This is a post about happiness, or finding it, or being allowed it – I’m not sure which yet.

It’s been ages since I’ve posted. Oops, sorry about that. Last week was mostly about pulling myself out of the Fibro flare-up, which I did, just about, with thanks to enough painkillers to floor a small herd of gazelle, slow walks in the rain while Kai jumped in every puddle, and an especially lovely weekend away to rest and take photos and do other things that reminded who I was again.

I don’t know whether it’s just me, but I sometimes think that when something bad happens, something big like a marriage ending, it’s easy to feel afterwards that you shouldn’t be happy again. Maybe it’s a ‘stop all the clocks’ reaction: the world is never going to be the same again, for all involved and I’m partly responsible for that, or feel it anyway, so maybe my ‘punishment’ is to live in misery.

I’ve been feeling a lot of guilt about the idea of being happy, like it would be a betrayal in some way.  Maybe, if I’m really honest, I felt like I will be judged for being happy. I’ve felt like I shouldn’t be, that I don’t deserve to be, and that others think so too – those mysterious ‘others’ that I always assume are thinking badly of me, it’s ridiculous really. It’s felt safer, more justified, to think of myself as sad and suffering, and I have been, to be fair, but anything that felt even remotely like happiness I have had a tendency to steer away from, or hold at arms length a bit.

This weekend I let myself do something I hadn’t really done before, at least, not in a long time. I let myself feel happy. I left all my guilt and my worries and my uncertainties in a big heap by my front door, and got on a train to be with someone that is especially good at making me smile, and I let them. I didn’t have Kai with me, and I didn’t let myself feel guilty about that. And I had a bloody lovely time, and I didn’t feel guilty about that, either.

Coming home to a quiet house, I was met with the pile of everything I had left behind. But I’ve decided to leave it there for a bit. No doubt there will still be an inevitable tirade of worries to work through, there’s still a big question mark over my future that keeps me awake at night, but at the very least I’m giving myself permission to feel happy.

So there.

There’s not been much sleep in these parts lately. Have I mentioned that? You know, that I’m tired? No? Well, not for at least ten minutes anyway. Yes. Tired.

I have learnt that my ability to perceive myself as a good mother is directly proportionate to the amount of sleep I’m getting. Probably because my ability to BE a good mother is directly proportionate to the amount of sleep I’m getting. So, on both counts, I’ve been pretty crap this week.

Three or four hours of sleep a night and long days breeds a particularly snappy, shouty, emotionally fragile kind of mummy that neither me nor Kai are particularly keen on, and there has been a lot of snapping and shouting this week. Added to this, both of us have had to adjust to a new way of being around each other in the last few months. It’s just us now, you see, there’s no one else to help ease the tension. I am having to find ways of staying sane when your main source of company, and for long, solitary days and nights at a time, is two and half, and Kai is having to learn that I can’t provide the same focused attention available to him at the weekends, when he has an army playmates in the form of his Dad and family to help keep him occupied.

All of this is making for some particularly fraught weeks at the moment: lots of fallings-out, and the need for making-back-up-again. Good job we love each other, hey?

Motherhood has never come particularly naturally to me. I’m not that well suited to it, needing quiet and having a particularly fundamental need for my own space and to devote time and energy to my own projects and ideas. I have a tolerance level of about three seconds when it comes to the kind of involved, repetitive play that toddlers so enjoy, and Kai has especially intense needs in that department, being a child that never sits still, needing focused concentration to communicate with him and craving stimulation as desperately as I crave the peace to sit and snooze or read. I find I end up saying ‘no’ a lot: “no Kai, that’s enough now”, “no Kai, you’ll have to wait”, “no Kai, mummy’s busy”. We both end up frustrated and fraught, and I end up feeling guilty. It seems like he has the most fun when he’s away from me at the moment. I feel like dull mum, paling in comparison to the excitement and energy he gets from everyone else in his life. I’m not always sure what I’m really giving him most days, aside from fulfilling his basic needs.

But, BUT!

We’re getting there, on the good days at least, we really are. I’m learning to give a bit more, and Kai’s learning to take a bit less and somewhere in the middle we’re starting to find a better balance. I’m a great believer that it’s important for children to learn to play on their own, and NOT need an adult to direct them or play with them the whole time – it gives their imaginations a chance to be really unleashed without adult constraints. When I’ve had enough sleep to think about it properly, I realise that my ‘no’s don’t always have to be a source of guilt – I can view them as  something really positive. And I’m learning to include him more – we’re becoming a little team, me and Kai. We clean together and cook together and wash up together and sort laundry together. When I have errands to run, we make it an adventure. Kai helps remember what we have to buy, where we’re going, and we don’t rush home, spending time dawdling along the pavement seeing what we can see.

What I’m learning is that saying no is okay, as long as they’re are plenty of ‘yes’s too. After a morning of ‘no’s after a long night of little sleep, I’m really trying to set aside some time to say “what do you want to do Kai?” and answering “YES!”. I’m finding that even if I’ve said no a hundred other times that day, it’s the yes’s that define what kind of day we have, even if it’s just the one. It’s giving us, in between the frustration and the fallings out, some real gems of time together.

Every day this week when I’ve asked him what he wants to do he’s signed the same sign: PAINTING! And so that’s what we’ve done. Lots and lots of it. I know I tend to harp on a bit about Kai and his art work, so forgive me my indulgence again. I guess when you have a child where so much is focused around what he’s NOT doing, it becomes extra-important to celebrate the things he DOES do. And this is something that makes Kai special in my eyes just now, not because of any particular extraordinary skill, (although I think for two and half he’s got quite an eye on him), but because it’s something that he enjoys so much, and which gives me so much joy to watch.

This week we’ve been using objects around the house to copy in our paintings, toys mostly, and he’s loved it. We talk about what colours things are, what shape, we mix our paints, I watch Kai daub and splat and dot, and for half an hour I get to feel like maybe I’m doing something right for once.

So here’s Kai’s painting of his toy Noah’s Ark, done all by himself while I did my knitting and we talked about what he was doing. I’m not a believer in the religious meaning, but we like stories, me and Kai, especially ones with animals in, and when you get to a paint a rainbow, and conjour up all the hope and light that that brings with it, well, I think it was just about perfect for us yesterday.

(P.S. The pants were clean, promise – had fallen out the laundry basket. Failed to spot them till after I’d saved the photo. Oh well, cheap thrill for you there. You’re welcome.)

I am curled in a ball on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, my face turned away from you, my eyes tight shut against the glare of the artificial light of our early morning.

Vague sounds of the television and your quiet play and chatter filter through but don’t penetrate past the armour I have so carefully applied this morning. You are just noise to me. I wish you weren’t here.

I wish I wasn’t here.

I feel bruised. My body pinched, pulled, rearranged. A night of being your bed, comforter, punching bag, drinks dispenser, toy, as you worked through your rage and despair and frustration and all of the other things that seem to plague your nights. I wonder at what point last night did I finally shut down? At what point did I stop hearing the crying and just switch off to the writhing, grasping, angry little body in my arms.  At what point did you stop being my baby and become something I had to endure? It was before exhaustion took you, finally, that much I know. Long before. Your stamina long eclipsing mine. My head hitting the pillow numb and empty.

I feel nothing now. My body moving on auto-pilot as I was woken from a sleep only just begun. I am cold, my skin prickling, as if the emotional drainage of the night has taken all my body heat with it. I shake, I shiver, wrapped in my cocoon and in darkness.

And yet even now, in my dark place, the mother synapses fire again. Ears on alert for sounds of distress and need. I hate that the instinct is so strong, that even when I want to disengage it holds me. Even now blissful nothingness is beyond my grasp, however much I wish for it, as anger burns hot in my chest. Dull but there, keeping me from icing up completely. I suppose I should be grateful for it. Grateful for feeling something. Because what kind of mother feels nothing?

Wrapped in shadow I am concious of time passing. All too soon the sounds of contented occupation begin to morph to sighs and little murmurs of annoyance. It is inevitable.

And then.

Movement. A shuffle. Warm fingers feeling there way beneath my covers to find my face, probing but gentle, searching for a connection and a response.

“Mama”

I am defrosting. The guilt is creeping back now. A familiar friend. Guilt that I seem unable to perform such a basic a function as enduring your need for me. Guilt at my weakness, at my selfishness, at my inadequate limits. Guilt that I am not enough, never enough for you. Guilt that I could ever wish you far away.

Turning, I pull you up and under, your body settling into my shape. I cannot yet look at you but your eager grin hovers an inch from my face in the half-light, your breath heavy and sweet. You wriggle your way through my defences, seeking out my bruises and my hurts with gentle hands, your fingers pushing their way through my hair to stroke and sooth and pat: movements learnt from being their recipient so many times.

You lie still for only a moment, but it is long enough for me to feel a rush of love so strong and deep it takes my breath, releasing in one low, shaking sob, that makes my body move and throw off the cover to let in the bright light of the dawn, here at last.

And I hold you close to me, breathing in your smell and your warmth and your life as the long night drips off me, and you begin to chatter with your nonsense words, telling me of your plans, about the red car that just drove past and that the dog from next door is awake and barking hello, and how you’d really like some breakfast please.

I take your hands in mine and plant a kiss on each small palm and look up at you to smile. Breakfast. Yes.

It’s confession time here at SIFTW. Because I have a guilty secret to share…

I am a rubbish stay-at-home-mum.

This is not me saying that I’m a dreadful mother or anything (well, not VERY dreadful), it’s just that I don’t think this whole SAHM thing particularly suits me. Turns out I’m really not very good at it.

I was ok when Kai was tiny – being a mum then was mostly about keeping him alive and preventing him from drowning in the accumulated pile of his own vomit and poo. Simples. You put milk and food in one end, you clean up the other end, you sing lots of silly songs and pull funny faces and spend long hours just cuddling and cooing gobbledegook at each other. It was exhausting, but there was only a limited amount of potential for screwing up. It was kinda dull but it was a simpler, less complicated time.

These days? Man alive, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

Because these days I have a little person to look after. Who toddles and climbs and chatters earnestly and nonsensically during every waking moment. Who loves Matchbox cars and Thomas the Tank Engine (possibly more than he loves me), and does NOT like broccoli or soup or being asked to do something he doesn’t want to do.

This is a little person that copies, that is learning and changing at a rate of knots, and that has potential bursting out of orifice.

It is exciting and interesting and Kai seems to get more and more fricking adorable by the hour. But it scares the crap out of me.

Suddenly the potential for screwing up now seems lots, lots bigger. I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to DO with this little fierce ball of independent motion.

Am I supposed to be teaching him stuff??

Because here’s the other half of the confession and reason I’m a rubbish SAHM…

I’m not very good at playing.

I’m VERY good a cuddling, and tipping upside down, and playing hide-and-seek, and making Kai laugh until he cries and doing stories with silly voices, and helping him to get covered in food, and romping about in the sunshine, and eating cake together.

I am RUBBISH at structured play.

And the worst thing?

It bores me. Dreadfully.

I thought I would be great at playing. That I would have infinite energy AND WILLINGNESS to invest in making up exciting and educational games for Kai to partake in. But after 10 minutes of block building and car racing and colouring in I’m getting antsy. My lack of enthusiasm after a while must show as Kai usually quickly shuns me and my attention in favour of independent play, embarking on his complicated games of hiding cars under the sofa or trying to post things through the letter box. And I, relived, skulk off back to whatever project I have waiting for me and that I am currently obsessing over.

I do DO stuff with him. We go to at least one playgroup a week, meet up with friends, take lots of walks and trips to the park. We go to the Library (toy and regular) and the sensory room, and sometimes swimming if I can summon up the energy.

But at home? At home I suck.

And it worries me. Should I be doing more? Kai doesn’t know his colours and seems to think all animals go “mooo” or “woof” regardless of what they are. He gets confused between his knees and ears (although gets ‘willy’ right every time – go figure). He barely says any proper words at all.

I worry that that his education now in this kind of thing is down to me and that I am failing him. I feel like I should be taking more responsibility for his learning. I wonder whether he’d be better off at nursery but then hate the thought of it as I would miss him dreadfully.

Mostly I worry that I should WANT to do more ‘stuff’ with him, that I should be motivated and inspired to fill his days with learning and creativity and variation. That I should go to bed full of plans for what ‘enrichment activities’ I might do with Kai tomorrow and NOT my next writing project. That this SHOULD be enough for me.

The fact that it isn’t worries me most of all.

It is official. I am a SHIT stay-at-home-mum.

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Amendment:

I have loved the comments on this post. Especially as they come from some of the mum’s I have THE most respect for. You tell me that I’m doing fine and I believe you. Thank you.

So I take it back. I am not shit. Because turns out I am just like you and I think you are AWESOME. So I guess that makes me? Well, not shit anyway.

Thanks. Thanks again. And thanks some more.

Is it stupid that I genuinely feel a huge deal better? Cause I really, really do.

x

There’s been a lot of talk this week in the virtual world about the ‘Mumpreneur’ – women successfully combining at-home businesses with raising children and family life. I’m not all that comfortable with the label myself, something that Sally at Who’s The Mummy? also questioned recently sparking an interesting debate. It’s not even one that particularly applies to me as I don’t run my own business. But lately I feel I am beginning to move into the realm of the ‘Work-at-Home-Mum’ and issues surrounding women, business and enterprise are likely to be ones that effect me for some time to come.

My creative writing course has started in earnest now. I have turned into that fledgling writer with a notebook and pen surgically attached, lying awake in the small hours consumed by ideas and endlessly spiralling words and images, plagued by feelings of hope and potential and doubt and worthlessness all in equal measure.

At the same time I’m trying to expand my ‘freebie’ work, getting writing experience here, there and everywhere I can. This blog is becoming more than just a pet project, it’s becoming something that matters to me, something I feel the need to invest time and effort in, with the hope that it may springboard my writing somewhere new and exciting. The Great Toy Guide is keeping me busy too which I love, opening up a whole new world of PR contacts and confusing media lingo and a different kind of creative thinking.

The irony is that none of this is paid of course. Perhaps I’m over-reaching myself even calling it work, probably ‘work’ would be more descriptive and less pretentious. But my hope is that by putting the ‘work’ in I may one day get some work without the inverted commas, probably not anytime soon, but one day.

I’m coming across like a complete douche aren’t I? I did have a point somewhere.

Oh yes. Here it is…

I had been under the extremely naive and mistaken impression that working from home would be easier than going out to work. That combining a working day with taking care of your children would be simpler, most cost effective, and magically combine the two worlds of motherhood and career woman in one beautifully harmonious enterprise.

You’re laughing right. At least, the WAHM’s are laughing…

Turns out the reality is a little different.

My days and nights at the moment are left frantically juggling Kai’s (demanding) needs and my own desperate need to write and grow in a direction other than being ‘just a mum’ (oh and with the odd cursory bit of housework thrown in for good measure). When I’m doing my ‘mum’ bit I’m thinking about writing. When I’m writing I’m feeling guilty about not giving Kai my 100% one-on-one attention. I can’t win. Oh and of course – add into the mix being so sleep deprived I can barely remember my own name and you’ll probably have a fairly accurate picture of my state of mind right now.

Lately I’ve even wondered whether Kai would even be better off in nursery for a few hours a week, that maybe I’m depriving him of enough stimulation and attention, that maybe being at home with me ISN’T the best thing for him as I had always thought it would be. But of course (it’s the ironic bit again), I’m not earning anything and we don’t bring enough in as a family to make it an affordable option.

So here I am. Desperately trying to keep all these different conflicting balls in the air. And not managing it very successfully (the ‘hoovering’ ball I dropped a while back and seems to be festering in amongst the dust bunnies under the TV cabinet).

All of which is my rather long-winded way of saying this. Mumpreneurs, entrepreneurs, work-at-home mums/dads ,  self-employed writers, artists, craftspeople – what EVER you choose to call yourselves. I salute you. And admire you immensely. I am only beginning to realise how hard your working lives must be – and I’m still only ‘working’ at working.

Please tell me. How on earth do you do it?

My mum has this theory that we’re all born with a ‘guilt’ gene that gets switched on when you have a baby.

I think she may be right.

It’s probably next to the selfish gene actually. Trying to steal it’s cake but then feeling dreadful about it afterwards.

Since becoming a mum I seem to live in a state of perpetual guilt, and the last couple of weeks have been no exception. In fact, I seem to be finding a whole range of new things to feel guilty about lately. Here is a ‘brief’ (ha ha yeah right!) run-down:

Source of agonising guilt #1 – the whole work/mum/wife/housekeeper balance thing

I want to be a good mother, I want to give Kai lots of one-on-one attention and fill his days with fun things to do.

I want to be a good writer, I want to do something for ‘me’ that is separate from my identity as a mother and gives me an important feeling of self-worth. I NEED this in a way that is hard to describe.

I want the house not to look like a shit-hole.

I want to be an attentive and caring wife, putting Ant’s needs before my own sometimes and be prepared to compromise. And not be a grumpy cow all the time.

Why is it I only seem to be able to achieve one of these things by neglecting all the others??

Source of agonising guilt #2 – I have been hiding out

For some reason I’m finding the whole sociable aspect of motherhood really, unbelievably hard at the moment. I’ve always had a bit of a reclusive nature when the chips are down, retreating to my duvet and my head when things get tough. I’ve been so tired lately. Kai’s been sleeping very badly again and I’ve been desperately trying to juggle all the things in guilt-trip #1. Since Kai came along the duvet days are less practical so the head retreats are getting more and more attractive and pervasive and I find myself avoiding social contact, hiding out at home or doing things with just me and Kai. Which is rubbish frankly, rubbish for me and especially rubbish for Kai who loves, and deserves, lots of time with other children (hence the guilt trip)

I don’t know why. The Competitive Mums / ‘Other Mother’ brigade don’t help – since I always manage to come away from their company feeling about as competent and worthy as dung beetle with two legs that can only go round in circles and not even shovel poo very successfully (which is an apt metaphor for motherhood if I ever heard one).

But they’re not the ONLY mums. There are nice ones! REALLY nice ones who make me feel safe and accepted and not judged. Granted, they’re in the minority but still. They are there.

So why am I avoiding them??

And lastly the biggy…

Source of agonising guilt #3 – a new tough love regime for Kai

I’ve talked about Kai’s sleep problems before, and also that I long ago made the decision not to use ‘crying-it-out’ as a solution. Once again I will stress, this is not about my judging other mums, but about me saying that I don’t believe letting bad sleepers cry it out is the only way to teach them to sleep. Maybe the quickest, but not your only option.

We’ve made real progress with Kai over the last few months. On a good night now he is quite happy to have a good long feed till he’s nice and sleepy and then lie down in his cot and go to sleep on his own (without his dummy!!) More often now when he does stir he will settle himself and go back to sleep. Until we come to bed that is. Then ALL Kai wants to do is sleep curled between us, feeding on and off for most of the night, and fidgeting and fussing. I’m exhausted. I’m loosing weight again, I’m looking tired and worn out. And actually that second part of the night? It’s getting worse.

On the one hand all the old problems are still there, the extreme wakefulness, the very real difficulty in getting back to sleep when he’s woken up, the possible nightmares/teething/tummy aches/fact that it’s a Tuesday, or whatever other mysterious thing it is that seems to make sleep such an issue for him.

But on the other hand? He’s not a little baby any more. He’s eating well, getting plenty of food and milk during the day. He’s coping better with separation and is secure and confident. He understands when you say no and bye bye and what it means. He’s also learning how to get his own way – unlike when he was an infant, what Kai wants now isn’t always what he needs.

Right now, now he’s older, secure and healthy, what he needs is sleep. He doesn’t need milk all night. And my instinct tells me he’s ready, ready in a way he hasn’t been before.

So we’re making some changes.

I’m not expecting him to go without comfort at night. I don’t think my role as parent ends at 7.30pm.  But I am expecting him to go without milk. At the very least getting down to maybe only one or two feeds at night.

I’m not leaving him to cry it out. But I am accepting there may well be some crying involved. And as my very lovely friend pointed out to me today:

“A child fussing and crying in the arms of a loving parent is not the same as crying it out” – thank you again Ruthie, I needed to hear that.

So there we go. Not unreasonable I think but still,

GUILT GUILT GUILT GUILT GUILT!!!

So come on then – as a parent what’s your big source of guilt right now? Purge people, PURGE!

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