I’m Still That Girl

Mary-Ellen Krause - 5 Jun 16

I’m not the mum that I planned on being. In fact, I’m completely the opposite.

I remember those moments at baby group with my first born. I would scan around the room at all of the capable and already competent robots of domestic perfection. I genuinely doffed my Liberty headscarf to them.

Those terrific, thank God the world has them- Mum Mums.

They always seem to be polished with a sharp and sensible demeanour. Arriving everywhere equipped with a bottle warmer, complete chic baby wardrobes, puréed goodness and homemade smoothies. It’s as though they are instinctively mums before they actually become one. I fear that they have been practising in a secret mother class for years, an underground sorority of preparedness. Whilst I was too busy drinking prosecco and dancing.

Circa 1997 on an old red school bus, slouchy socks and scrunchies. I had the pleasure of sitting next to girls who always had their maths homework immaculately penned in their chequered books. Mine, hastily written on the hoof whilst eating a mouth full of gob stoppers, half the page missing as I’d used the rest to write love letters, poems or IDST’s. I suppose nothing has changed. No matter how I prepare, I’m still that girl.

I remember one expert mother at a local playgroup a few years ago, she quizzed me about what ‘stage’ of weaning my son was on. I drew a blank. I didn’t know that there were stages. She questioned me again, she was shocked at my lack of knowledge. After the awkward conversational pause, she repeated the question.

The spinning whirligig of my haphazard brain, I was hastily thinking of educated responses. Concealing the fact that I just mashed up our dinners with a fork and he gobbled them up with delight.

“Errr, he’s eating”

That feeble response saw a horrified and false smile draw slowly upon her face, as she moved on to sit next to another lady. A mother with one of those plastic tuppawear stackers and a steaming chai tea.

I however, sat happily feeding my son last night’s mashed up casserole from our ceramic bowl, with it’s little cling film lid. I felt at peace and both of us happier than pigs in muck.

I often cast thought to our primitive ancestors. Indigenous women in their caves, tribes and communities. As their growing babes grew hungry and ready to join the family meal. They had no books or evidence or questioners. They would have looked at their child and followed their instinct. I want to be lead by instinct but sometimes we have so much information, that our inbuilt skills are lost. Well I want to find mine.

I can’t help being drawn to the mothers who look at peace with their lot and have nothing to prove. You know the ones. The ladies who come out for company, laughter and some half witty conversation. One that doesn’t want to talk developmental milestones and what’s in my changing bag.

The first time, I always felt so unprepared, like a dusty mother who missed the vital memo. I looked on at those who were armed with the latest super paraphernalia and a huge bag, packed meticulously for all eventualities. Like prominent scout leaders of the mothering world. I am the kind of mother who has on many sunny occasions, tied a muslin cloth upon my babe’s head as an SPF  tactic.

I’d always imagined that I’d be a mum mum. I always thought that I’d want to talk purées, teething, sleep. That I’d be perfect, prepared, organised, pristine and a vision of Poppins.

But sometimes life just surprises us doesn’t it?

If there is one thing that I feel secure in, it’s mothering my own brood. I like listening to those inner instincts and parenting each day as it comes. The first time, I doubted my haphazard fluency- comparing myself to the uber mother and wondering why I didn’t desire to impress and that I’d never be anywhere near perfect. The second time, I felt a sense of deep rooted security in my own mothering.

When my child cries, I know their needs. I hold them with the strongest love. When they are hungry, it is my hand and body that feeds them. I look into their eyes and they feel safe, I keep them warm and keep them cool. I swaddle, kiss, hold and rock. I wipe away their tears when they are sad and laugh heartily when they are joyful.

I believe in that old saying- that long after the umbilical cord has been cut, the bonds still remain. That it’s still there, like a spectre of love uniting mother and baby. I feel this every day. I feel capable and secure in my disorganised life. I feel whole, content and with nothing to prove. I know that I am totally imperfect and there’s such a sense of freedom to that notion. That’s not to say that I don’t want to learn and grow, I do. Just on my own terms I suppose.

All hail the experts, uber mums and science, there is undoubtedly a place for talk and debate and people whom we can learn from. But as I sit every night on the bedroom floor with my two children, inexplicably linked and full of joy.  The nursery uniforms aren’t yet washed, the numerous forms need filling in, I’ve eaten too much and I’ve still to tidy the joyful devestation of the day. But instead, I reach for another book and we read it, another train and we play with it.

These connections are my daily bread.

Some of my best friends are; super, uber, perfect, polished and prepared. I admire them deeply. Maybe if I paid more attention to them, I might learn a thing or two. Perhaps I should.

Or maybe I’ll just write love letters.

Mary-Ellen Krause

A mother and Drama teacher. Best things in life- My children when they first wake, sitting on the beach at sunset, drinking prosecco with my mum, climbing a mountain, laughter, a vintage dress, a nostalgic piece of music, walking into my little town and seeing familiar faces, holding hands with Mr K.

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