And you’ll have that song in your head for the rest of the day.
Motherhood is this club. A great, big, huge club that you get handed a laminated card to on the day you deliver a baby and for which the dues are paid in callouses, bags under the eyes, and stacks of printed off photos that you alone think show how cute your kid is. You didn’t know you would be getting into this club when you have your child(ren), nor did you know if you wanted to be part of an official club anyway. Groucho Marx was an asshole but his quote “I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member” sums up my life fairly well.
And the club is often good. There are times you get advice – make milk in batches beforehand, try this swaddle, rock them this way when they cry – and times when you get encouragement – the colic will stop, this helps teething, let me get the corkscrew. But what they don’t tell you is that the Motherhood Club is also something that you occasionally want to hide from. There are times when you do something and think: The Mummy Police are coming for me when they hear about this. The Motherhood Club Card was handed to me and as a dues-paying member I’m always aware that the club is out there, like the WI with assvice. It takes you forever to become a mother and when you finally get there it’s barred with good intentions. No one judges as hard as another parent. Not even the UK Home Office, and that’s saying something.
We all raise our children differently. No one raises their children in the same way, and yet all of us have opinions from blog-land to the nursery playground. For me, it happened the day I came out to the blog world that I was pregnant. Immediately there were opinions on how to raise my children. I hear it from my dad. I get constant advice from my sister-in-law. And it’s not that I don’t want advice, because there are times I ask for help and genuinely want it (except from my sister-in-law, who needs to step the fuck off already). I’m new to this Mummy business and there are times I honestly seek and need advice.
I often want to talk about my children but know that I’ll be in for it if I mention some things. And it’s hard because this is my blog, this is my space for dumping my thoughts. Lemme’ just say that again for my own benefit – this is my blog, this is my space. But the Motherhood Club is strong, the views fierce. I have to think about what I write and feel like I have to defend myself vigorously in doing so : Our children go to nursery but they love it and they’ve grown so much as individuals by going. We did a version of Cry-It-Out and it worked for us but it had to be done for Nora anyway due to colic and it’s not as fucking cruel as people make it out to be, it’s about offering comfort in levels as opposed to just slamming the door and ignoring them. We are big believers in vaccinations and do so according to the NHS guidelines as we believe the finding that vaccinations are linked to autism are rubbish and with the upsurge in measles it’s best that our immunity-challenged babies are not exposed. We bottle fed the babies and still do but my boobs were basically empty courtesy of surgery 16 years ago, the midwives suggested bottle feeding, and the UK government has said that they feel the BPA levels are well under harmful levels and yes, they can and do use sippy cups but we still use bottles because it’s convenient.
Well fuck that.
I have two beautiful, energetic, happy, pain-in-the-ass children. I may give them a bottle but I’ve ensured that they are growing in a very loving and secure environment. They may not be walking but they know that if I come flying at them with my hands raised that it’s to tickle them, not to hit them. They go to nursery but they genuinely love their carers and, as their mum, I am better for them going to nursery. They might not have an enormous vocabulary but they know that if they fall down we are there for them instantly, to blow on the owies and cuddle them until the shock of a fall fades.
That makes me more of a mother than a fucking club card does.
I’m angry, and it’s just because I feel I am judged for every parenting thing I do both on the internet and off. I realize this post is a bit “rant-y”, but I get comments and emails constantly telling me how to do things and what I’m doing incorrectly. But parenting style is a choice. Maybe I’m doing it wrong, maybe others are doing it wrong, I don’t know. All I know is I had a great weekend and I wanted to write about it, but I opened up this blog post feeling like I had to create my defenses from the get-go.
On Sunday we spent the day in the sun. I had a sun shade on the babies for the most part, but we were all just so damn happy for the sun and the warmth that we had some vitamin D soaking in on us, on our hands and feet. I mowed the lawn. The babies played in the swing. Angus worked on the deck.
On Saturday we went to IKEA and Wing Yip, a fantastically huge Asian market. For lunch we had McDonald’s. The babies shared a Happy Meal. That’s right – I gave my kids McDonald’s. My 17 month old babies had a cheeseburger Happy Meal. I knew writing that would bring a downpour of grief, but you know what? Save it. They never eat out like this and they truly enjoyed it. At IKEA, for their dinner, they split a hot dog and later they snacked on elk sausages. Saturday was a treat for them as they usually eat balanced and healthy meals. They don’t get sugar and they don’t get chocolates and cakes but on Saturday they did get food they normally wouldn’t have.
They had a great day.
So did we.
My single greatest priority for my children is that every second of every minute of every day they know that they are loved. If very occasionally that love is accompanied with a side of fries then I think that’s ok.
I don’t believe I’m alone in being a mum who does something occasionally that others would disapprove of. But I am all done with feeling like I have to edit myself because I’ll be frowned upon. I’m tearing up my Motherhood Club Card because I want to be free to raise my children the way I want to.
-H.