The Good Parent Guide.

This post is actually going to come with a dedication. Why the heck not. This post is to everyone who has ever looked despairingly at their child(ren) or their own reflection in the mirror and thought “Am I doing this right?” Or even “I’m really not doing this right!”. But especially, this is dedicated to my friend Rachel aka Mummy Glitzer.

I have spent many, and I do mean many, many, many MANY hours in the last three years worrying. About my capabilities as a parent. I wonder if perhaps, I feel that burden weighs heavier on my shoulders as I’m a single parent and therefore I have to be two people’s worth of parent. Possibly, but either way, I’m sure you’ve felt the same at some point.

Let’s not lie or try to kid ourselves now. Parenting is HARD. It is really, fucking hard. Nothing prepares you for it. These kids, they come along, they rip your body apart (or if your a man, they fill your partner with such crazy hormones that she might just rip you apart), they deprive you of sleep, they make your house stink of something indescribably awful, they cry and shout and generally damage your hearing they make constant attempts to harm themselves the second you look away… its knackering.

So. I am here, Ladies and Gentlemen, to put your fears to rest. I have the answers you have all been waiting for. Here it is, my guide to parenting, my own Gina Ford Guide if you will, to this minefield we call parenting…

Rule 1: To Fail to Prepare is to prepare to fail. Be prepared folks. Arm yourself, for this war against the tiny people. Fill your cupboards with salty, sugary snacks, multi packs of them if you can, to fling at your children in self defence in times of need. Yes fruit, try fruit but I tell you, it will not save you. Jamie Oliver has staff. He is not a foot soldier in this battle.

Rule 2: Sleep. The Holy Grail. Again, stockpiling is your best option. Sleep should be embraced as your friend, your comrade. If that means snoozing on the sofa for 4 minutes at a time while the little darlings crayon in their favourite CBeebies characters directly onto the television then so be it. If you nod off on your commute, or in my case, stood upright behind the bar This Is Fine! Do not fight the sleep. Sleep loves you, let it caress you and care for you.

Rule 3: Wine. Or gin (tins optional). Whatever your poison, it should be readily available at all times. A good parent does not allow the stresses of the day to continue even a second past bedtime. Deposit the children into their beds and RUN, grab a glass and fill it, fill it to the brim! Gulp it down and Let It All Go. The housework will still be there tomorrow. Trust me. It’s pointless tidying, they’re only going to trash the place again tomorrow anyway and Kim & Aggie will not come knocking on your door. (They’re too busy trying to break down mine).

Rule 4: Coffee. Do not, I repeat, Do Not attempt to embark into the battlefield of a morn without this. But proceed with caution. Kids are aware of the power the brown nectar has over their parents and may try to consume your coffee to strengthen their own arsenal if you leave your cup within reach.And no-one wants a toddler full of caffeine at 6.3oam.

Rule 5: Be wary of how you man your platoon. Out there in the real world, away from the safety of the internet are the Uber Parents. You know the ones I mean. The ones who are always eerily On Time for things, who’s children are lacking in food stains or bogeys trying to get into their mouths. The ones who’s houses are as immaculate as their manicures, who, when you open their car doors no raisins cascade out onto the ground or chickens fly out of the boot. We all have real world friends. And we all know the ones I’m talking about. Be wary of the Mummy who’s little darling walked at 27 minutes old, who’s first word was ‘astronomy’ who has NEVER eaten ketchup or rubbed Wotsits into the carpet. They will not help you. Instead, embrace the honesty of others. Do not be afraid to admit, that last night you did not cook a Delia-Happy dinner for yourself and instead ate the children’s leftovers on bread while standing up in the kitchen. I suspect that many of the Uber Mummys do not have twitter. Or if they do, we’re doing a lot of fucking lying to each other out there.

Rule 6: Remember- you’re all they’ve got. So yes, perhaps in some respect, they’re stuffed. But hey, they don’t know any different and at the moment, they love you! Even if you were the perfect parent, we’ll all have to endure the years of angst ridden teenage hatred together anyway. Enjoy their unquestioning love while it lasts!

Rule 7: With Rule 6 in mind: Forgiveness. Kindness is key in this game. All joking aside, honestly, I believe that but for a small few, we are ALL doing our best. If you love your kids, care for them, clothe and feed them, even wash them and said clothes sometimes, if you are there for them, making yourself accessible to listen to their troubles, their joys, to hand out cuddles and tickles, to get the Hula Hoops down from the cupboards they can’t reach, to change the channel over to CBeebies at their demand, then hey… that’s not bad.

And Finally….

Rule 8: Remember. Being in our childrens lives is not a right. It is a privilege We cannot, and do not, despite those of us who try, mould our children into what we would like them to be. They will choose their own paths regardless, our job, our blessing, is to be there to help and support them along the way. One day, they will be old enough to decide for themselves how big or how small a part they want us to play in their lives.

If you have ever been so exhausted after a night of broken sleep that even your skin hurts, ever given in and let them have some crappy snack of crisps or a biscuit before dinner, ever just let them watch TV instead of doing crafts or going to the park or whatever, ever let them come and sleep in your bed because its just easier to do that and go back to sleep that continue the battle through the night, ever panicked at the thought of visitors because the house is in disarray, ever done any of that and more. You are not a bad parent. You are a parent.

If you have ever worried about your parenting skills, ever feared that you’re not doing it right or that you should be doing more, or better, or differently then that is enough. Because in those thoughts is the desire to do the best for your children. To give them the very best that you have to offer as a parent and a family. No-one is perfect. But if you look at your child and believe that actually, despite being such little terrors, They just might be perfect, then you’re doing it right.

 

Safe

I’m writing this after watching tonight’s Panorama about Jimmy Saville. About the possibility of unspeakably dark things going on within the BBC, that were gossiped about and suspected by dozens of people. As with anything like this, I watch, I listen, and I think of my beautiful daughter who is asleep upstairs.

I won’t pretend to have the monopoly on loving my child. I believe that the love I feel for my daughter is the greatest love ever felt by one human for another. But of course, I realise  each of you parents out there feels the same. But despite the unease this programme has given me, tomorrow, I will be woken by my child. We will go downstairs, I will make breakfast for us both, prepare coffee and put on CBeebies for her. The knowledge that the bright, colourful, musical entertainment my daughter enjoys so much is brought to us by the same organisation that has covered up and turned a blind eye to such monstrosities chills me to the core.

It is no revelation to any of us, the idea of a ‘corporation’ as something hungry for money, something corrupt, something where what is presented to us as consumers is rather different from the inner workings of the machine. But here’s the thing- I pay for this.

I can choose not to visit the coffee shops on every high street, not to buy from any shop I dislike the ethics of, I can choose to buy fairtrade, to support the charities I believe in and  not put my money into most companies I consider unethical should I choose.  Even our gas and electric suppliers concern themselves with offering ‘green’ tarrifs, by supporting charities, by being seen to care. But the BBC… Every year, if I want to watch my tv, listen to radio, watch programmes being streamed online I have to give them money. £145.50 a year. No choice, no negotiation. Like a tax, if you want this service you have to pay for it. Even if you don’t want the BBC’s services directly, you still have to pay them. If I don’t then I will be prosecuted as a criminal.

The irony that I am appalled and revolted by the allegations of sexual abuse of young girls- children still, so many of them- by Jimmy Saville, propped up by the BBC , but I have never seen so much of the BBC until I had Chops isn’t lost on me. CBeebies gets a lot of airtime in this house.

Watching this programme, I feel disgusted, I feel saddened, I feel angry. But above all, I feel helpless. It seems that everywhere I turn, in every direction my daughters life could take, there is such danger. I want to close my laptop, go upstairs, carry her out of her bed and into mine and sleep with my body curled around hers where I know she is safe. I want to hold her hand tomorrow and every day for the rest of her life. I know I cannot do this. I know all I can do is to teach her, educate her as best I know how to be safe. But then what do I know?

How can I protect her from so many dangers? Drunk drivers, a boyfriend who seems so kind and gentle but with a terrible, concealed temper, sickness… so many kinds of sickness… people we know perhaps, someone in her life she trusts who means her harm, would try to take advantage of her, hurt her in any way. A stranger, a chance opportunity when she leaves my sight for just a second. Her own mind, God knows that my own mind can be my enemy, how can I protect her from the same dark shadows that plague my mind? The wrong time, wrong place, anything could happen.

How can I keep her safe? The weight of it threatens to bury me. So many parents out there, who thought their children were safe when they were not.

I know what will happen when I publish this. You will read it, some of you will comment, offering your shared feelings, recognising, sympathising, ‘being positive’ I thank you for that. Some of you will mull your thoughts over in your mind but leave no comments. But if you read this, and you have children you will know that feeling I’m writing about: What chance do we stand when there is so much, so very, very much in this world that could hurt our babies?

Absent Familiy

You probably know if you’ve read my blog before (I thank you) that I’m not in contact with my daughters father, (if not it’s here if you need bringing up to speed). I’m very lucky in that I have both of my parents nearby, Mum in Buxton, 5 minutes away from me and her husband, and Dad in Manchester with his wife and two step-sisters. My sister lives in Buxton, as do my Aunt and three cousins. My brother has been living on the Isle of Skye for the last 7 months but now he’s back and living in Buxton too. So I’m lucky. Her Dad might have opted out but I’m not lacking in support and my little girl is more loved than you could quantify.

What I don’t really get is the other grandparents. M’s parents are still married, they live near to where we lived when Chops was born. When Chops arrived, his Mum, Julia came to the hospital to meet our baby girl. I was very aware then that this was not a first for them. You see, Chops is M’s third child. He has two children from his relationship before me who now live down south with their mother. While we were together, I was lead to believe that despite his best and continued efforts his ex was bitter about their break up and was refusing him access to the children. And I believed him. Why wouldn’t I, I suppose? In turn, I was lead to believe that she was also refusing his parents the opportunity to see them, although I asked considerably fewer questions about that.

When Chops was born, his Dad never came to see her. To this day, he has never laid eyes on my beautiful child and to be honest, it seems unlikely that he ever will. How strange to think that my parent love her so dearly, G, who is no relation to her, adores her, the women who work on the checkouts in our local supermarket bloody love her and yet, those to whom she is related by blood have turned their backs?

While we were together, M claimed that it was because of me his Dad had not visited. He blames you for C taking the other kids away. M claimed. He thinks it’s your fault they can’t see their other grandchildren.

It was only during that all telling conversation between myself and Julia, the first night I finally left and came to my Mums house that so much became clear. Without provocation she told me “Don’t believe it’s anything to do with you why Nigel hasn’t been to see the baby. It’s M. He’s washed his hands of him. He wants nothing to do with him.” So not me in fact. M’s parents had had enough of his lies as well. We spoke for 10, perhaps 15 minutes, and in that time so much fell into place. I learnt it wasn’t just me he’d stolen money from, that I wasn’t the first to tell his mother about his drinking, his temper, his gambling, the debts he’d run up in his own name and mine. I wasn’t the first to have had the experience I’d had with him. But the first time she hadn’t believed it.

The next few days were simply hell. My family were great, arranging to go to the house for me to collect my things, helping me look for somewhere to live. But the phone was ringing every hour, day and night, M trying every known tactic to get me to come back. That was in August 2010. By October, 2 years this month, I had had my last contact with him. It had dwindled swiftly from constant calls, to texts, to email… then nothing.

That is one thing. But here’s what I don’t understand. M made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t going to be the sort of family that Chops needed. He had done nothing but let her down right from the start. So in a way it was no surprise when I stopped hearing from him. But what about his parents?

Chops is still their Granddaughter. I respect that and although it would have been a bloody nightmare, had they have requested to keep in touch so that they could have a relationship with their Grandchild I would have done. But I have heard nothing from them either of them. Chops has never had a Birthday or Christmas card of him or her Grandparents on his side of her family. The phone has never rang with a call or a text to ask how she is. I shouldn’t be surprised, I know that they have no contact with their other two grandchildren from him either and they had had far more involvement in their lives before that relationship ended.

But how do you do that? How do you see your Grandchildren regularly, live nearby, watch them growing up for four years and then nothing? How can you know that your son has had a child of his own and make no effort or show no interest in meeting that child, regardless of what is going on between the parents? It bewilders me. It also worries me for the future. I know that out there my daughter has a blood family she knows nothing about, that she is far too young to understand and it feels like a ticking time bomb. One day I must explain to her that these people exist, that she has a half-brother and sister, who knows, by then it could be more. Where do I even begin with that?

For now, Chops is oblivious to all of this. She is happy and she is so loved, by me and G, by my brother and sister, my parents, their partners, their partners children, my aunts, uncles, cousins. My friends love her, my colleagues, her own friends love her. The people in the local shops where we live love her! She is such a wonderful, happy and friendly little girl, I am not exaggerating when I say that every single day, someone will pass comment on just how remarkable she is. She has more love in her life than she will ever understand. So I do not fear she is missing anything by not having M or his family. But their decision to turn their back on her and decide not to have her in their lives weighs heavily on my heart every day.

Millionaire

Confession time: I think I’m a little bit addicted to ‘playing’ the lottery. Those of you who’ve been reading my blogs for a while or follow me on twitter will probably know that I HATE gambling. I have no time for it whatsoever. After being with a man who would steal my bank card to put money onto poker websites, or who took the back payment of Chops’ child benefit and put the whole lot into a fruit machine, I’ve come to take a fairly strong viewpoint on it.

But that doesn’t stop me on Tuesdays & Fridays spending £2 on a Euromillions ticket. I’m not a proper scary addict who’ll spend an absolute fortune on scratchcards and lucky dips but still, that’s £4 a week I’m sure could be Far better spent elsewhere.

The truth is, several times, I have literally spent my last £2 on a ticket. This is shameful behaviour. It’s the dream that does it. The hopeless pathetic dream that perhaps, just perhaps, my luck will come in. The odds of winning the Euromillions (according to a quick google search) are 1 in 116,531,800. But someone has to win it. I never check my numbers, I usually hand it over for the woman in the shop to check when I buy my next ticket. I know I haven’t a hope of winning.

I know it’s pathetic. But a little piece inside of me dares to dream, to cling onto the hope that Something could happen to change all of this. Something could happen to stop the constant worrying about money. I would no longer have to live on benefits. No longer be considered a Scrounger. I could pay back every penny I’ve had & a thousand times more without a worry. I could afford the absolute best education for my daughter, take her anywhere we wanted to go. Give her everything she needs. We wouldn’t eat nearly as much Pasta ‘ Sauce because they’re 3 for £1 in Iceland.

Because honestly? Sometimes, the magnitude of the problem, the road out of where we are not, the path to our happy ending is so clouded and littered with insurmountable obstacles I cannot see how I will get us there. The idea that a little slip of paper could fix all of it- well, A LOT of it- is just too tempting a dream to resist.

Scars

On his right arm, my boyfriend G has a number of scars. He has a few in other places too, but the ones on his arm are the ones I’d wondered about. They are lines, two of them horizontal, and a couple of fainter ones diagonally between them, in a sort of backwards ‘Z’ shape. I’ve been wondering about them for a while because given how straight they are, there’s surely only a few ways he could have gotten them; either these are stab wounds, the skin has that slightly puckered, stretched look about it, or they have been done with a razor blade. They are too straight to have been caused by a knife, the angle is wrong.

They are the sort of scars I have seen on the wrists of people I have known who self harm, but far larger than you could do on your wrist without really endangering yourself.

They are a lot like the scars on my ankle, from when I was 19 and my fiance (I know, engaged at 19, what was I thinking?!) dumped me & I was so heartbroken I thought I would drown in it and I reacted by dragging razor blades across my skin. I never cut my wrists. I cut the outside of my ankles and my calves, where I could easily cover up the marks.

So I have wondered about these scars on G’s arm.

When I asked him, he told me the truth. That when he was younger, he reckons at the oldest around 23 (he’s 31 now), several times, usually when he’d had a row with a girlfriend he had cut himself. He felt frustrated, angry and desperately sad at times and cut himself as a way of finding release.
I won’t pretend I wasn’t shocked by his honesty but that really made me think… G is a confident, outgoing ‘blokey’ kind of man. He’s a football fan, he’ll tell jokes that turn the air blue, he’ll go out with his mates & drinks Stella. He is not the ‘type’ of man I would have imagined to have ever self harmed.
That said, he is those things but he is also deeply emotional. The force of how he feels about me was what stopped me from allowing us to have a real relationship at first, I just could not understand how he seemed to think me so perfect. He plays guitar and lets my daughter strum the strings while he plays. He will get up at half 6 in the morning and bake croissants for my breakfast and while I was ill last night he left me to sleep on the sofa while he cleaned the house, put the bins out & cooked tea for us all then woke me once it was ready. He cut Chops’ sausages up for her.
But if I’d met him in the pub, I’m sure I never would have known he could be that man.
I certainly would never have thought he’d ever had demons of his own to deal with. I’m glad I know. It has given me an insight into his understanding of me.
More people have scars I expect, than many of us suspect.