I’m not talking parenting fails or parenting tribalism. I’m on about the mum-bashing type of Facebook updates and Tweets that you see, alluding to some sort of parenting / non-parenting divide in the world.

Terrified I’d become one of *those* mums, I restricted (or, attempted to restrict) gushy status updates about my new baby. Equally, I held myself back from posting running commentaries about my child’s sleeping / eating / sleeping / eating habits. Mainly, it wasn’t that interesting to me – let alone anyone else – but I was also aware that I didn’t want to annoy people without kids. 

But something dawned on me this weekend. And it’s a funny thing because it’s not something I’ve particularly realised before now.

I am a mum. I have a child. I have all the battles and elation and emotions that come with being a parent. But it’s not ALL I am. My relationship to Frog doesn’t completely define me. And you know what? I think my friends know that.

The so-called “parent vs non-parent divide” is just in my head. And on Facebook. And on various websites that are seemingly set up to diss parents who go on about their kids. But in real life, is there really a divide? Not in my world.

I went to a wedding at the weekend. It was brilliant. I watched one of my loveliest friends get married to a brilliant bloke and, afterwards, I partied with parents and non-parents alike. We were without our three year old, so anyone who didn’t know us wouldn’t know we were in the “parent category”. But I chatted with guests who had kids, danced with toddlers on the dancefloor and swilled wine with people who aren’t parents.

At no point did the fact I was a parent put me in some kind of box in the room. And at no point did I put anyone who wasn’t a parent into that other box.

I didn’t talk about whether they wanted kids, were trying for kids or had no interest in becoming parents. We chatted about the gorgeous food, how amazing it was to see our friends so happy, the genius choice of a Katy Perry song as the first dance and what was happening on the news that day.

Conversations were wide-ranging and non-limiting. There was no sense of competition or judgement or, well, anything negative at all. And I don’t think that was just because it was a bloody excellent day.

To a certain degree there is a sense that you join a “club” when you become a mum. When you meet other mums I guess you’ve automatically got something in common, in that you’ve both got a kid.

But, sometimes, that might be all. Conversations beyond your role as a mum might be limiting, because there’s no other common ground between you. And, in just the same way, you might have LOADS in common with someone who isn’t a mum (or a dad).

At this wedding I was chatting to someone who asked me about my daughter. “I love the pics you put of her on Facebook – she’s so cute!” she said. “Oh no – I’m sorry about that!” I replied, immediately thinking I was one *those* mums. “Not at all – I like it!” she assured me. “I think they’re lovely.”

And that’s it really. She wasn’t offended by my pictures in just the same way I wasn’t offended by the updates about my mates’ nights out or impromptu trips to the pub, that are rare for me these days.

If a friend has had a bad day at work I don’t immediately think, “Blimey, she knows NOTHING about a bad day” just because she hasn’t got kids. And I don’t pity the people who don’t have kids, because they’re “missing out” on all the good sides of being a parent.

We’re all people after all.

Or maybe that’s just me. What do you think?

*Obligatory cute kid picture*

The post Parents vs non-parents: it’s not a competition appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

Photo credit: Caroline Gue at CP Photography

This is my mum and dad.

The photo was taken on my wedding day, last year. My mum was busy bustling around, making sure everyone else looked nice. She helped me into my dress (that she made) before pinning my dad’s buttonhole. She got dressed after everyone else had left the house. She looked lovely.

My parents are my example. When it comes to being a mum myself, I look to them for inspiration and guidance on how to do it. They were funny. That’s the main thing I remember growing up. We had lots of laughter, often at my dad’s expense. Being the only man in the house, he milked the “poor dad” role with his two daughters, much to our amusement.

Our house was loud at times, but never through my parents arguing. If they needed to discuss things they would do just that. I never remember heated exchanges – apart from when my mum gave my dad the wrong directions on a holiday to France. He repaid the favour by refusing to stop for a toilet break and leaving her bursting for a wee for about a mile. My sister and I thought that was quite funny. She did too, afterwards.

We were by no means poor, growing up in a typically middle class area of Bristol. It was all organic veg shops and Guardian readers, eco boutiques and reclamation yards. But neither were we well off. Our house was bought from an old lady who hadn’t redecorated since the 1960s. Everything had to be ripped out to make way for things that actually worked. At the age of five, my parents hosted a birthday party for me. I can still remember my pride at the birthday cake my aunt had made in the shape of an elephant, as everyone sat around me on an old sheet on the bare, dusty floorboards, singing Happy Birthday To You.

Our garden was a Mecca for the neighbourhood kids. A patch of mud, it was the perfect place to go hunting for treasure. My dad dug that garden and later planted a lawn, laid a patio, created flower beds. He worked hard to make it a place we could play and keep pet rabbits.

Family holidays were a joy. Both my parents were teachers so we would go away for five weeks at a time, camping in France. We would eat good food and swim in the sea. At night my sister and I would snuggle together in our side of the tent while we listened to my parents snoring on the other. I can still vividly recall one night we all shared a family hotel room and my sister was purple with rage by morning. We found her curled up in the bathroom, with a hairband around her ears and makeshift cotton wool pads turned into earmuffs. Apparently we were all snoring.

These are the family memories I hope to recreate with my own daughter. We are three at the moment, but one day we may be more. I hope for laughter, a lack of political correctness and shared joy at the small things. Both my parents swear too much, laugh very loudly and have a love of a good glass of wine. They were never pale people living in the shadows. Now retired by the sea in Devon, they’ve quickly adapted to country life with a new group of friends and hobbies. I miss them.

This week I have missed them more than ever. Things are on my mind, decisions to be made, life to live. Usually so upbeat and cheerful (apart from when my alarm goes off at 3.30am), I’ve been feeling confused and low. I’ve questioned myself and rung my mum and dad for advice. I’ve sobbed down the phone at the sound of their kind voices and then reverted back to my teenage self, reliant on my mum and dad for their wise owl counsel.

It will always be this way. I’m an adult now, but I’m still their child. They’re still my parents.

Which is why I’m so pleased they’re coming for an ad hoc visit next week. Hopefully they’ll bring some of that wine I love so much.

Photo credit: Caroline Gue at CP Photography

The post You never stop being a parent appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

I spent hours walking up and down the stairs, hoovering and then bouncing up and down on a birthing ball. Hours. I was pretty fed up with being pregnant.

As Frog’s first birthday hurtles ever nearer, I’m constantly reminded of what I was doing this time last year. The blanket I knitted, the walks with my lovely neighbour and her toddler, the bouncing on that bloody birthing ball, the obsession with internet forums on labour and birth.

I’m also reminded of the people who helped stop me lose my big fat pregnant head during the last few days.

So I thought I’d write about them:

Dad. You rang me every morning to see how I was. You didn’t discuss babies or labour or anything mildly related to my huge belly. Instead, you chattered away about the mundane; what you were cooking for supper that night, the latest crossword clue to stump you in The Guardian. Those phone calls helped distract me at a time when I desperately needed distracting. So thank you.

Mum. You were there at the end of the phone when I rang with my first proper pre-birth wobble. The words “your body can stretch in the most amazing way” helped calm me down. You turned up as a surprise that afternoon, with delicious food for a barbecue. I went into labour that night and you rubbed my back. Thank you Mum.

Diz: Aunty Diz, you were there too. You had just finished the most stressful period of your life by completing your final medical exams. Your grinning face and sisterly banter helped me forget the fact I was too huge to fit behind the dining table. You brought your foot spa to soak my swollen feet. You rubbed my back. You were there at the hospital and laughed at me as I mumbled rubbish, high on gas and air.

And then you came back to stay a week later, with cake and casserole. You held my baby when I needed a bath, or sleep. You cooked more food. You put the washing on. You were the best aunty a Frog could have. So thank you.

The special ones

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