Michelle Thomason - 25 Jan 15
When I got pregnant with my first child, a whole new literary world opened up to me. In amongst the Jane Austens and the Zadie Smiths crept a new breed of literature: the parenting manual. Now, as my health visitor routinely used to point out, when my son deviated from the text book feeding patterns and the growth and weight chart percentiles, babies don’t read the manuals. However, I certainly bloody did.
From the obligatory Heidi Murkoff’s ‘What to Expect when you’re Expecting’ to the uncompromising Gina Ford, the warm dollop of Annabel Karmel and the litany of “How To” titles – ‘How to raise the Spirited Child’ (aka ‘How To Deal With Your Little Shit), ‘How To Talk So Children Will Listen’ (aka ‘Shouting Is Just Not Cool, M’okay?) and my own personal tome ‘How to get through the day without hitting the gin or putting your head in the oven’, I read them all.
I used to cling to these maternal bibles even before my little froggy newborn resembled a tadpole. During pregnancy, I pored over the weekly milestones, wondering whether my little kidney bean could hear my hormone-induced road rage, whether his fingers and toes had separated fully (turns out they really hadn’t).
After he was born, when the self doubt, parental anxiety and exhausted desperation was in full flow, I sat in the early hours with feeding baby held with one hand and a baby manual in the other, addicted to its placebo effect despite it not offering any real reassurance things were going right. And so it continued. As my son got older, I transitioned from baby books to toddler then books about preschoolers.
However, the realisation dawned on me: this peddling of a one-size-fits-all approach didn’t bear any similarity to my reality. The ‘milestones’ they often talked about were wrapped up in unhelpful caveats of a politically correct society “not all children develop at a similar rate”. Hold up, I cry! The reptilian part of my brain wants to know whether my boychild is a genius or a dimwit!
Where’s the answer to what age is normal for my child to line up all his cars and know the names of every single one of them? And at what age do they stop inserting poo, wee, fart, bum and willy into every sentence or song lyric? Come on Gina et al, I want your take on all these issues which impact on my daily life.
In case this is not forthcoming, here, plumbing the dark depths of my limited parenting wisdom, is my list of alternative milestones:
1. The first time they lie to you
This is quite an emotive one. Every parent wants to believe their offspring tells the truth. Everyone else’s kids are the epitome of deceit, yes, but not our child. No siree. I was guilty of this until my son, aged 4, swore blind he hadn’t taken some chocolate from the cupboard. He definitely looked shifty and when I spied the foil wrapper clasped in his hand and a smeary mouth, he admitted it. Luckily, he’s inherited my husband’s inability to fib convincingly so he now believes I have some magic lie detecting gift.
2. The first time they drop the f-bomb
This is not so much a milestone as a reflection of our parenting skills but my boy has an impressive ability to choose his timing. On my return from a weekend away, leaving my husband and son at home together, I noticed my son uttering a phrase containing the f word at an alarming frequency. Slightly concerned, I think on my feet and tell him to say the first non offensive f word phrase that comes into my head. Naturally, the in-laws are staying when the boy drops something and shouts ‘Oh Fingal’s Cave!”. Confused, my mother in law asks him why he said that. My boy replies “I’m not allowed to say Fucksake”.
3. The first time they know the words to the music you like
Having weathered long car journeys filled with back to back nursery rhymes and Disney tunes, there is something very joyful, albeit a tiny bit disconcerting when your kids start enjoying the soundtrack to your life pre-children. My music taste has always been rather, shall we say, eclectic, so early morning sing-alongs with my two could be anything from dancing big-fish-little fish-cardboard-box style to a bit of old school House through to a couple of mini Bezs whirling round shouting “You’re twistin’ my melon, man!” My kids have given these tunes a new lease of life and I get to enjoy them in a whole new way, except this time it’s without the all nighters and hangovers. Sometimes.
4. Your first civilised meal out with them
This one has crept up on me. It’s a revelation. Before kids, me and my husband lived for good food – weekends were spent in London’s Borough Market with early morning fish adventures to Billingsgate Market and on indulgent sorties to various Michelin starred restaurants. First born comes along and we manage one blissful tapas meal with him fast asleep in his car seat alongside us, then, uh oh, along come high chairs, a silhouette of flung food around the table, antisocial noises and taste buds more fussy than any Michelin critic. Roll forward five years and we have just finally managed to experience a reasonably civilised meal in a reasonably grown up country pub where most food was actually eaten and not on the floor, home-brought plastic beakers were replaced by glasses and cutlery was only bashed about and used as weapons for seconds instead of minutes. Not sure the kids can be unleashed at Le Gavroche just yet but, don’t worry, I’m working on it.
5. The first time they don’t want to hold your hand
I’m still a bit traumatised by this. It only happened a few days ago and it took me by complete surprise. I was walking my boy to school, holding his hand as I always do. As we got through the gates, he slipped his hand from mine as he saw his friends and gave a backwards glance as if to say “don’t embarrass me, mummy”. I felt silently floored, like the first time a boyfriend dumps you. Luckily, number two’s utter clinginess and her insistence at holding my hand ALL THE FRICKING TIME has gone some way to soften the blow.
6. No more playgroups
Although my daughter is still young enough to go, these days are rapidly disappearing and I’m clinging onto them. Unlike soft-play, with which I have a love/hate relationship with, the playgroup holds a special place in my heart. Find a good playgroup and it’s like having a large, cuddly auntie to turn to, who doesn’t mind seeing you whether you are at your best or your worst. My son still asks to go sometimes and I don’t know who feels more sad when I explain he’s too old.
There are some milestones that I can’t wait to happen like when I don’t have to use every available storage in my house for multi coloured plastic toy tat. And ones that I’ll miss like demands for Peppa Pig and endless replays of Frozen. When I go to the kids’ section of clothes shops, I’m keenly aware that I’ll never shop in the youngest age range again, that the “That’s not my…” book series will never be read with such wonderment and surprise again, and that I won’t be able to blame their over-enthusiastic, chaotic behaviour in future on them being “out of routine” or “over tired” instead of on dodgy parenting.
However, there is one thing I do know: just like the babies my health visitor talked about, I won’t be reading the parenting manuals either. The thing is, nothing can prepare me for all those milestones ahead, and I won’t be looking for them because, in reality, they probably will have happened before I’ve realised.
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Michelle Thomason is a mother of two and lives in London
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