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Laser Tag: Mummy goes to war

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It was with some reluctance that I took William to Laser Quest last Saturday. For the uninitiated, this involves running around in a dark room, attempting to ‘shoot’ other people with a laser gun whilst avoiding them hitting the target on your vest. Usually the husband plays wingman to our boy’s cannon fodder approach to battle (“Hello! I’m William. Oh, I’m shot again.”) But this time he decided he wanted mummy to go.

We paid for two games and the first was surprisingly civilised. Apart from William and I, there was one other family, therefore we had lots of space and time to trot around. I even managed to get a few shots on target. (Admittedly, this was made easier because the other family included a teenage girl who had obviously been coerced into joining her mum and two small brothers. She was an easy target as she didn’t even bother to raise her gun the whole time she was in there.) 

For our second game, we were joined by three other families. With dads. Suddenly everything changed; there were tactics, positions and battle formations. Us amateurs had no chance, no sooner had I recovered from one hit (you had to wait four seconds after being hit before your gun was active again) before I was hit and immobilised again. Sometimes I couldn’t even see where it came from. Put it this way, should there be an alien/zombie attack, I’ll be one of the first to bite the dust. 

However, this new seriousness was infectious. I found myself hiding behind walls and firing through windows like a wannabe Charlie’s angel. I even took advantage of William’s propensity to run headlong into enemy fire by hanging back and picking off the small soldiers firing at him one by one. At one point I heard someone shout “Down! Down!” at my teammates – then realised it was me. 

All in all, the boy and I had a great time together. Normally I’m a poor substitute for daddy in games of war, but something about the heavy vest, large gun and surrounding darkness brought out a whole new side to me. Quite a turnaround for a mother who declared her newborn son would never be allowed to play with guns. 

I’m not getting too smug about my performance, though. After the game, I asked William who had been better to play laser tag with, me or daddy? 

 “You.” He said. “Because I can beat you on points more easily.”

 

The Kindness of Strangers

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“I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers”

Blanche DuBois – A Streetcar Named Desire (Tennessee Williams)

When we’re eating out, I often think it would actually be easier if Dan and I physically sat on the children. On one particular occasion we were trying to keep them relatively immobile at the table with a game of ‘Star Wars Twenty Questions’ – the trickiest part of which was trying to string out enough questions for Scarlett to answer before we ‘guessed’ that she was Princess Leia. Again.

Anyway, it seems our efforts weren’t in vain. As he was leaving, a man of about fifty came over and said “it’s so nice to see a family so obviously enjoying each other’s company.’ Fighting the urge to burst into tears and then kiss him, I settled for thanking him profusely and telling him that we were worried they were making too much noise. “Not at all,” he said, “I remember those days, mine are teenagers now. Make the most of this age.” And then he smiled and left.

I was on a high for the rest of the evening. Every time I felt myself about to snap at the children, I took a deep breath and tried to be the parent that man thought I was. Suddenly, we weren’t the shrieking family from hell but rather a happy band of rascals; loud but loving.

It’s happened before. Once an old lady told William he was a “very kind brother” because he helped Scarlett to reach something. Another time, a shop assistant commented on Scarlett’s lovely manners. When you feel like the parenting equivalent of Sisyphus rolling a very large rock up a mountain each day, these words are like honey for the soul.

It works in less pleasurable circumstances too. When the end of your tether is so far out of sight, you need a telescope to find it, a smile from another mum makes you realise you’re not alone. Just a few days ago, on holiday, I had to clamp a screaming Scarlett to my body as she screamed, “I don’t want to go to bed!” A grandmother patted me on the shoulder kindly, “They never want to give in, do they?”

I wonder if these people know what a difference they made to me in that moment? Parenting in public can be a lonely voyage, you sometimes feel surrounded by a sea of judgment and the roar of tuts of annoyance and disapproving glances. A fellow voyager reaching out in solidarity feels like a life raft.

Therefore, I’m resolved to start paying it forward. Ready to tell that exhausted mum, rocking a screaming newborn, “mine were like that too.” To smile at the dad unpeeling his son’s stubborn hands from the railings so they can leave the park. To knowingly nod at the mother bargaining with her toddler to please just eat her sandwich.

And one day it will be my turn to tell a noisy family in a restaurant how happy they look. Because, thanks to the kind gentleman who spoke to us, I know just how it will make those parents feel.

 

My ‘imperfect’ birth

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If I had my time again, I certainly wouldn’t bother to read any of the books about giving birth naturally; they just set me up for a huge disappointment in much the same way as years of reading articles about ‘How to get a beach-ready body in just seven days.’

Admittedly, not everyone has had the same birth experience as me. I even have friends who claim to have ‘enjoyed’ childbirth (God love them) and obviously there are the much lauded women in the developing world who give birth standing up, strap the baby to their back and then go straight back to work. If you’re reading this blog and you did have a positive experience, then a lot of this may make no sense at all. But this is how it was for me.

Reading my birth plan now makes me laugh. For all the good it did me, I might as well have written my plans to ‘give birth in water listening to Michael Jackson’ onto a Chinese lantern and set fire to the thing. At least then someone might have enjoyed them. It took me about a week to write, almost caused an argument with my husband (although his, “Is there really any point to this?” proved to be right on the money) and then never made it out of my hospital bag.

Packing a bag for the hospital is also something I spent far too much time over. Paper knickers? They might be fine for paper dolls but a pregnant woman whose backside needs its own postcode has got no chance. After failing to get even one leg into them, I sent the husband to buy cheap knickers from Primark. I even packed snacks in case I got peckish during labour. Snacks! I’d have been better off packing a bottle of gin and a claxon to get the attention of the elusive consultant on duty at the labour ward.

Don’t even get me started on breathing exercises. I can only assume that you are encouraged to breathe differently to take your mind off of the pain. They didn’t.

There is a conspiracy amongst mothers to not talk about the realities of childbirth. I understand that those of us who didn’t have a good experience shouldn’t be regaling pregnant women with our horror stories, but I also wish someone could have warned me how naïve I was about the whole thing. I was ridiculously smug about how I planned to be walking around the room, stopping only to allow my husband to rub my back with a wooden massage roller and tell me how amazing I was. In actuality, if he had come anywhere near me with that thing I’d have smacked him, or myself, around the head with it.

Because, the thing is, I tried to do everything I’d been told but it just didn’t turn out right. There was no water birth, no music and after a long and traumatic time, it ended in an emergency caesarean under general anaesthetic. And, because I had been led to believe that I could have a wonderful birth experience if I just stayed strong and focused, I felt that I’d failed. That maybe I hadn’t tried as hard as those women who gave birth in 12 hours on the merest whiff of gas and air. Unfortunately, that sense of failure is something that can stay with you for a long time.

If I could go back and speak to my pregnant self I would tell her this: giving birth is a lottery. It doesn’t matter how many books you read, classes you attend or balls you bounce on – you get lucky or you don’t. I had been deluding myself all those years that my ample hips would at least make childbirth easier; in actual fact my pelvis was just the wrong shape. It was horrible, but it wasn’t my fault. And if you’re reading this and had a similar experience, it wasn’t your fault either – you just got unlucky.

But when I woke up from the anaesthetic I woke up to find I was a mum. In front of me was my smiling husband, holding my tiny son. The physical scars healed in a few weeks, the mental ones started to fade some months later, but this beautiful, incredible creature was mine to keep forever.

And that makes me very lucky indeed.

 

Christmas Then and Now

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I used to decorate my tree with coordinated frou-frou
Now it’s full of school-made decs and topped with R2D2

I used to spend days shopping, with lunch and time to wander

Now, if it’s not sold online, it’s on my list no longer

I used to slowly wrap my gifts, whilst sipping on some wine

Now I have two ‘helpers’ and it takes me twice the time

I used to try new recipes like Nigella on the telly
Now I serve spaghetti hoops beside the cranberry jelly

I used to spend my Christmas Eve with good friends down the pub
Now I’m stuffing turkey, stockings and my gob with grub

I used to love the music: Nat King Cole and ‘Let it snow
Now, for the ten thousandth time, it’s Elsa’s ‘Let it Go!’

I used to have a lay-in, then eat breakfast in my bed

Now I’m up at 5am with two kids off their head

I used to love my Christmases, so civilized and merry

And sometimes I think wistfully of a quiet glass of sherry

But their first squeak of excitement is enough to make me sure;

I’d never swap my Christmas now for my Christmases before.

What shall we buy the children this year?

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“We buy them expensive toys and they end up playing with the cardboard box. Next year we’ll just give them the boxes.” Says every parent every year.

Number of parents who actually give their child a cardboard box in lieu of presents: 0

A month before Christmas, we attempt to have a clear out of toys to make way for the new arrivals. Both children approach this process as if we were taking food from their mouths. Toys which have been lost down the back of the wardrobe for six months are clutched to their breast like a long lost friend; jigsaw puzzles with missing pieces are professed to be their ‘favourite’; dolls with missing limbs who have been skulking at the bottom of the toy box have allegedly been searched for ‘for ages’. Next year we are planning a midnight smash and grab under cover of darkness.

They refuse to understand that, as we have a regular sized house without elastic sides, we need to make room for the plethora of toys which they seem to want this year. As the boy has started to outgrow Cbeebies and they have begun watching channels with adverts, so their awareness of the multitude of purchasable plastic rubbish has increased. Every ad break is met with a chorus of ‘Can we have that?’ ‘Can we get that?’ and, quite often, ‘Can I have that? What is it?’

My five year old son is actually very difficult to buy for as he becomes completely obsessed with one character to the exclusion of all others, but this lasts for about two weeks before he is onto the next thing (I could make a cheap joke at the expense of past boyfriends here but I will resist.) In the last two months we have been through Spiderman, Star Wars, Ninja Turtles and now the Matt Hatter Chronicles. Buy his Christmas gift too early and we could be heading for a gift disaster of a size not seen in our family since the Totes Toasties Tsunami of 1997.

The girl, on the other hand, is easily pleased by anything and everything that Disney has ever mass produced. I honestly think I could scrape something out of the street and stick it in a Princess costume and she’d want it. This leaves me in a dilemma: I have an ethical and active dislike of Disney Princesses and their need to be ‘saved’ by a man whilst my daughter seems to gravitate towards them with awe. I try to steer her towards more suitable female heroines: Marie Curie, Amelia Airhart, Emmeline Pankhurst. Although even I have to admit, as she correctly tells me, that their dresses aren’t anywhere near as pretty.

Add to this my husband, the armchair eco-warrior, muttering about landfill and the environment and you can see why I want to go to bed with a giant size selection box and a tube of Pringles (I knew it was dangerously early to start buying the Christmas food.)

Nonetheless, this month will see me trawling the aisles of ToyRUs, selling my soul in the Disney Store and cross-checking prices on Amazon with the best of them. Unless I can find myself a nice cardboard box to hide in . . .

 

 

First Night

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The ward is all quiet now
The lights are down low
The visitors and daddies have all had to go

The mothers are resting
Their babies asleep
One nurse at the station, a watch she will keep

We’ve had quite a journey
Intense and unreal
I’ve felt things I never expected to feel

Moments of excitement
Moments of panic
An ending not planned and incredibly frantic

But now it’s all over
It’s just you and I
I knew you the moment you gave that first cry 

I look at you sleeping
So still and so small
I am your mummy and you are my all.

Emma Robinson 2014

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Supermarket Sweep

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I know last time I took you,
I swore it would be the last.
But we’ve only two fish fingers left
and the bread has breathed its last.

Please stay in the trolley,
it really would be better.
I know you want to be helpful
and be mummy’s little ‘getters.’

But mummy’s rather in a rush
to get this shopping done.
This is called a domestic chore,
it’s not supposed to be fun.

Don’t touch that tottering food display
and put back that DVD.
I know you have some money,
but they’re more than 50p.

That lady does have funny hair
but please don’t point like that.
And, no, we don’t need cat food
as we haven’t got a cat.

If you both behave yourself,
I’ll buy you each a treat.
I was thinking just some stickers,
not a lifesize Happy Feet.

Until we’ve paid, it’s stealing
if you start to eat a biscuit.
Oh sod it, yes just open them –
it’s easier to risk it.

Yes I can see the woman
with the tiny little baby.
She’s staring at you terrified,
of what’s coming to her maybe.

It’s rather hard to keep my calm
as people start to frown.
(Ironic you choose the frozen bit
to have a big meltdown.)

I want to kiss, mums that give me
‘I’ve been there too’ smiles.
And give us friendly knowing looks
as I belt around the aisles.

Trying to remember
what I must get from the Deli.
Really isn’t helped much
by you crawling on your belly.

So NOW you want to get back in
and rest your weary legs?
You’ve squashed the lettuce, crushed the crisps
and sat down on the eggs.

Let’s just go, we’ve got the bulk,
the rest of the list can keep.
No-one’s been ‘round here so fast
since Supermarket sweep.

Somehow we make it through the tills
and past the security men.
And I crawl towards the exit
crying, “Never, ever, again!”

Emma Robinson 2014

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Dear Dad

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You taught me how to ride a bike and how to tell a joke.
To make up before the sun went down and that promises mustn’t be broke.
You taught me to be generous but also how to save.
You taught me books are precious things and showed me what was brave.

Not to sulk or bear a grudge, the importance of forgiving,
To never take a sickie and work hard to make a living.
That good friends and your family are the greatest kind of wealth.
(And that ever being rude to mum was dangerous for my health.)

And now as my own children grow, I wish that you were here.
With every milestone they achieve and more each passing year.
I wish that they could know you; I just wish that you were there.
I wonder what you’d think of them, my precious crazy pair?

But then I open up my mouth and it’s your voice comes out.
When I tell them to ‘breathe through your nose’ or “I’m right here, don’t shout!’
I hear you when I read to them (though my voice is not as deep.)
And I often use your Beatles songs to sing them off to sleep.

I make them laugh when they hurt themselves just as you would do.
The jokes I tell to make them smile were the ones I learned from you.
My arms that hold them, lips that kiss, were the ones you made for me
And sometimes in a smile, a frown, in them it’s you I see.

And then I know that you are here, in everything I do.
In every word and thought and deed, your influence comes through.
And I smile and know that you’re not gone, I still have what I had.
I’m the parent that I am today, because you were my Dad.

Emma Robinson (2014)

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"He gets that from you!"

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“I love how babies look like old people. I saw a baby the other day that looked exactly like my grandpa, only taller.” (Jarod Kintz: This Book is Not for Sale.)


When you have a baby, one of the things people do is try to work out who he or she looks like. Emphatic comments that they have their mother’s eyes, their father’s nose and their great-grandfather’s eyebrows make you start to wonder if you have produced a baby or a 3D Police Identikit. Nevertheless, you find yourself scanning their face for bits that look like you, your husband or your parents. Any likenesses are particularly poignant when it’s to someone you have lost. When I put a hat on the girl the other day and she smiled up at me and looked exactly like my Nan, it was a precious moment.

As they get older, you realise that it’s not just your looks they can inherit. Whether it’s genetics or learned behaviour, the personality traits of you and your partner start to materialise in miniature form. Sometimes this can be cute: my daughter sucking her thumb and twiddling her hair just as I did at her age; my son pacing the floor as he tells you something, just like his dad does; the fact that they both talk incessantly just like . . .

Sometimes, however, your less attractive traits start to manifest themselves. When the boy was about two, I realised that I needed to stop talking aloud to myself when trying to find my keys, phone or handbag when he hid himself in a cardboard box and said, “Where’s William? Where’s William? Where’s that bloody William?”

(In my defence, I wasn’t the first to introduce him to that delightful vocabulary. Weeks previously he had been ‘helping’ daddy in the garden when he appeared before me crying because he’d been sent in. When I asked him why daddy had sent him in he said, “I’ve been picking the bloody flowers again, mummy.”)

Often you don’t realise that you say or do something until they start to mimic you. Recently, I reprimanded my son for losing his temper with the iPad and smacking it in anger. Next day at work I found myself doing exactly the same thing to my computer when it wouldn’t do what I wanted. The girl was trying her best to fit herself into a dress she had outgrown the other day and ended up pulling it off her head and throwing it across the room saying it was a “stupid dress.” I really must tell her father to stop doing that . . .


Eventually, they try to use your platitudes against you. My admonishments to keep trying and not give up came back to bite me when I told the boy I couldn’t fix a broken toy and he replied, “But mummy, you can’t say you can’t do it until you’ve really tried.’ They also repeat them to each other. Cue my three year old daughter standing, hands on hips, and telling her brother “How many times have I told you to stop doing that?” (His reply, incidentally, was “Four” – he gets his infuriating tendency to state reality from the paternal line.)

Obviously, we both try to claim the good traits (‘I was always bright as a child’) and point the finger in the opposite direction for the bad (although, whatever my husband tries to tell you, I have NEVER thrown myself to the floor in public because he wouldn’t buy me a pair of shoes.)

This continues throughout your life. I think I resemble my own mum more with each passing year. Also my home looks more like hers as I have definitely developed the same taste in furnishings (although sadly the tidy gene seems to have defaulted somewhere along the line.) Since I’ve become a mother, this metamorphosis has accelerated: her words drop from my lips with alarming regularity: “What’s the magic word?” and “You need to drink more water” and “What you need are a few early nights.”

My own children’s habits and phases come and go and, as they grow and develop their own personalities and character traits, I wonder which of their parental similarities will disappear and which will remain. I live in hope that they keep their daddy’s blue eyes and thirst for knowledge, my clear skin and passion for a good book and our shared love of laughter.

 Once thing I do know, my daughter will resent me forever if she ends up inheriting my bum.