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FOREWORD When
I announced to my family that I had decided to write a book, I was greeted with
raucous laughter and the strangest of looks.
With inspiration like this dripping all over the place, how can I
possibly fail? Besides, being a
rather stubborn person, it made me all the more determined. This
book is about my years of motherhood. I
have found this experience rewarding, frustrating, demanding, sometimes
limiting, but often very hilarious. I
intend to portray the pitfalls, the good times, the hard times, but generally
the fulfillment I have found in motherhood.
I have four children, two girls, and two boys. They are now all grown up
and they are now my four best friends. They
are spread all over the world but I hear from them regularly and love hearing
about their adventures. They
have all read my story and we have a lot of laughs from it. I
must point out that this is a light hearted and very personal look back at my
own experience. I feel there is so
much we can learn from our own children if we are interested enough in them.
I
would like to dedicate this book to my kids, who gave me the inspiration to put
pen to paper. I would like to think that other parents could read this and maybe
see things in a different perspective during the difficult periods we all go
through raising our kids. Part
two of this book gives some ideas that may be useful to parents when they feel
at the end of their tether. They are ideas I have picked up along the way and
some I have learned since that I wish I had known at the time. PART
ONE Chapter
one. BEGINNERS
LUCK. Naturally
motherhood begins at the time of conception, or rather after your first visit to
the doctor. I
sat in the doctor’s waiting room flicking the pages of Time magazine, but not
even seeing the pages. I was
pregnant, and no one else had ever achieved this before but me. The other patients looked at me curiously.
How could anyone looking so pleased with themselves possibly be ill?
I could hardly contain myself. Finally
it was my turn. The doctor examined
me, confirmed the obvious and asked me if I had any morning sickness.
Goodness me no, I wasn’t having any of that nonsense, my pregnancy was
going to be perfect. That
was Monday. Tuesday was something
else. I woke up bright and early,
and began cooking breakfast for my husband, before going to work.
Then it happened, I flew into the bathroom, pushed my husband out of the
way almost causing him to cut his throat with his razor, and threw up half of my
stomach. I felt absolutely ghastly.
I pulled myself together and got ready for work.
This is stupid I thought that dammed doctor must have talked me into it.
I can’t be sick, I have to work for at least six months. I
endured a half hour bus ride to the city and turned up at work looking like I
had been dipped in bleach. After
six trips to the toilet in one hour, my boss finally took me aside, told me I
was pregnant, and that I would be of no use to her beating a path to the loo all
day long. Actually she was very
sweet about it, telling me I could leave work immediately without any hard
feelings, but if I wished, could return for a few months after this initial
sickness had passed. I never did
return, except on a couple of visits to show off my prize. This
of course was all very nice but I still had a half hour bus ride to my haven, my
bed, and most of all, my own bathroom. I
boarded a very crowded bus and had to stand the whole way.
We were two bus stops from home when I began to heave.
I pulled the cord and dived out of the bus, and straight into the nearest
hedge. When I contained myself I noticed a man about thirty-five
years old, whom I recognized as one of the long gone bus passengers.
“Are
you okay?” He said “Yes
fine thank you,” I replied, thinking oh yes I always do this, doesn’t
everyone you stupid ass. I still
hated everyone. I hated my mother
for ever having me. This strange
man turned out to be genuinely concerned, so I explained my predicament as we
trudged two miles towards home. He
left me there after I assured him I would be okay now, and went on his merry
way. I didn’t even ask him his
name, and never saw him again. This
ghastly sickness only lasted a few weeks, and after that I began to blossom (as
the saying goes.) This
is about the time you decide to be the ideal mother, so the first thing you do
is make a set of rules. Rule
1. I will never raise my voice or
spank my children (I won’t have to, mine will be perfect.) Rule
2. I will never swear in front of
the children, much less at them. Rule
3. I will not move any breakables
or plants out of their reach. I
will teach them not to touch them. Rule
4. I will never let them out of my
sight, thus ensuring they will come to no harm. This
list went on and on, and as the years ticked by they became the exceptions
rather than the rules. I
spent the next few months buying second hand furniture for this baby.
Pennies were short, but that didn’t stop me making enough clothes for
quintuplets. As
soon as your pregnancy is public knowledge, relations, friends, and even perfect
strangers offer well-meaning useless advice. My ears are closed. Only
I know how to bring up children. Suddenly
your ears are prized open, as these same relations, friends and perfect
strangers tell you about the terrible times they had having their babies.
The terrible, terrible pain, stitches, caesarean operations and all sorts
of horrible revelations. I felt as
if I was in the clutches of a lion, and all I had to wait for was to be eaten. Why
people do this completely escapes me, and even now, when I do the same thing
myself, the logic still escapes me. Finally
the big day arrived. It was a
Sunday, a beautiful, sunny day (so they tell me) in September. I arrived at the hospital at 7am with pains coming thick and
fast and five minutes apart. After
the first examination by the theatre sister, she cheerfully informed me that I
had only just begun labour and was likely to be going for hours.
She ordered my husband to walk me up and down, in the hope of speeding
things up. I protested.
While being a good little mummy attending antenatal classes, I had been
told to relax and go like a floppy rag when having a contraction, and put into
the practice the breathing exercises. “How
can I do this standing on my feet?” I
asked feebly. “Just
walk up and down!” Was the sharp
reply. Blimey!
I thought, the army has nothing on this lot.
After doing this for an hour, I planted myself on the bed and refused to
move. I was beside myself.
Why didn’t someone tell me it would be this bad, I thought, forgetting
the relations, friends and perfect strangers bit.
Soon my doctor arrived, and upon seeing my distress demanded the sister
give me the usual pain killing injection. She
left the room in a cloud of steam, returning minutes later armed with a big fat
needle, and I’ll swear to this day that she threw it at my leg from the
doorway. I was out for vengeance.
I threw up my lunch all over her. We
formed a kind of truce after that as she sat down and held my hand and rubbed my
back. As the drug took effect she
became an angel in disguise, as I have since believed this is actually what a
nurse is. Finally
that night the doctor reappeared and I was delivered of a beautiful six pound
fifteen ounce baby girl. I was on
cloud nine. I loved everyone.
I even loved my mother again. I
looked at my daughter. She was all screwed up.
She had a tiny little head and great big ears like an elephant and
practically no hair, but to me she was the most beautiful baby in the world.
Hubby was delighted. “We’ll
have a boy next time,” he said with confidence. My god, I thought, do I have to go through all that again.
Later of course, I had to eat my words.
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