Because I Said So, page 15
Turns out the Universe had other plans.
On Thursday afternoon, I collected Low the Younger from school and he was feeling unwell. Nauseous. Pain in stomach. Dreadful colour.
Despite being the queen of the overreaction, I stayed calm, wrapped him up in bed, inclined to think it was the bug that’s doing the rounds. Within an hour or so, I knew it wasn’t.
The wee soul was doubled up in pain, vomiting, clutching the right side of his abdomen. We hurtled up to the A&E at the RAH in Paisley to have him checked out. The doctors and nurses were excellent and seven hours later, at 1 a.m., he was transferred by ambulance to Yorkhill, as there was a possibility that surgery would be required. When we arrived, the medical staff there examined him and decided to hold off until morning. It was the right decision. Over the next couple of days, it became clear that it wasn’t the original suspected diagnosis of appendicitis, but a virus that had caused glands in his abdomen to become inflamed and swollen.
I never did get to New York and I didn’t care in the least. Because after spending time in a children’s hospital surrounded by sick children, with anxious parents sleeping beside them, holding hands across the beds, you realise that nothing else matters.
Unlucky? Absolutely not.
Low the Younger is fine. We left the hospital, said goodbye to all the fantastic medical staff, the lovely parents and brilliant kids.
And I took my boy home.
That’s how lucky we are.
Teen Spirit
I don’t know how it happened. One minute I was being wheeled out of the maternity ward clutching a plate of toast and a little blue bundle, and now, in the blink of an eye, he’s almost an adult.
Low the Elder turned thirteen this week. Thirteen. That’s a Gillette Easy Shave and a splash of Paco Rabanne away from manhood.
In five years he’ll be old enough to drink. In four years he’ll be old enough to drive. In three years he’ll be old enough to get married. Not that he’ll be allowed to go anywhere near an aisle with a blushing bride at the end. I’ve spent many years teaching him that marriage should be delayed until he’s in his forties, and even then, only if he comes home to his mother for weekends.
In the meantime, the dawning of the teen years means I’m going to have to loosen the maternal strings, a thought that makes my parenting panic button twerk like Miley Cyrus on Red Bull.
My name is Shari Low and I’m an overbearing mother.
I’m not proud. Although, to be fair, as he pushes against the barriers of childhood, the fact that I’m at the other side of the wall knocking up steel reinforcements isn’t exactly a newsflash.
The night he was born, we stood at the window of the RAH in Paisley at 3 a.m. looking at the stars, only for the perfect peace to be interrupted by wailing ambulances bringing in intoxicated post-club revellers.
‘That’ll never be you in there,’ I whispered. ‘Because when you’re old enough to go to clubs, I’ll take you there, and I’ll wave you off… and then I’ll be sitting outside with a flask and sandwiches until you need a lift home again.’
As he grew, I loved the kiddiedom years. I adored those sticky fingered, squashed banana days when they didn’t want to go anywhere without you and the sun only shone if you were there, preferably clutching a Barney DVD, a football and a ten pence mixture from the corner shop.
I used to be the first person he came to with his worries. The last person he wanted to speak to at night. His whole wide world.
Now I’m the one deploying interrogation tactics to ascertain his movements and withholding pocket money until I can enter his room without an advance party armed with Febreze.
It’s only a matter of time before he starts avoiding my calls, blanking my texts and leaving my emails unopened. Look, the Manual of Motherhood doesn’t actually state where maternal devotion ends and stalking starts.
Sadly, the seeds of rebellion and intolerance have already taken root. He’s doing that thing they teach in man school, the instinctive reaction to everything from over-protectiveness to demands to know every detail of his schedule from now until the end of the decade.
Yes, he’s started to roll his eyes. Followed, occasionally, by the weary shake of the head.
Sob.
However, it’s a small consolation to know that overbearing motherhood is a global issue.
I recently read an article about a new American dating website where mothers choose potential girlfriends for their sons. Of course, it’s ridiculous. Pathetic. Completely suffocating and worryingly indicative of control issues on the part of the mother. And for anyone interested, I plan to have www.yermumpicksyergirlfriend.com up and running within the month.
And to that special person I one day choose and grant access to my darling forty-year-old son, I can only say this…
Love him as much as I do.
Give him freedom and space to breathe.
And good luck with the mother-in-law.
2014
Good Intentions and Parenting Inventions
Happy New Year
Happy New Year! How’s the head? How’s the waistline? And the house?
I’m fine on the first count, but as for the second and the third, if those nice chaps at Hoover or Dyson would like to pop round and test their latest products on my carpets, I’d be much obliged. Just ignore me as I lie under a withering festive tree, in stretchy trousers, attempting to recover from an overdose of the big purple ones out of the Quality Street box.
I had planned to be sickeningly optimistic and make today’s column all about my resolutions for 2014, but let’s face it, there’s as much chance of me sticking to a New Year vow as there is of having Bradley Cooper’s love child. Although Bradley, if you read this and you’re partial to a chick in leggings, emitting a faint aroma of hazelnuts and caramel, you know where to find me.
Last year’s aspirations went downhill quicker than an Olympic toboggan.
As with every year, I resolved to lose weight, get fit, refrain from embarrassing my children, cease worrying, quash my chronic hypochondria, clear the credit cards and stop buying clothes that don’t fit me in the hope that I’ll ‘slim into them’.
Oh, and I was determined that my work/life balance would no longer have all the stability of Liam and Noel Gallagher having a square go while balancing on a skateboard.
I had this vision of a serene, calm, organised woman who sailed through life being smug and super-controlled, taking time out for herself and achieving her aims and goals while sporting perfectly coiffured hair and thighs that could crack nuts.
Unfortunately, reality painted a slightly different picture. Like every year in recent memory 2013 consisted mostly of days of frantic rushing, followed by attempts to rustle up an edible meal in the ten minutes between work and kick-starting the night shift on Maw’s Taxis, while fretting over a deadline and worrying that my tickly cough could be dengue fever.
Low the Elder (thirteen) decided that next time I start a Mexican wave at one of his sporting events, he’s leaving home. And eleven-year-old Low the Younger announced he’s spending his Christmas vouchers on a barge pole to stop me committing the horrific crime of spontaneously hugging him in front of his pals.
I’m using the size 14 PVC trousers I recently bought on eBay as a draught excluder, because I’m still a size 18/20 despite the fact that I’ve spent the last year on the 5:2 diet. However, I do concede that I continue to adapt it to suit my nutritional needs. For example, in December, every five After Eights were punctuated by two sticks of orange Matchmakers.
My fitness campaign has been similarly sporadic. In the last week, it has consisted of daily lunges… for the remote control. In the few hours I’ve taken off chasing a January deadline on my next novel, I’ve valiantly wrestled the remote from the hands of the sports-loving males in this house and used it to flick over to my trusty stock of Richard Curtis romcoms.
So this year I’m breaking the cycle of ‘hope, fail, hope, fail, hope, fail’ and going for acceptance.
I concede that I’ll never be that organised, paragon of perfection, so my vow in 2014 is to have no resolutions whatsoever. None. I’m going to see what every day brings, cope with the rubbish bits and celebrate the good stuff.
And if I come across one of those serene, calm, organised people who sail through life being smug and super-controlled while sporting perfectly coiffured hair and thighs that could crack nuts…
Dear Low the Younger, any chance of borrowing your barge pole?
Nappy Times
Congratulations to Simon Cowell. It’s been incredible to see him with a new addition who is demanding, attention-seeking, makes a lot of noise without actually saying much, does nothing particularly interesting and requires regular incessant mollycoddling.
But now that he has a baby, he obviously won’t be able to spend as much time with Nicole Scherzinger.
The photos with baby Eric are gorgeous, and the pop mogul has been waxing lyrical on new fatherhood.
However, I can’t help thinking that he will perhaps look back on some of his recent assertions and revise his opinions.
The first questionable claim? Simon said: ‘I never have and never will change a nappy.’
He may reconsider, the first time he’s alone with the child and caught in an explosive situation after a meal of puréed carrot and spinach. Oh, and his theory that having a baby won’t change his life too much? Good luck with that.
Obviously, with an army of nannies and Sinitta always within hollering distance (note to self: send headphones for baby), Simon’s experience of new fatherhood might not be typical of most.
But Si, for what it’s worth, here are some of the things I learned after becoming a parent.
1. It’s best to take one day at a time, be objective and maintain realistic expectations.
But your child is the most handsome in the whole world and, yes, he/she will be the first professional sports-playing prime minister that ever cured diseases before going on to pilot his/her own rocket into space.
2. As a parent, you are a sensible, reasonable person who doesn’t overreact – unless the baby has a slight temperature in which case the emergency services, the World Health Organization and the head of the NHS should be alerted immediately.
3. You will never wear white again.
4. There are 3,452 ways to purée food. They all look like gunk.
5. No matter where in a room a child splats a spoon, the food will end up on something that’s dry-clean only.
And remember how you mocked other parents for that really annoying thing of making plane noises when trying to encourage their child to eat? By month 10, you will have better landing patterns than air traffic control.
6. You will love your friends’ children even more if they behave worse than yours in public.
7. You used to be capable of conducting a deep, informed discussion about international politics and the effects of global climate change.
Now you’ll have three-hour chats about baby body functions.
8. A girl’s best friend is a diamond. A parent’s best friend is the washing machine.
9. Some mothers find it difficult if their partner comments on post-birth weight loss, given that said partner hasn’t shot a melon out of part of his nether-located anatomy.
10. You will make comprehensive plans to shower, travel, sleep, socialise – and although the baby seems to be having no reaction, it’s laughing inside.
11. The baby weight endures. From personal experience, this can last until the child is a teenager.
12. The dozens of items of baby equipment you bought? You’ll only actually use four.
13. You know those soft-play areas that you always viewed as noisy and crowded? You’ll realise they are designed by the Gods Of Give Me Five Minutes To Read The Papers And Have A Scone.
Finally, just remember that, rich or poor, there are three golden rules:
You can never give a baby too much love.
Just do the best you can.
And don’t take the shift straight after the meal of puréed carrot and spinach.
The Ring
There are many ground-breaking things I wish for in this world. Cures for all diseases. A space vehicle that will transport the current government to a galactic black hole. Calorie-free banoffee pie.
So I was a tad disappointed when I read about the latest breakthrough on Planet Science. It’s called The Ring. Yep, jewellery.
In fairness, it’s a special ring that can do spectacular stuff. Slip it on your finger and this invention can switch on lights and control household appliances just by wagging your finger in mid-air. It can write emails, send texts and answer calls. It plays music, pays bills and organises your day.
I’m sure it’s a truly revolutionary piece of kit and big cheers to the very smart people who invented it.
But am I excited?
Alas, no.
Because, you see, I can already do all of those things.
So techie bods, if you’re listening, I’d like a middle-aged mother variety. Just so we’re clear, that doesn’t mean I want it to come with a box set of Revenge and a nostalgia for Duran Duran hits.
It just needs to be able to take over some of the motherhood tasks that I currently find insurmountable.
I’ll retain all the wonderful bits of parenthood. I’ll keep the laughs and the dancing in the kitchen. I’ll remain responsible for the holidays and the snuggling up on the couch to watch a movie. I’ll continue to treasure the moments when they tell you about their day and the love that goes both ways.
But there are some areas where I need the intervention of science.
Let’s start with the basics. It would be great if the Ring of Motherhood could do the housework, iron the uniforms and put the toilet seat down.
Next, we ramp up the difficulty scale to a level that’s close to splitting the atom.
Dear ring, please take over all morning duties.
This involves a system of vocal commands that ascends both in volume and panic, and goes something like:
‘Morning! Time to get up, my lovelies.’
‘Come on, darlings, your breakfast is on the table.’
‘Boys, you’re going to be late if you don’t get up right now!’
‘GET OUT OF YOUR BEDS!!!!!!’
Approximately forty-five minutes later, this should be followed by another pre-programmed set of commands.
‘Right, darlings, let’s get to the car.’
‘Come on boys, we need to go right now.’
‘Boys, quick as you can. What do you mean you can’t find your PE kit?’
‘ANYONE WHO ISN’T IN THE CAR IN TEN SECONDS IS GROUNDED FOR A MONTH!’
The Ring should then deal with the standard school run irritants by spotting drivers blocking roads and parking on corners and yelling, ‘No you can’t b***** stop there because it’s dangerous, you twonk!’
The next shift comes at dinner time.
‘What’s for tea, Mum?’
‘Not sure yet. What would you like?’
‘Dunno. What is there?’
At this point, The Ring rhymes off every single thing in the fridge, freezer and cupboard.
It locates a secret pile of change when you realise you forgot to go to the bank so there’s no cash for dinner money, bus fares, school trips.
It comes to the rescue when the child announces that they need a wizard/king/kangaroo costume. By tomorrow.
In the cinema, it blocks mobile phones, so that the inconsiderate git behind you can’t answer calls halfway through Despicable Me 2.
And finally, it delivers a reverse of the wake-up procedures to get them to bed at night.
Now that’s an invention to get excited about.
And no pressure, but it’s only three weeks until Mother’s Day and I’d like it for then. If not, I’ll go for the second best thing.
Please alert my children as to where to attain the Duran Duran CD and the calorie-free banoffee pie.
Supermum
Happy Mother’s Day! Yes, I know I’m early, but I thought I’d provide a wee reminder that could be left open in prominent places to let your loved ones know it’s time to splash out on the Quality Street.
Not that I’m materialistic and shallow. Actually, I am. In my opinion, nothing says ‘I love you’ quite like a River Island voucher and a Terry’s Chocolate Orange.
However, this year I honestly don’t care about pressies because I’m just thankful my offspring are still talking to me.
I’m afraid the last twelve months have been a time of reckoning in Chez Low.
My two wee guys used to think I was infallible, invincible, knew everything and always did the right thing. I was like their very own superhero. Yep, I was Supermum, with powers that included being able to predict the future (if the wind changes your face will stay like that), stop chaos by raising my mighty right eyebrow of warning and solve all traumas with the fearless combination of cuddles and Jaffa Cakes.
Now, that time has passed. My sons are eleven and thirteen and my maternal tall tales are coming back to haunt me.
Two incidents brought it home this week. Low the Younger is studying World War II in school and came home outraged. ‘Mum, you used to tell me that carrots made us see in the dark. Do you know that’s a lie?’ Apparently, that pesky education thing had taught him that the carrot myth originated in a wartime propaganda campaign. It’s true. I looked it up.
The second blip was caused by a more recent development. A new species of deep-water fish has been discovered which has four eyes, giving it 360-degree vision. I suggest we call it the Mother Fish, given that I always told my children I had eyes in the back of my head. Score two, for the Supermum lie detector.
Shamefully, the porkies are nothing new. There’s the whole Santa thing. He may be real, but come on, it’s ridiculous to tell children that he’s only got nine reindeers. I count at least thirteen. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph, Argos, eBay, Visa and Mastercard.
