets from Regan’s NERF guns and reminding him to CLOSE THE STAIR GATE AFTER YOU. But, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Although, I’m not sure about the boys,  Regan claimed to have had so much fun whilst we were away that he really didn’t want my mum to leave after she had dropped him off… Um… cheers!!!! So, now Rhys is back in training (horrible shock to the system after having him home for 6 weeks) it’s just the three of us again and it’s back to planning daily activities to keep us all busy….!! Also, not that I’m counting but only (just under) 3 weeks left of the holidays…. Hehe!