Because I Said So, page 13
My nerves were shredded. I shouted at the telly. On several occasions I required the calming properties of a hot beverage and a Kit Kat Chunky. And when he lifted that cup, I emitted a screech so piercing the neighbours immediately called Crimestoppers. But it was worth every excruciating moment.
However, there was one other person at the match who should have been doing a lap of honour with a trophy held aloft.
I hereby dedicate a golden MASK award (Mother of A Sporty Kid) to the irrepressible Judy Murray.
Judy has been much criticised over the years, accused of being a pushy parent and maligned for her dogmatic dedication to her son’s career. Isn’t that missing the point?
Year after year she ferried him to matches, washed his kit, cheered him on and stood in the pouring rain watching wee Andy batter a ball across a net.
And now that she gets to jet to New York and hob nob with Sean Connery, she gives hope to the rest of us, standing in the rain on touchlines all over the nation, slowly developing hypothermic tootsies while mentally working out how many times we’ll have to soak the offspring’s socks to get the grass marks out.
My eleven-year-old spends every evening and weekend partaking in some combination of tennis, football, basketball and the 100-metre escape from an embarrassing mother. The last one isn’t yet an official sport but he’s been practising ever since he was six and I stood in a goalmouth holding a brolly over him so he didn’t get a chill.
The image of Judy punching the air this week will keep us parents of sporty weans going through another winter of Saturday morning fixtures, sub-zero temperatures, thermal knickers and chattering teeth. We can picture her joy when we’re dizzy with euphoria that a week of galloping up and down the garden has paid off and our wee angels have finally managed to bend it like Beckham.
We can channel her relief when we’re using two ten-foot barge poles to transfer rancid sports kits from a bag to the washing machine.
Behind every sporty kid there’s a mum or dad, clutching a water bottle and forking out for petrol money, so Andy’s parents deserve to revel in every second of his triumph.
I couldn’t care less what career Low the Elder chooses, as long as he’s happy. But if he does become a professional sportsman, I plan to be just like Judy, in that stand, cheering him on, making sure he’s got everything he needs to play his very best.
Anyone know how I can book Mr Ferguson and his hairdryer?
Royal Bumps and Blue Bits
Doesn’t it make you swell with pride when there’s a royal story that doesn’t involve pixelated pictures of Harry’s blue bits?
This week, the world’s media bypassed the global financial meltdown, war, famine and those two married news presenters who are up to no good, to inform us that Kate had a new hairstyle.
And then – cue a baby names sweepstake in the office – came the announcement that our future king and queen are going to become Maw and Paw Windsor.
It’s lovely news for the newlyweds, although there’s a strong possibility that Christmas dinner with the relatives will be interrupted by Airmiles Andy throwing his rattle out of the pram because he’s been shoved further down the queue for the big chair and the crown.
As with any pregnancy revelation, my thoughts flew to that blissful day, twelve years, nine months and twenty-two days ago, when I discovered that my feelings of nausea were not caused by a post-Saturday night reaction to chicken balti.
After years of fertility treatments and disappointments, I was thrilled when the line appeared on the stick. Ecstatic. But there’s no denying that, by the time Low junior entered the world, the husband had discovered many new things about his wife.
So your Royal Highnesses, just in case you are reading this, I would like to pass on some pearls of wisdom from a commoner who’s been there, done that and scooped the baby rice off my best silk shirt.
The Lows’ Top Ten Pregnancy Lessons:
1. My dearly beloved learned that a woman can be happy, overwhelmed, worried, loving, furious and hungry at the same time. The chance of accurately guessing which of these is the overriding emotion at any given moment is up there with Pippa’s new book winning the Nobel Prize for Literature.
2. When faced with a hormonal female with the emotional stability of a seesaw on the San Andreas fault, make her tea, tell her she’s gorgeous and then retreat to a nuclear bunker.
3. A balanced diet is essential. This may take the form of equal-sized bowls of pickled onions and custard. Consumed at 4 a.m.
4. A previously happy-go-lucky woman can become wracked with worry and uncertainty. But whatever the question is, no, husband, ginger bloody biscuits are not the answer.
5. While in the swirls of a hormone surge, she may develop unusual opinions on the perfect moniker for your imminent arrival. Agree to go with little Pickles Walthamstow McNugget until the next swirl adjusts her views.
6. It’s common for a woman to glow and radiate contentment as she prepares for the miracle of birth. Unfortunately, I was the exception, who bypassed glowing in favour of sweating, swelling and waddling like an Emperor Penguin with polar piles.
7. In some cases, couples will re-categorize their profanities. Forget the F-word and the C-word. The major curses become the S-word (stirrups) and the E-word (episiotomy).
8. It’s wise to prepare for the fact that a bump may come and go, but changes to the bosoms can be permanent. I believe the term ‘landslide’ is applicable.
9. Pregnancy does not automatically transform a female into Mother Earth.
I became her evil twin sister: Mother Volatile.
And, finally, all of the above can be helped by avoiding stress, utilising the resources available to you, and accepting help.
So on behalf of Maw, Paw and the future babe, Pickles Walthamstow McNugget Windsor, I’d be happy to let Airmiles Andy know he’s off the guest list for Christmas dinner.
2013
Auntie’s Tanks and Mothering Thanks
Auntie
‘An army of aunties.’ I love the mental image that conjures up – a line of fearless women in khaki, ready to storm Matalan’s car park if they can just work out how to parallel-park their tanks.
This probably isn’t what author and child psychologist, Steve Biddulph, meant when he extolled the need for an aunt army to help guide today’s girls through the complex trenches of the teenage years.
According to Biddulph, teens are under more pressure than ever before, and to give them an adequate support system, a duty of care should be extended to include other female relatives who can be confidantes and mentors.
Could someone let the head of the aunt army know that I’m volunteering for the task?
I have several gorgeous nieces and two teenage cousins that I adore.
At Christmas, my cousins stayed with me and, as always, we spent our days in the kitchen drinking tea as I grilled them on every aspect of their lives. If the CIA would like to get in touch, my interrogation skills are available for the nominal fee of a bag of Tetley teabags and several packets of Hob Nobs.
In many ways, my young relatives’ experiences mirror what I can remember of my youth. The flashbacks get hazier with every passing decade but there were definitely big dreams, self-esteem dips, boys, giggling friends and, in my case, a fantasy relationship with Jon Bon Jovi that stopped just short of a restraining order.
But back to my girls. Over the coming years, I plan to be there for them, always ready to listen without passing comment, delivering lectures or boring them with diatribes of advice. However, I’m aware that this kind of restraint would involve the application of gaffer tape to my gob, so I’ve already started preparing a checklist of the wisdom that I’d like to share as they embrace adulthood.
Don’t waste your time with diets. You’re beautiful as you are. And besides, I’ve tried 4,396 of them and none worked.
You’re allowed to date one unsuitable bad boy, but after that, always go for the good guy.
Pick great friends who will laugh with you, cry with you, and hunt down that bad boy if he breaks your heart.
Don’t photograph everything you do and put it on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram. And don’t pout in pics – it gives off a toxic air of Eau de Attention Seeker.
Be careful with fashion, as things come back to haunt you. We call this concept The Curse of the Mullet.
Make mistakes. Loads of them. At your age, we’ll forgive you.
Always stay true to yourself, and when it’s time to choose a career, find something you love to do and make it your job. Please note this does not apply to touring the country attending One Direction concerts.
There’s a Brazilian wax and there’s a Brazilian blow-dry. These are two very different things.
Never do the running. If a relationship is meant to be, it will happen. Evidence of this theory can be found by turning to history and consulting the ancient classics. Start with An Officer and a Gentleman featuring Sir Richard of the Gere.
And, finally, learn to tolerate the eccentricities of your older relatives. I’ll be intrusive. I’ll scan your social network sites. I’ll turn up at parties. You’ll leave a nightclub and find me there, waiting to give you a lift home. It’s because I love you, not because I’m trying to ruin your life.
Oh, and when you’re all grown up and I come to visit, persuade me to take a taxi. There’s no telling what carnage I’ll cause if I bring the tank.
Second Time Around
This week’s research from the University of the Blatantly Obvious?
A new survey out this week claims that one-fifth of mothers spend less money on their second child than they do on their first.
Shocker!
I can categorically say that I treated my two children completely the same. Not a penny of difference. And on the non-financial side, there was absolutely no disparity between the time I devoted to them. Definitely not. No way. Cross my heart and swear to the Patron Saint of Huggies.
Okay, there was, but please don’t tell Low the Younger because I reckon he’s the one that’s most likely to pick me up from the Home for Decrepit Bonkbuster Authors and ferry me between the bingo and the line dancing, before whisking me to the garden centre for a cappuccino and a fruit scone.
I have always loved my boys absolutely equally, but there was a huge difference between my preparations for number one and two.
Prior to the arrival of Low the Firstborn, I spent months planning every little detail. I painstakingly decorated his room down to the very last fluffy white cloud that I painted on the pale blue walls. Admittedly, I was never brilliant at art, so his cloudy skyscape actually looked like sheep in flight, but the effort was there.
I bought every baby gadget and gizmo ever invented, including a steriliser that was so high-tech it could eradicate germs and then act as a space probe to Mars.
I pored over every baby book ever written, and when he came along I kept a diary and charted every step and word of progress. When he cried, I lifted him. At night, I rocked him to sleep. And should he ever become famous, photo shoots will be second nature, as he couldn’t toddle across the garden without me snapping pictures from behind a bush like a rogue paparazzo.
I wasn’t so much a Helicopter Mother as a Mosquito Mum – buzzing around him incessantly and impossible to shift.
My second came along sixteen months later, and I’d love to say that I was the same bundle of maternal energy. Cue reality check.
I went from focused, organised mother of one, to a knackered mother of a baby, and an over-energised toddler who could do a hundred-metre dash in a time that rivalled Usain Bolt.
Low the Younger only got photographed on birthdays and special occasions. I was so tired and fuddled I’m fairly sure the camera was in the freezer next to the hairdryer and the house keys.
I’ve no idea what I did with his first tooth. I’m fuzzy as to what age he was when he walked and talked.
He wore clothes that his brother had grown out of. Played with toys his brother had left behind.
Oh the shame and large dollop of mother’s guilt – the same one that kicks in every time a new study informs me of another thing I did wrong.
And yet… Son number two is the most laid-back, wonderful, contented wee soul ever. He doesn’t stress, he’s utterly non-materialistic, thoughtful and low-maintenance.
I may have spent less money on him when he was a child, but I was also more relaxed and confident and I think that rubbed off. Most importantly, love was always doled out to both of them in equal measure.
So, Son the Younger, I hope you forgive me and accept my apologies that there wasn’t as much one-on-one time.
I promise that over the course of our lives I absolutely intend to make up for it.
Between the bingo, the line dancing and the garden centre, I’ll be all yours.
Party Popper
Hear that trundling noise? That’s a bandwagon shooting past before I had a chance to jump on it.
Given that I’m prone to enthusiastically embracing superfluous trends, I’m gutted that there’s now a veritable feast of modern celebrations and traditions that I missed, due to being born too close to the era when dinosaurs ruled the earth.
There’s the primary school prom party. I’m not saying that I agree with spending £500 on a kiddie Gucci party frock and transporting your offspring to a school dance by helicopter, but it beats my last day of school which consisted of blowing 50p on Refresher bars in the tuck shop and murdering Abba’s ‘Knowing Me Knowing You’ in the class talent show. I came last.
There was no high school prom, either. Just a disco in the gym hall, where the static electricity caused by dancing to an Adam Ant song while wearing a taffeta puffball skirt almost resulted in spontaneous combustion of the thighs. Then I missed the half-time sandwiches because I was outside snogging my boyfriend, demonstrating potential sporting prowess should the Olympic Committee ever decide to introduce a new endurance event called the Prolonged Lip Lock.
However, the area in which I really feel cheated of celebratory activity is the whole pregnancy/baby period. I gave birth to my youngest eleven years ago. Back then, you announced you were pregnant and then there was a lull until the baby was born and everyone you’ve ever known appeared at the door clutching a box of Pampers and a selection of hand-knitted accoutrements.
These days, there’s barely time to squeeze all the new traditions into a nine-month time frame.
The latest pregnancy celebratory occasion is the ‘sex-reveal’ party. In the old days, that term was more concerned with the conception, and was conducted by a kiss-and-tell opportunist in a Sunday newspaper.
Now it involves a large cake, with icing that is either blue or pink to announce the gender of the babe.
Hot on the booteed heels of that shindig comes the obligatory baby shower.
And in the name of Demi Moore’s private bits, that’s followed by the tastefully done ‘naked and pregnant’ pics. Sorry, I had to stop to shudder there at the thought of flashing my nuddy bod. If I have to follow in Demi’s footsteps, I’d rather opt for engaging Bruce Willis in my specialist event, the Prolonged Lip Lock.
But my biggest regret? Missing out on the best new tradition of all – The Push Present. Yep, apparently menfolk now stump up for a token of appreciation to reward new mammas for giving birth. As with most ridiculously indulgent trends, it was born on Planet Celebrity. Mariah Carey got diamond earrings. Nicole Kidman got a £100,000 necklace. Marc Anthony presented Jennifer Lopez with earrings that cost £2 million. Kanye West just lavished Kim Kardashian with a ring that cost over half a million quid. And it seems us commoners can at least expect the other half to do a quick trolley dash round H. Samuel.
Shallow it may be, but I’m seething with the injustice of missing out on a bit of bling.
Dear husband, I know we’re eleven years down the line and that stable door is well and truly shut, but can I have a wee retrospective trinket please?
Just think of the positive impact that it would have on our lives. It would be a beautiful acknowledgement of that special day. It would be a fitting thanks for all that exertion. And I could shove it on eBay when we need to raise funds for the school prom helicopter.
Love, Mum
Ladies, prepare to feel loved and special. This week we have a double whammy of appreciation – International Women’s Day tomorrow and Mother’s Day on Sunday. Which means that we will take the opportunity to study the highbrow issues affecting our gender, demand an end to inequality, commemorate our achievements, while leaving magazines in every room with the page open at an advert for a new face-cream that costs the same as a barrel of crude oil but promises you’ll look like a supermodel by lunchtime.
Or is that just in this house?
I’ll be celebrating tomorrow with my merry gang of chums by performing that traditional ritual of womanhood – congregating around my kitchen table with coffee, vino and several large bags of crisps shaped as bacon rashers, while analysing every detail of our lives since we did exactly the same thing last week. If we were penguins and David Attenborough was filming our gathering, he would no doubt observe the particularly loud cackle of mutual companionship (raucous laughter at the latest mortifying disaster). Also of note would be the tactile act of empathy (hug for anyone who has had a trauma/sadness/forgot to set the Sky+ for Grey’s Anatomy). And there would be a detailed explanation of the gesture of solidarity in the face of attack (pursed lips and a harrumphing of the bosom when presented with a criticism of any of our pack or their brood).
Mamma penguins will then waddle off home to count down the hours until the one day of the year they are guaranteed to bask in a bubble of adoration.
Loosely translated, that means a cup of tea and a fried egg sandwich delivered to the duvet first thing in the morning, followed by a box of Quality Street and a bunch of daffodils liberated from the garden. Again, maybe just my house.
