What I learned about being a parent from my daughter the other day...
One of the great things about not having a television is that we have real, proper, heated discussions. They don't often get terribly heated, but when they do I get to say things like, 'That's an utterly ridiculous statement because you can't pretend that all societies don't contain a concept of beauty!' And I meant it. The person who uttered the 'ridiculous statement' was having as much fun as I was. And suddenly, my daughter's in my face with a plastic-toy-telephone, waving it and saying, with her heart-melting slightly French accent;
'My Muhzer's on ze phone.'
'Yes dear. Anyway, the point is, that when pushed they'll make their definition woollier and woollier until it might as well apply to the sun'.
'Mum, play with me.'
'blurgh blurgh blurgh' (this was the other person's argument, which I probably wasn't paying enough attention to either).
'Mu-uhm' she says, with increasing urgency. After all telephones demand attention: this is clearly a valid interruption. The phone is beeping now and flashing lights and because I'm sitting down and leaning forward to feed the baby, it's about six inches from my nose. I'm going into overload.
'My muhzer's on ze phone!' she insists. I have very mixed feelings about the one she calls Muhzer. I know that having imaginary friends when you're 3 is fairly bog-standard. But for some reason I'm unsettled that she has imaginary parents.
'Monica!' I have suddenly raised my voice in the sound equivalent of a blow. It's not the near-fatal bellow or even a wounding shout, but it's still a blow. I really try not to do this because it's horrible. I am failing. She gets in with a quick, plaintive
'Play with me.'
'Monica. I don't want to play with you. I've just taken you for a pony ride and now mummy's sitting down and having a conversation. Leave me alone.' Our friend Gwen, who was just in the final stages of making us all dinner suddenly looks distressed. I know she is feeling Monica's pain.
Monica doesn't cry, and then something else happens, I can't remember what now, but I think she escalated the volume and started to complain about being hungry and I felt horribly guilty and realised that I had lost my cool, so I sent myself to the next room.
In the serenity of my bed where I was pretending to write while I calmed down, I replayed the situation and suddenly it struck me what was going on. What amazing mediators children are. They really try to help us be better parents… As she understood it, the argument was a bad thing. My husband and I don't really fight as such, he's not that person, and I've learned not to be most of the time. Monica's not used to things getting quite so emphatic. She understood the tone and the conflict, but not the context and the content and had decided that I clearly needed a bit of distracting. Wow. I went back in and tried to explain about discussions and she seemed happy enough with that.
Kids are so forgiving. This morning she woke up and came into the kitchen where I was writing and we just had a wordless hug for about ten minutes. She was just a calm and loving little bundle in my arms. It was fantastic. Then I realised that the wonderful warm feeling on my belly actually meant that she'd forgotten to pee as soon as she woke up. I got what I deserved in the end.
No one can be a perfect parent or carer, but by being honest about the times when we get it wrong, perhaps we can learn from each other's mistakes.
One of the great things about not having a television is that we have real, proper, heated discussions. They don't often get terribly heated, but when they do I get to say things like, 'That's an utterly ridiculous statement because you can't pretend that all societies don't contain a concept of beauty!' And I meant it. The person who uttered the 'ridiculous statement' was having as much fun as I was. And suddenly, my daughter's in my face with a plastic-toy-telephone, waving it and saying, with her heart-melting slightly French accent;
'My Muhzer's on ze phone.'
'Yes dear. Anyway, the point is, that when pushed they'll make their definition woollier and woollier until it might as well apply to the sun'.
'Mum, play with me.'
'blurgh blurgh blurgh' (this was the other person's argument, which I probably wasn't paying enough attention to either).
'Mu-uhm' she says, with increasing urgency. After all telephones demand attention: this is clearly a valid interruption. The phone is beeping now and flashing lights and because I'm sitting down and leaning forward to feed the baby, it's about six inches from my nose. I'm going into overload.
'My muhzer's on ze phone!' she insists. I have very mixed feelings about the one she calls Muhzer. I know that having imaginary friends when you're 3 is fairly bog-standard. But for some reason I'm unsettled that she has imaginary parents.
'Monica!' I have suddenly raised my voice in the sound equivalent of a blow. It's not the near-fatal bellow or even a wounding shout, but it's still a blow. I really try not to do this because it's horrible. I am failing. She gets in with a quick, plaintive
'Play with me.'
'Monica. I don't want to play with you. I've just taken you for a pony ride and now mummy's sitting down and having a conversation. Leave me alone.' Our friend Gwen, who was just in the final stages of making us all dinner suddenly looks distressed. I know she is feeling Monica's pain.
Monica doesn't cry, and then something else happens, I can't remember what now, but I think she escalated the volume and started to complain about being hungry and I felt horribly guilty and realised that I had lost my cool, so I sent myself to the next room.
In the serenity of my bed where I was pretending to write while I calmed down, I replayed the situation and suddenly it struck me what was going on. What amazing mediators children are. They really try to help us be better parents… As she understood it, the argument was a bad thing. My husband and I don't really fight as such, he's not that person, and I've learned not to be most of the time. Monica's not used to things getting quite so emphatic. She understood the tone and the conflict, but not the context and the content and had decided that I clearly needed a bit of distracting. Wow. I went back in and tried to explain about discussions and she seemed happy enough with that.
Kids are so forgiving. This morning she woke up and came into the kitchen where I was writing and we just had a wordless hug for about ten minutes. She was just a calm and loving little bundle in my arms. It was fantastic. Then I realised that the wonderful warm feeling on my belly actually meant that she'd forgotten to pee as soon as she woke up. I got what I deserved in the end.
No one can be a perfect parent or carer, but by being honest about the times when we get it wrong, perhaps we can learn from each other's mistakes.