I spent the best part of two years wondering how everybody else made parenting look so easy, how they managed to look so happy all the time, how their kids were so happy all the time. What the hell was their secret? Gradually, with corroboration from an inbox bursting with messages from other parents, it dawned on me that my assessment of how well everybody else was coping (and how poorly I was coping in comparison) was more often than not rooted in what I had seen on social media.
This was a mistake on my part, but it turns out it’s an easy mistake to make, particularly when you are tired, feel vulnerable and are convinced that your children are broken because, despite buying vibrating bouncers and bathing them in relaxing lavender bubbles, they won’t bloody sleep.
The trouble with Facebook and the like is that, if you are anything like me, the friends you are connected to are not all people you genuinely class as ‘friends’ in the true sense of the word. I’m not saying they are people you don’t like, just that they are people you don’t really know very well (or don’t know very well any more): people you went to school with, colleagues from work, second cousins twice removed and some random girl you did sambuca shots with at somebody’s hen do in Torquay.
I love a good Facebook stalk. I’ve been known to waste hours perusing the homes and maternity outfits of schoolfriends who were always trendier than me (slightly embarrassing if people I am Facebook-friends-but-not-really-proper-friends-with read this book and now know I’ve been through all three albums of their holiday snaps). Whatever, the reality is that I still don’t really know them. I may know what car they drive and what their kids are called, I may know how much weight they lost at Slimming World and what their lodge looked like at Center Parcs. Occasionally, I might find I know too much about the ‘cheating wanker’ of an ex-boyfriend who messed them around. But if I know nothing about them beyond what they choose to share on Facebook, then I cannot really claim to know them at all.
I cannot claim to know how they’re truly coping with the break-up from that cheating wanker, I cannot claim to know if they are happy in the life choices they have made and I certainly cannot claim to know how they are coping with parenthood. With my rational head on, I know all of this, yet on the days I feel like I am failing at motherhood those feelings are only exacerbated by glancing at a summary of my friends’ timelines, all of which are full to bursting with happiness, and at their Instagram feeds, where there is so much smiling and so much #momentcherishing. I have even found myself making assessments of the overall wellbeing and happiness of mums I have never met but have followed from afar via their tweets and blogs.
If you were to believe social media, every other bugger is enjoying parenthood but you. Those beautiful shots of kids on beaches, snuggly selfies on sofas, posh meals out, loved-up mummy and daddy smiles (#forever) and general family bliss quite rightly deserve a like and a comment. They are the good bits and it is only natural we would want to share them.
We hit delete on the photos that give us four chins. We crop the snaps where our children look anything other than cute. Generally, we feel compelled to share the statuses that reflect good news, good friends and good times. And these good times are made all the more amazing by that Valencia filter on Instagram. (I swear, that filter’s magic. I actually quite like myself when I’m shrouded in the Valencia glow, and that’s saying something, because I’ve wanted a nose job all my life.)
When friends have babies, we wait in anticipation for those adorable first hospital pics where the baby lies in one of those wheely plastic cribs with a strategically placed bunny comforter. Weeks later, we might be treated to a sleepy post-feed-cuddle snap or a close-up of tiny hands or feet, all the stuff that makes our ovaries holler that they are ready to do it again. (Mine are proper hollering since having Jude, and my brain just has to keep telling them to pipe the hell down.) What we cannot assume to know is what has happened before those pictures, between those pictures, behind those pictures. Most of the stuff that happens day in, day out, just isn’t really share-worthy.
What isn’t shared are the everyday trials and tribulations of normal life. The humdrum. For every day my boys have spent walking on the beach wrapped up snug and sporting rosy cheeks and impish grins, we have spent ten days at home completing our usual toys, colouring, TV, snack, park, more TV, more snacks daily circuit. For every nice shot I own of them sitting looking cherubic, I have at least ten more that will never see the light of day on my timeline. For every ‘this little monkey got me up early’ status there will be another ‘well, this is shit, I’m unbearably knackered’ post somewhere along the line. Five days after having Jude, I shared a picture of me and the boys out on a family walk and enjoyed seeing the ‘Wow, you look really well!’ comments trickle in. It was a much-needed boost. I did look well, because I had run the straighteners through the front third of my hair, put make-up on in the car and pinched my cheeks to look healthier than I felt. The reality of my life five days post-birth, however, was spending 90 per cent of the day breastfeeding in my dressing gown, sporting a greasy bun and a face pale from moderate iron deficiency.
I’m sure it’s the same for us all – our instinct is to share the airbrushed version, the Instagram edit, those specially selected statuses. The unedited photos, the mundane everyday posts and the days we would sell a kidney to have one bastard teatime where nobody is crying are the real news feeds and go unreported.
I have sensed a shift in this, though, I think. With the increase in parent bloggers and forums, and communities like my Facebook page (where mums freely post the not-so-glossy bits), I think we are starting to see a bit more of a balance. And wouldn’t it be boring to see just the crappier bits? I follow mums on Instagram whose kids are always immaculately turned out in stylish clobber, whose nails are never peeling at the sides like mine are and whose houses have kitchens with islands and pastel food mixers which feature in their baking vlogs. I bloody love their Instalives. It’s pure escapism and I admire the sheer beauty of those pictures. I only joke about their perfect-parent Yummy Mummy lives because I’m jealous (there, I’ve admitted it twice now, I’m jealous one for luck).
As a new mum, I found myself fed up with blogs filled with messy-play ideas alongside pictures of trendy children holding hands in sunny meadows (#creatingmemories). But thousands of people do want to see this stuff and are equally bored (and offended, as I’ve been told, a few times, whoops) by pictures of children having tantrums and swear-filled rants from parents driven to despair (#passthewine). Some bloggers, including many I have admired from afar, will probably never blog about the shittier side of life at home with kids and, by the same token, I’d rather not blog about the charming (but uneventful) family walk we had on Dartmoor at the weekend and the essential picnic-basket items I packed. I doubt I could add much value to your day if I did, not least because none of us would be in trendy clothes, I am shit at taking pictures and a packet of rice cakes plus lemon squash is about my picnic limit. My point here is that you need to take everything you see and read by other parents online – those you know and those you have never met – with a pinch of salt.
So this is just a cautionary tale. We’ll probably all continue using Instagram (God bless you, Valencia), we’ll periodically pose our kids for portraits and post happy-birthday messages to our babies when they turn one (even though they can’t read). We just need to remember that social media is a selective snapshot and is never the full story. It’s not always the most helpful place to look when you are having a shitty day. Instead I tend to WhatsApp friends with messages like ‘Kill. Me. Now’, as I find more comfort in their responses than I do in a virtual wall of super-happy times.
It was probably a bit harsh of me to assert that social media is a lie. ‘Lie’ is too strong. ‘Selectively edited account of reality’ sounds fairer. I’ll continue to greatly enjoy perusing other people’s selectively edited accounts of reality, of course – I just need to remember that pinch of salt.
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Laura, south-east London
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Having Kids: The Best and Worst Bits
Noting the tendency for us parents to selectively edit what we post, I’ve come up with the following summary of what life with kids is like. I do hope it’s a balanced assessment . . . Let’s get the worst bits over with first.
The Worst Bits
The noise
Crying, whingeing, screaming, shouting, ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy?’ At times relentless, this symphony of vocal demands drills into your skull and makes you throw a baking tray across the kitchen in an act of anger release (possibly; just something I’ve heard). Add an array of noisy toys to the mix and you’ll find yourself texting your other half with one clear instruction: pick up some wine.
Always being late
It doesn’t matter what time you get up, how long you have to get ready or how organised you have been in packing a bag the night before, it is almost impossible to get out of the house on time. Just as we are about to leave, we encounter Henry’s daily poo (fifteen minutes while he reads the Smyths toy catalogue; yes, really), declarations of sudden and unbearable hunger (but no, neither child would like an apple) and shouts of ‘Where the fuck is his fucking coat?’ After all of this, we are almost always behind schedule, I am almost always sweating and there is almost always something I’ve neglected to pack. (I refuse to go back unless this forgotten item is baby wipes, nappies or one of the children.)
Pre-kids, I was an impressively punctual lunch-date. I’m now one of those annoying people who say, ‘Sorry. I’m running really late’ and/or ‘Oh dear . . . was that today?’
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‘“Shoes on.” Such a simple instruction and yet one that ages me at least ten years, daily.’
Joanne, Gloucester
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Mealtimes
I could devote a whole book to the perils of mealtimes. I’ve noticed that most sensible families wait until the kids are in bed before they attempt to make their own tea (well, supper, as I suspect they don’t eat until 8 p.m.). Maybe we are a strange minority, but we all eat together at around 6 p.m. (bang smack in the middle of the witching hour, I know), and we all eat the same thing. I’d be bloody starving by eight o’clock, plus, that’s practically my bedtime; how do people wait so long?
Anyway, dining with a baby and a three-year-old is more often than not total carnage. Apparently, it will get better, so I am sticking with it. Until such a time, I will continue to shovel rice into my gob while picking up the finger-food buffet that Jude has thrown on the floor in its entirety and bribing Henry to eat his vegetables (‘If you eat all your green beans, you can have a biscuit’).
Lack of sleep
An obvious one, I know, but isn’t sleep precious? A full night’s sleep is like a magic sprightliness potion that we all take for granted until we are forced to go cold turkey on the maternity ward. (This was not aided by the woman in the bed next to me who kept waking an already fractious Henry by shouting, ‘Oh no, my baby. Don’t cry, my baby,’ at her own baby, who I can only presume is now deaf.)
I can recall month after month of exhaustedly fannying around on eBay during Henry’s 3 a.m. feed; it felt like I never wasn’t awake at 3 a.m. One time, a bundle of second-hand baby clothes turned up at our house and I had no recollection of bidding on it. I had done so in a delirious state. If sleep were a drug, I would be the first to lock myself in the bathroom and snort it.
Children’s TV
Where do I start?! Although it is a lifeline in all manner of situations, you will adopt a love/hate relationship with kids’ TV. Love because it buys you half an hour to tidy up (check Facebook). Hate because some of it is truly insufferable. Like Bubble Guppies. Holy mother of Bubble Gupping God, that programme is irritating. And one day you will, worryingly, realise that you have seen every episode of Peppa Pig at least five times, that you are engaging in online discussions about the unrealistically impeccable behaviour of Twatsy and Tim and that you have formed theories about the residents of Pontypandy. (Could Norman Price be Fireman Sam’s secret love child? There’s no sign of Mr Price, Sam is always far too forgiving about the fact that Norman’s a total arsehole and they are both ginger. Definite grounds for a DNA test.) Don’t even get me started on In the Night Garden. What the actual fuck is that all about?
Kids are disgusting
I mean, they are. Not all the time, of course. Sometimes, kids are lovely, but a significant proportion of your life will be spent wiping bums, picking bogies off your clothing and sniffing trouser crotches to see if they are clean (your children’s trousers, I mean. You should not be doing this for an adult partner). Potty-training Henry went well on paper (he no longer wears a nappy and instead uses a loo – high fives all round) but nothing could have prepared me for the first time I was faced with a fully formed human turd in a plastic pot. Granted, that is where it was meant to go, where I had encouraged Henry to deposit it, but never before have I displayed an external reaction so at odds with every sense in my body. ‘Such a clever boy! Well done, my darling!’ I beamed, while retching on my way to drop this longed-for potty deposit down the loo (cue more retching, the immediate requirement of a loo brush/bleach and having to open every downstairs window).
Pictures and stories I’ve been sent over the last year have opened my eyes to new levels of disgustingness: poo smeared on walls, baby sick caught unwillingly in the mouths of parents, toddlers secretly snacking on dog food, babies eating their own snot off the floor . . . I’ll stop there.
Shopping
I don’t know why I self-inflict the trauma of going shopping with my kids. I’m not talking about the supermarket big shop here (also hell with kids, but kind of essential). I’m talking about clothes shopping. Shopping shopping. Going ‘up town’. I know how it plays out. I bloody know, and yet still I embark on these ventures.
Recently, a trip to town began with me displaying an embarrassingly low level of authority over a hyperactive Henry in M&S. As usual, I started speaking in my very measured middle-class-mum voice: ‘We don’t run off, Henry darling. Come here, please’ . . . and ended up shrieking in my Jeremy-Kyle-mum voice, ‘For God’s sake, come back here! Right, no time on the iPad today, and you can forget about Christmas!’ (Yep, continuing to make those threats I’ll never uphold.) The entire trip was dictated by who needed a bottle and who needed the loo, and I gave up all hope of trying to nip into any of my shops. You simply do not nip anywhere with small children. Shopping online is where it’s at.
Being ill
When you’ve got kids, you can’t pull a sickie even when you are genuinely sick. You will have to feed, dress and entertain small people who will make your headache worse and ask you why your eyes look puffy. The handful of days so far when I have been proper poorly and James has been unable to take a day off have been pretty dark. They always serve as a brutal reminder that your own needs really aren’t as important any more. (You can forget sulking about that, though. There are lunches to be made and superhero battles to act out.)
Nothing is sacred
Literally, nothing. I have no issue with my boys seeing me naked. I have no issue with them seeing me go to the loo. I have no issue with them seeing me buy tampons. But sometimes, just sometimes, it would be nice to shave my legs, have a wee or consider menstruation-product options in peace (they are a taxable luxury item, after all). These days, I count an unaccompanied trip to the loo as ‘me time’. I suspect I am not alone in this, but it still strikes me as a slightly sorry state of affairs.
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‘While in Waitrose, trying to act posh, my three-year-old
boy said very loudly (as I picked up some tampons), “Yes, you need more string up your bum, don’t you?”’
Anonymous, Windsor
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It’s certainly not all a sorry state, though …
The Best Bits
They love you unconditionally
The power of a cuddle or a smile cannot be underestimated. Those little arms around your neck, a little face snuggled into your chest, a simple declaration of ‘I love you, Mummy’ or the unbeatable sight of a grin and outstretched arms is enough to make your heart melt. (It’s even more of a result when it’s not immediately followed by ‘Now can I have a biscuit?’) There are times when the boys hurt themselves or are unsure of something and only a cuddle from me or James will do. They want Mum or Dad, they need Mum or Dad and, despite this being in many ways unsurprising (we live with them, we are their constants), I still feel incredibly honoured. Those outward displays of the family bond are really very special, and at times they are enough to transform a what’s-the-bloody-point? day into an aren’t-we-lucky? day.
The laughter
Admittedly, I am very quick to comment on how discouraging life with kids can be, but the biggest flip side to all that is the laughter. Living with kids is hilarious, not just because they are happy to dance around naked and do impressions of Chewbacca but because they say the most ridiculous things. I couldn’t breathe for laughing the day the British Gas man came to service the boiler and Henry assessed him, with confident certainty, to be ‘A man. Not got a fanny.’ (I’ve since gathered that most parents use words like ‘foo’, or ‘twinkle’, when talking about genitalia, but I hadn’t realised this so told Henry straight up that it was willies and fannies.)
The Unmumsy Mum Page 14