Growing Up – a shiny happy people post

Last week the very lovely pink coiffured Rosie Scribble tagged me in a meme thingy that she started to inject a bit of happiness across the bloggosphere.

There’s been quite a lot of negative stuff happening in this lovely bloggy community of mine lately, and, as I tend to with this sort of thing, I take it all very personally and get far more upset about it all than I should do. So it was nice to do this tonight, to lay aside all the crappy stuff and focus on things that are lovely and good and positive.

The rules of Rosie’s Shiny Happy People meme are thus:

Name a song that makes you happy -  a song you would listen to if you needed a sudden injection of happiness.

Post an image that makes you smile,  it can be anything  – a silly photo, an image taken from the internet,  anything at all that puts a smile on your face (and isn’t too rude!)

So. First a little intro. As most of you know it’s been a bit of a tough journey for me at times. Motherhood hasn’t been easy, in fact, in some respects, its something I struggle with more and more. But I do love it. I love the person that it’s making me, the way that it’s challenging me, forcing me to evolve and change and adapt. It’s teaching me new things about myself every day and although I still battle with a lot of inner demons and feel I have a long way to go, I really believe it’s taking me somewhere good and exciting and fulfilling.

I feel like I’m finally growing up. Feel like I’m finally BECOMING someone. And I love that.

This song really captures that feeling for me. The feeling of growing into myself. And it never, ever fails to lift my spirits.

(Apologies for the weird large box – clueless how to make this smaller!)

Next some photos. I never thought I’d be the sort of mother that endlessly bores people with pictures of my children, but sorry, I really really am. Here’s a few funny and sweet ones from Kai’s very early months that never fail to make me smile and show me just how far we’ve come. Hope you enjoy…

Make a Smilebox slideshow

So, tag time. I tag:

The Life of Wendy Wife

Madmother

Make Do Mum

Battleplan

Vegemitevix

P.S. I’ve had a few memes lately and to be honest I’m starting to forget who tagged me in what so my apologies if I’ve not responded right away but thank you and I’ll be working round to as many as I can! I don’t want to give you meme overload. Just that word is weird. meeee meeee. Ok I’ll stop now…

Fatigue Wars Episode IV – A New Hope

First of all, can I just say… how lovely are all you lot??! The answer is VERY lovely. Very lovely indeed. Thank you so much for all the comments on my last blog post and the many emails and twitterings you have sent my way.

I’m back from the doctors minus two great big vial’s full of blood with that wonderful Tony Hancock sketch running through my head. And since all nine of my pints have been seriously compromised this morning by at least a foot’s worth I am having a sit and a bacon sandwich to make up for it.

I’m feeling much more positive. The doctor rightly pointed out that, given my history, if my Fibromyalgia was relapsing she would expect my pain levels to have increased along with the fatigue and for me to have crawled into her office begging for drugs. And this is a good point as, actually, my pain levels are ok. I did a lot of walking around yesterday and although nearly fell over a couple of times and had to prop my eyelids open so as not to fall asleep in my over-priced under-heated microwave burger at the Blue Planet Aquarium, I did make to the evening without much pain. More importantly I didn’t wake up with ANY which if it had been the Fibro would have been very far from the case, given it’s tendency to make a 20 minute leisurely stroll one day feel like you’ve been run over by an 18 wheeler truck the next.

So we’re testing for low iron and thyroid function and liver function and WI Christmas Tombola and Beatle Drive function all the other usual functions they need to test for in these cases. Results will be back on Tuesday so I’ll keep you posted.

And I am stopping panicking. Chances are this is fixable, just a blip on the radar of my unstoppable plan to write a best seller by the time I’m 30, or, at least, be the first person to achieve world domination through the power of Twitter.

In other news, I made a big decision this week. It is probably not beyond the realms of possibility that my low energy levels are not being helped by the fact that a certain little 16 month old has still been breastfeeding up to 7 or 8 times a day, day and night. Lets face it, he does NOT need this much milk any more, whatever his opinions are on the matter. He eats well and is a big grown up boy now who could probably make pigeon chasing into a successful athletic career, can do all the actions to ’round and round the garden’ AND ‘wind the bobbin up’, and could show you the difference between a train, a tractor, a digger and a car without even blinking. His separation anxiety is significantly better; time away from me now being more treat than trauma. His independence and self-confidence is growing more and more by the day.

It is time. I am ready. Weaning Kai off the good stuff has begun.

I’m not expecting him to stop feeding completely but I am expecting him to substantially cut down the amount he feeds to just 2-3 times in 24 hours And guess what… he’s done it. Nearly every day this week he’s gone from early morning to bedtime with lots of snacks, good meals, distraction and lots of cuddles, and NO distress. Which proves to me that he’s ready too, in a way I hadn’t expected. Kai now has a good breastfeed before bed, one in the night, and then one in the early hours (after which he’ll sometimes go back to sleep). My plan is that eventually we’ll drop the night-time one (when I’m feeling VERY brave and not so tired!) leaving two feeds a day, which is plenty for a boy his age and will still be giving him all the lovely nutrients and immunity boosting benefits that longer-term breastfeeding still offers.

That gives me ALL DAY for my body to do something other than make milk and get to work doing more important things like digesting large quantities of cake and stopping me from falling asleep at random and inappropriate moments.

And the best thing? I look forward to sitting and feeding Kai now. Rather than it be a draining chore that I resent (which is what it had become) with my mind wandering to what I would rather be doing, I sit and I am present and I enjoy the feel of him close to me and breathe in his baby smell and relish every second, re-connecting after a long day of adventures and growing up in which he seems to need me less and less.

I am so proud of him. And so proud of me too. This is a big step for us but the right one.

So there we go. Now, I’m off for a sleep. My bed right now is more alluring than blogging, than twitter, than eating biscuits, and that’s saying something – I must be really tired. I am tired, I’m exhausted in fact. But hopefully only temporarily. And thanks to all of your wonderful supportive words and positive encouragement I am NOT going to let it get me down, whatever this is.

Onwards and upwards. Or sideways and downwards as is more the case for me right now.

Whatever. BA-DOING!! (that was me bouncing back)

x

Writing Workshop: Birthday Love

Welcome back to the Wednesday Writing Workshop link-up! At the bottom of this post you’ll find the widget to post the link to your workshop posts. But first? Well I guess it’s my turn! I’ve chose prompt #5- tell us about your best friend. This was a completely orchestrated move on my part as I’ve had this post planned for a while and it gives me a good excuse to tell you about somebody very special who just may have had a birthday at the weekend… It’s horribly indulgent but I don’t care.

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My dear lovely bestest friend,

So here’s the thing. I couldn’t afford to buy you a very expensive present this year (I was thinking a pink sequined laptop case) and don’t get to see you to give you your real (humbler) present till Thursday so I thought I would send you a virtual outpouring of my undying love and adoration, and put it up here for all the world to see. Because it’s about time people knew what a very special best buddy I really have. I hope that’s ok…. (I’m taking your silence for yes).

Did you know that we have been best friends for over 20 years? That’s  a long time. A LOT of memories. Here are just a few of my favourites…

We were about 8 or 9 I think and we were baking – and we somehow managed to spill an entire bottle of food colouring all over your mum’s very posh new tea towels. I have no idea where she was but we used every single cleaning ingredient in the cupboard under the sink to try and clean this tea towel. Including oven cleaner. How we are not dead left with some kind of permanent brain damage from the fumes of our concoction I will never know. Although on second thoughts… maybe that explains  lot! Actually we didn’t have much luck with cakes did we? Do you remember those ones that we hid behind your brand new bedroom curtains in preparation for our midnight feast? The ones that melted in the sun and stained them? Your mum went ballistic!!

Upper school at Burton Manor. Sitting with you in Mrs Weaver’s class drawing cartoons about Fagin and Beaky, our two imaginary characters of the time. I think they had been inspired by Oliver Twist where Fagin is in his den with his pet owl – it had cracked us up for some reason. We had all sorts of stupid catchphrases for them and would work them into every conversation in between squeals of laughter, drawing little pictures of them in our projects and school work. I seem to remember Mrs Weaver giving us very stern looks…

And Ed Banger!! Why on earth did we call Mr Kite that? God we were so naughty in his class weren’t we – he pretty much let us run wild! I will never, ever forget that ‘future room’ project where we had to build a model of a room filled with all the things we imagined would be invented the future. We built an entire house! And it had a very complicated working plumbing system as I remember involving straws. Well, I say working… because we left the tank in the ‘attic’ full and overnight it leaked everywhere and stained the carpet. Bless him, Ed Banger still gave us an A+ didn’t he?

Carting our cello’s home to your Grandma’s house where she made us tea with tinned carrots and pudding with custard which I thought were delicious and way better than the food my mum cooked (sorry mum!) I remember going back to her house after our very first solo trip into town on the bus without grown-ups and ecstatically showing her our shopping purchases. Two lumberjacks style checked shirts that were about ten billion sizes too big, and two small matching stuffed dogs with tartan hats. We weren’t exactly fashionistas were we? And I was always horribly envious of your shell suit which you got from Kay’s catalogue (the epitome of posh in my eyes) – mine was a cheapo one from Penkridge Market and no where near as classy.

I think we’ll fast forward through all the bad boyfriends shall we? Suffice it to say we shared some pretty tough experiences in those early teen years. And as always you were there for me, always at the end of the phone or a quick bike ride away. The years pass and I get to watch you turn from the slightly gangly girl I remember so well into the beautiful, stylish, slightly more serious woman that you’ve become. You go away to Uni and come back again – something I will be forever grateful for because it’s then our friendship began all over again – this time with us as ‘grown-ups’ with houses of our own and new husbands and long-term boyfriends who seemed to be taking forever to propose and whole new set of worries and dreams.

Now we get to some really good ones. Finding out after so many months of disappointment that there was a teeny bean in your tummy – I don’t think I had ever been so excited in my entire life. My wedding dress fittings, trying to find you a dress that will accommodate your growing baby bump and then crying when we found one because you looked so beautiful. Being so insanely grateful to see you on the morning of my wedding day because I was so nervous and all the little hand squeezes and smiles that kept me going and helped make it the most perfect wedding day a girl could ever wish for. I love the fact that naughty lion was my secret third bridesmaid that day – tucked away in your teeny tiny bump! No one would have guessed you were nearly 6 months pregnant!

And then all the baby stuff. Oh my word have we talked a lot of baby stuff over the last 3 years!!  Meeting your gorgeous monkey for the first time and wanting to scream because you instantly looked so thin and beautiful! And how, despite having done it all before me, you still made me feel, through every week of my pregnancy, like it was all a brand new experience and the most exciting thing to ever happen. ALWAYS being interested in every twinge and rumble and puke and complaint and worry. And telling me every time you saw me how lovely and not-fat and not-horribly pale from all the puking I looked.

Oh god – I could go on all night couldn’t I? How about me screaming and then hysterically sobbing in the office at work when you phoned to tell me about the surprise bean number 2? And every single second I’ve got to spend with you and the ratbag and the beanbag, watching them grow and develop attitudes to match our own!

I shall stop… because I could fill pages and pages.

And through all this? You my love. My beautiful, strong, patient, intelligent friend. Do you know people reading this, that not only does this woman put me to shame every time we meet, managing to look immaculate even if she’s had no sleep. Not ONLY has this woman had two babies in less than 18 months with horrendously difficult pregnancies both times, nursed sick husbands and battled insomnia… she’s also completed and honours degree, a masters and is now submitting PHD proposals. Oh and she bakes and her house is always clean (apart from the sofa). If she wasn’t so lovely we would hate her wouldn’t we?

You are my hero. My lemon bathroom cleaner sniffing, chocca mocca addict, wonderful best friend.

Happy Birthday.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

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So now it’s your turn! What prompt did you choose?

1. Tell us about the most exciting place you’ve ever been too. Try and use all of your senses in your description: what you can see, hear, taste, touch…?
- Suggested by the very well travelled Victoria at It’s a Small World After All

2. Write a recipe for something abstract - i.e. a recipe for a good/bad day, recipe for a perfect Halloween, recipe for a happy mummy/daddy etc.
- Inspired by English Mum’s son’s… umm… unusual recipe for a witches brew this week! Oh, and by one I did ages ago…

3. Write an ‘article’ (and I use that term loosely) about a recent news item or something that you’ve made up, deliberately making it as sensationalist and ridiculus as you can.
- Inspired by the delightful Jan Moir and the Daily Mail in general (link not added – no need to give them more exposure…)

4. What did you want to be when you grew up? Or are you still deciding?!
- Inspired by Maternal Tales from the South Coast’s beautiful message from her daughter.

5. Tell us about your best friend. You can interpret this any way you like – doesn’t have to be a person!
- Inspired by me!

Leave your name and the URL to your post in the MckLinky below (the URL should be to your post not just to your blog) andleave me a comment to let me know you’ve taken part. If you have the time it would be great if you could try and read and comment on at least two other entries. And be kind! It’s supposed to be a bit of fun – we’re not looking for the next Booker Prize winner here!

If you haven’t had chance to respond yet, then you’ve still got today! Or just wait till next week, when there’ll be five brand new prompts to get you thinking.

This Writing Workshop is brought to you in association with Mama Kat’s Losin’ It – who’s lovely author came up with the concept and runs her own workshop over in the U.S.

I have confidence in… erm… something?

Picture if you will.

I am sat here in my jeans and over-sized sweater and my messy boy hair, wearing novelty socks and eating too many chocolate digestives. I haven’t brushed my teeth yet. Unlike most mornings, today I did manage a whole fifteen minutes under a hot shower while Kai emptied the bathroom rubbish bin of tissues (don’t judge me – I’m strengthening his immune system), but absorbed in my hot-shower bliss I may have absent mindedly shampooed three times and conditioned twice so the messy boy hair is slightly lank. The over-sized sweater despite being clean on this morning already has some banana on one sleeve and what I think may be snot on the other. In the last 24 hours I have burst into tears a record number of five times and kicked two inanimate objects. I have had four hours sleep.

There are many things this scene screams. Confident, secure, fully-functioning grown-up is not one of them.

I have been struggling especially with the C word lately. No, not THAT C word. Confidence.

You see I seem to have mislaid mine. It’s not down the back of the sofa with the half-eaten rice cake. It’s not in the overflowing washing basket (hell it wouldn’t fit in there). It is not hidden behind the pile of clever books I can’t bring myself to read.

In fact, I don’t know where the frick it is. I haven’t seen it in quite a while.

More and more I envy those people who seem to ooze it from every perfect blemish-free pore. Those people that manage to combine motherhood with work and successful careers, with exciting projects coming out of their every orifice . Managing to fit deadlines around school runs, gym sessions and skin care regimes.

It’s like they are privy to a secret I have no idea about, passed about in hushed whispers while I was in the loo.

Around you – yes you accomplished people, I am left feeling so ineffective. So immature.

Why do I feel like this? Where on earth was I when the confidence ticket was handed out? (in the loo again probably – really should have worked harder on my pelvic floor).

I am 27. But I look kind of young for my age. I have a tendency to get written off by people, spoken to by strangers with that unique mix of patronising sympathy and instant dismissal. Old ladies can never believe it when I mention a husband, “but my, you’re too young to be married surely?!” and act surprised when I manage to come out with a vaguely intelligent or articulate comment. I always get asked for ID – once when I was buying PETROL which was more than insulting (surely I look older than 17? Don’t I??!!) My brother is two and half years younger then me and I look like his scruffy kid sister.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m sure when I’m 40 I will be grateful of this fact but right now it’s not really helping in the confidence department.

Social situations? Oh god where do I start. The stuttering? The complete brain freezes that make me incapable of speech? The completely irrational habit of coming away from all social encounters feeling dreadfully insecure and convinced I am the most scorned and despised person on the face of this planet?? I’ll stop there.

And then there’s work. Or ‘work’ as it should probably be referred to. Finding your way as a fledgling writer is not easy I can tell you. One of my opening exercises with my writing course was to free-write about your doubts about becoming a successful writer. I wrote six pages without even blinking. The thought of me ‘making it’ seems laughable. Successful writing seems to require a breeziness and articulate confidence that I can only imagine.

(Oh god. This is turning into a whiney post isn’t it. I apologise – there is a point I promise.)

It’s just I’ve been wondering what it is I’m missing? The right hair cut? The right clothes? The right pen? An ability to speak in whole sentences?

It’s easy to feel like those things would make all the difference but somehow I doubt it.

It’s also easy to feel like I’m the only one in the world left feeling so small, so insignificant.

But I’m not. I know I’m not.

I casually mention on Twitter about feeling like this and all of sudden I’m met with dozens of responses. All from women who say they feel the same. Many of them successful, accomplished women whom I admire.

And I’m left wondering… maybe the idea of a mysterious, innate secret to confidence is a misnomer? Perhaps, actually, none of us are the secure, confident people we imagine each other to be.

Maybe it’s not about FINDING confidence at all but actually just about FAKING it? And some people are just much better fakers than others?

So do you know what? That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to give up trying to find it and settle for faking it instead.

And we’ll see what happens.

Now where’s that guitar case? I need to go swing it round on a mountain top.

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Taking a bit of a breather from the Sleep Carnival today – but do keep your submissions coming in, especially if you want to get your hands on the prize of all prizes which still seems to be causing a ridiculous amount of hysteria (not that I can blame you).

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Memories of a 2nd House

The lovely Mr Dotteral over at ‘Bringing Up Charlie’ tagged me on a new meme - to write about a memorable ‘second’.

So I’ve chosen #5, the second house I ever lived in, which is very timely as for some reason I’ve been dreaming about it lately, a lot. Maybe it’s all this thinking about moving, a yearning in me to make a real family home of our own where Kai can grow up safe and free with space for play and adventures and growth. A place which Kai will remember and dream about and that will influence his feelings about what feels like ‘home’ for the rest of his life.

We moved into my second house when I had just turned five, in the winter of 1987 and for the next fifteen years that house was my world. The place where I dreamed and cried and laughed and played and grew.

I loved that house. My memories of it are vivid and fierce and very precious.

So, if you’ll forgive the indulgence, I’m going to take a break from the jokes tonight and share some of them with you. After all, in three weeks my Creative Writing course starts and I’m going to have to get used to doing some ‘serious’ writing for a change! It’s a bit of free-association which I’ve not really done before so bare with me…

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I am 6 0r 7. Sitting on the top step of the stairs in the dark when I should be in bed asleep. Listening to the murmer of my parents conversations, the hum of the television, the sounds from the kitchen as they boil the kettle or tidy up. Sounds of home, of safety and familiarity. I inch down, silently, one step at a time, wanting to get closer to that feeling.

I am 16. I am lying in bed listening to the rain hammer on the flat roof of my bedroom. I’ve decided I want to be an interior designer and mum and dad have given me free reign to decorate my room however I like. I often dream of a beach-hut hideaway so have crafted my room to make me feel like I’m by the sea. Holiday beach scavenges gift driftwood shelves, twisted sea-smoothed branches and endless stones and shells with which I fill my space. I’ve painted my favourite quotes from books and poems that I love straight onto the walls in meticulous, curving script. Tea lights twinkle – I must remember to blow them out before I fall asleep. I lie under the sail canapy I have hung over my bed, drifting on a sea of dreams. The world feels huge and full of possibility.

I am 9 or 10. The passageway down the side of the house is my own secret hideaway. In the hollowed out centre of the big shrubs that grow against the fence I have made my den. I can smell the damp earth, the peeling paint on the fence panels, and feel the rough prickle of the branches as I push my way through. There is a tin there, hidden under the foliage, full of secret things. In it is a piece of paper with the name of the boy I like at school. I haven’t told a soul, not even my best friend. I hope my brother hasn’t found it.

Christmas morning. Endless Christmas mornings. The rule is not to wake mum and dad before 7am. It is early but I am awake. I stick out a probing foot to prod the sack of presents at the foot of my bed and get that familiar rush of excitement and anticipation. There’s no way I’m going back to sleep now. I sneak into my brother’s room with my duvet wrapped around me and there he waits, equally awake and wide-eyed. We put our sacks of presents by the door and try not to look at them, filling the time till the promised hour playing games and talking in urgent whispers, muffling our giggles through our fingers.

Long summers in the garden. The paddling pool and water-fights with empty washing up bottles. Being given my own little patch of earth to plant seeds and forget-me-nots in. The heat of the greenhouse and the smell of the not-quite-ripe tomatoes and the compost heap. Swirling my fingers in the jelly soup of the frogspawn and watching the tadpoles in the pond grow legs and loose their tails. A plant by the Buddleia which was always, unexpectedly, covered in ladybirds. Writing in chalk on the patio slabs. Worrying that the initials marked in the cement by the previous owners meant that one of them was buried there. My shrine under the apple tree to Tabby, my cat, with the stone I had painted with her name on and jam-jars full of faded flowers and green water.

I am 19. It is September 11th 2001. I have come home from college and fallen asleep in a haze of fatigue. My Fibromyalgia is beginning to worsen although I don’t know this yet or what is wrong with me, only that I am tired and I hurt. My brother wakes me. Something has happened he says. We sit together and watch the TV in silence, shock and horror. I can’t believe what I am seeing. I cry but I can’t look away. Ant comes over after work and the three of sit and watch the same clips repeated over and over. Time stops. Pain and fatigue is forgotten. All I can feel is their pain, their loss. I do not sleep that night.

I am 7. We are sat eating tea. My brother will not eat his food. He is chewing the same mouthful of meat over and over until it is grey, tasteless ball that he cannot swallow. Mum is cross, “Just swallow it!” she says in her best pretend ’I'm not cross’ voice. But she is cross, and we both know it. She tries to get David take sips of water but still he will not swallow his food. He cries and has to spit it out. We have been here many, many times before. I kick my legs under the chair and feel smug that I am not the one being told off. We finish at last andI recite by rote “Thank-you-mummy-for-my-dinner-please-may-I-get-down” in one long drawn-out breath.

It is raining and the water is dripping through the bay window. We spring to action with tea-towels and margarine tubs to catch the drips. Christmas Cacti adorn the window sill. I have an overwhelming urge to twist off the tops, and draw smiley faces in the square panes of the window. Both are expressively forbidden. But thinking about it makes my fingers twitch.

We have been playing out in the snow and have come inside damp and rosy cheeked and smiling. I sit in front of the fire to thaw out. I can’t feel my finger tips and my ears buzz with cold. I rest the edges of my double-socked feet on the marble surround. Getting as close as I can without burning. A black and white ceramic cat shares the fireplace with me. When it’s my turn to dust I am extra careful with it, scared I will break it and get in trouble. It has yellow, glass eyes.

It is Sunday afternoon and I sit and doze on the sofa. Dad has the cricket on and the soft lull of the commentary makes me sleepy. I am full of dinner and memories of Sunday school.

I am 19. The contents of my room are packed into boxes and are being put in the removal van, ready to be unpacked in my new room at my mum’s partner’s huge and beautiful house. I sit and say goodbye. Dad hasn’t lived here for two years and somehow that makes it easier. This house isn’t home anymore – I am ready to say goodbye. After all, I am an adult now. Already dreaming of a home of my own with my boyfriend of nearly two years already. Thinking about him makes me burn with a fierce love and longing.  He is my home now, somehow I know this. But still the tears come as a thousand memories tumble forward.

Goodbye 2nd house. Thank you.

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The Ordinary Child and a Mashed Potato Moment

First of all, a HUGE thank you to Potty Mummy for naming me the British Mummy Bloggers’ Blogger of the Week – what an honour! Welcome to new folks joining the sleep deprivation party here at SIFTW (acronyms mean I’ve totally made it!) This does of course now put me under immense pressure now to come up with something vaguely entertaining for you all. Which no doubt means, according to the ‘rules’ that I will end up being dull and weird. Oh well. Popularity was nice while it lasted!

There seems to be a bit of a theme running through my blogging at the moment. First we had a post about my average accomplishments, then it was my average blog, and today, well, today I want to talk about average babies.

You see, now Kai has hit the big 1 the inevitable baby race seems to have taken on new and infuriatingly pervasive proportions. Of course, it’s always been something. Can he smile yet? Can he roll? Sit up? Stand on one leg while singing ‘I’m a little tea-pot’? (ok, not the last one. At least… not yet)

Right now it’s walking and talking. It’s all anyone seems to care about.

And as Kai is doing neither (apart from the odd random word and strange animal impersonation) nor, in fact, showing the slightest interest in doing so, I find myself once again the recipient of a multitude of wonderfully reassuring and self-affirming comments such as “Well, I’m sure he’ll get it EVENTUALLY *sympathetic look*”, and (my current favourite of the week) “It’s ok, some babies just have more ‘physical’ intelligence than others” (what does that even MEAN??! If you’re reading, person who said that – FOR SHAME!!)

I’ve talked about the infuriating affliction that is competitive mum syndrome before on here.  It’s something I try very, very hard to avoid. Mostly because I think it’s a huge big pile of bull crap.

But I’m going to admit it. A teeny tiny part of me cries as I watch Kai’s peers confidently run around reciting the alphabet backwards while Kai himself sits in a corner randomly pointing and laughing at inanimate objects and trying to bark like a dog. I am forced to face the fact that, despite my best efforts at parenting, my child hasn’t been gifted with supernaturally advanced powers of development.

Yes Josie, it’s bad news I’m afraid. Your child is *gulp*… average.

Why does it bother us so much? Cause I know it’s not just me, I bet you, mummy readers, have all had such moments of fleeting disappointment and vague feelings of failure which seem to rise, unbidden into our minds, every time your child’s friend does yet another extraordinary thing.

Saying that, I think this is mostly a first-born thing. Parents with two or three, or even (as in the case of some friends) , five or SIX probably don’t give a damn at what age their child decides to do something, or what anyone else thinks about it, too busy as they are trying to end the day with as many children alive as when they started. So parents of multiples – you have permission to take a smug position of superiority here – no doubt you learned these lessons long ago.

Anyway. Where was I? Oh yes…

Common sense tells us that obviously the rate of our child’s development has nothing whatsoever to do with our relative merits or failures as parents, or is, in fact, any indication of their future intelligence or success but far more likely down to random genetics, personality and well, chance. Despite what the competitive mums seem to infer, the fact that my baby is not walking and talking at the grand old age of thirteen months old, does NOT mean he is destined to become that man that walks around our town with a robe made of a sacking, sandals, and a straw hat shouting at the pigeons.

So why do we take it all so personally? Why DOES it bother us, if only a little?

I think the reason it seems to strike a nerve is due, in part, to a journey that began back in our teenage years. When we were forced to come to terms with the fact that no, we probably weren’t going to be a model, and that we weren’t going to ‘grow into’ our noses and magically wake-up looking like Angelina Jolie. Or that we were going to randomly bump into Robbie Williams in Starbucks one day and, looking mysterious and alluring (as, of course, we would), and being given his skinny cappuccino with extra foam in a hilarious coffee shop- misundertanding, cause him to fall head over heels in love with us because we ‘got him’ and didn’t care about the fame  thing.

I’ve STILL not quite got over that one.

And guess what. Our children probably aren’t going to be space men either, or prime minister, or nobel peace prize winners, or pirate ninjas, or a horse, or any of the of the things we ourselves dreamed of becoming as children. Unconciously we long for them to live extraordinary lives, the lives we did not lead, the lives we had to let go of.

Ok I’ll admit this is all sounding rather depressing in a kind of let me take your dreams and stamp all over them kind of way.

But the sooner we realise this as parents the better. The sooner we can let go of our need for our children to be so damn extraordinary, the sooner we are freed to see just how incredible they already are. Maybe if we can just stop worrying about the big stuff, the stupid milestones and the whole ‘my baby should’s, we’ll be less likley to miss all those teeny tiny subtle moments of everyday extraordinariness that our children show us just be being alive. Those moments that show us that sometimes it’s the ordinary and unremarkable that can be the most beautiful and precious of all.

Like eating mash potato with their hands. Or how watching a dog running round the garden can be the single most hilarious experience of their little life. Or they way their head seems to fit so perfectly nestled into your shoulder.

Not clever. Not exceptional. But just magic.

So let go Competititve Mums. Please. Because I can’t take this crap anymore.

Stop asking me if Kai’s walking yet and let us get back to rubbing mashed potato in our hair. Cause it’s ten million times more fun.