In praise of ordinary

Mary-Ellen Krause - 15 May 16

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I want very little for my children. I want them to be ordinary. There- I said it and it feels brilliant.

That sentence sounds devoid of feeling I know, but it comes from a place of hope and deepest affection.
In the hubbub of anti SATs talk and a frightening increase in childhood anxiety and mental health. I admit that I want to run in the other direction and fast. Yet I am swimming against the strongest tide.

I want to them to be ordinary, is that too much to ask? I feel that we are expected to be super parents with spectacular schedules and daily doses of fun to present to our children. I’m opting out. That’s not to say that I don’t want to engage in experiences, of course I do. But as treats, not the daily norm.

I genuinely admire those wonderful parents with boundless energy who offer their children such incredible experiences. Their offspring will no doubt be thriving and alive with opportunity. They are lucky and blessed. All praise to them. I will never knock or demean other people’s choices.

But it is not for me. I crave more of the ordinary, for myself and my children. Perhaps I secretly want less opportunity and more experience. To build a notion of strong family and quality time with nothing shiny.

We are all just muddling along in this game of parenthood I know. Making up the rules as we play but some changing dynamics cause me to worry. I feel that I’m consistently missing the rules, or they keep changing.

Do we really need extra lessons, months of additional after school revision and constant assessment. I am a teacher and I understand the pressures. That we feel that we are not doing enough if our children aren’t constantly doing MORE. How many times have a had to stop myself enrolling my children on baby and toddler classes because I worry that they’ll miss out if I decline. I brought one of those colourful educational toys for my first born because I somehow worried that he’d never walk/talk/roll/laugh without one and EVERY new mum had one attached to their car seat like a badge of good parenting. This time round, my daughter is lucky if I hand her a bunch of keys or a dog eared raisin packet. Are we starting this ‘schedule’ and guilt trip as early as babies now? Praying on the minds of well meaning parents. I fear so.

If my son asks about our plan for the day, I encourage myself to say “nothing” and stick to it. Out of boredom and no plans, we thrive. I want more of our life to be about nothing. It’s easier to breathe.

Only last week during a pub lunch, I saw a family of five glaring at their iPads around the table and they uttered not a single word to each other throughout the duration. Now there is no high horse cantering here or aversion to technology. I’m not writing to police or condemn-but this was a picture of change. Even during the hearty devouring of their Sunday roasts- not a whisper, just eyes down at their screens. A wealth of brilliance can be found on our screens for certain but surely none as precious as the voices of our own family?

Perhaps I am in the minority, holding on tightly to a large pair of rose tinted specs but it makes me feel saddened.

I am not naive, in a few years my children will be badgering me for computers. I secretly hope that if I take them on enough walks, climb enough mountains, ride enough bikes and throw enough balls, that they won’t ask. But I know this is not true. That mother with the three children and the silent Sunday roast probably did all those things and more. She can’t be to blame.

So what can little old me do in a changing world, for my tiny brood?

At the end of the day to rustle up a hot meal, warm the house and encourage my tired little ones to sit. Sometimes ignoring the ticking of the clock and staying put.

I remember as a child, the sheer joy that was slumping on the sofa after a day at school, creasing your uniform and writing IDST on your arm. Barely enough energy to ring a friend who we had sat next to all day. To hastily munch on a whole bag of Space Raiders, bite a Calypso on it’s plastic bottom and shout enthusiastically at Fun House. I didn’t do four instruments, two language classes, seven sports teams, extra tennis lessons with Andy Murray and finish the week with yoga and mindfulness for children. We didn’t need mindfulness- finding our sense of peace was easier somehow.

I have felt the parental guilt as we glance at that child at preschool with the shiny Oboe against his tiny mouth and we all feel the need to rush home to enrol our offspring on the ‘how to be a musical protege in a week class’. I’m just not up for this. I want a big dose of ordinary.

When can our busy children rest their minds and bodies? I worry that we are always rushing from place to place, with barely time to talk and just be. Those mornings spent in pyjamas or evenings in a dressing gown are sometimes just the tonic. I worry that our lives, mine included, are intertwined daily treadmills, where we jump on and off each day, not even seeing the view or what we have passed. Just the next destination in our tunnelled vision. There must be a link with these busy lives and the notable increase in childhood anxiety. Some children have schedules that leave only time to sleep.

Should we encourage our children to be bored, to be ABLE to be bored. To play on their own, to imagine, to talk to themselves, to converse with others, to play games, paint, dance and feel linked with the world. To have weekends left blank and evenings to rest. To be spontaneous, open to offers and above all relaxed.

I know that the inevitable monstrous strength that is technology and assessment will rear it’s progressive head in my house soon and roar. Loudly. I just hope that in our home, we can just sometimes keep it on the outside. Even if I have to sit against the door, back straining under the force.

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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