Lessons in social awkwardness: ignoring people you know

I am a reasonably personable individual, but there are times when I find social interactions unnecessarily hard. I have thought quite a lot about what it is that sends me into a nose dive of social awkwardness and have decided it's generally related to a forced transition from being an introvert (i.e. lost in my own thoughts) to being an extrovert (i.e. talking to other people). Spontaneous small talk (or any form of small talk to be honest) is just not my thing.

Take today's example. I was walking to the childminder's after work when I came up behind someone who looked like one of my NCT friends. I wasn't sure it was her (she was wearing some jazzy purple trousers I just couldn't quite picture her in) but she walked like my friend, and her hair looked like my friend's... As I passed her (she was going slowly and I was running quite late) I took a sideways glance and realised it probably was her. Did I stop and say "Hi!" though? Nope, for some idiotic reason I kept going. I then spent 5 minutes marching on as fast as I could, debating how I could possibly acknowledge that she was behind me, without making it obvious that I had known she was there all along and had snubbed her.

It's not that I don't like this woman - she's lovely and we always have a good old chinwag when we meet up. It wasn't that I was in too much of a rush to talk to her either. I could have spared an extra minute to walk at her pace and have a chat, or I could have just said, "Hi, I'm really sorry, I have to run". It's more that when I am walking to and from work, that is my quiet, reflective time, and I find it really tough to switch to sociable mode. Plus, from my brief glance, I couldn't be 100% sure it definitely was her and I didn't want to randomly stop mid stride and say hi if it wasn't - potentially very embarrassing.

Maybe this inability to switch modes makes me slightly autistic. It almost certainly makes me antisocial and probably quite rude. Yet however much I kick myself for doing it, time and time again I find myself pretending not to see people rather than just stopping and saying hi. My aversion to an awkward social encounter, one with no clearly defined end point or get out clause (particularly when you're in a hurry and walking in the same direction) and ripe with the possibility that, caught off guard, you'll say something stupid, is just too strong. Because, caught off guard, I usually do say something stupid, like "bit chilly today isn't it?" (in December) or I'll forget to enquire about something vital like "how's your Dad doing after his heart attack?" or "are you having a nice birthday?" which will cause more self-admonishment later.

I wish I could tell everyone I've ever ignored not to take offence - that it really isn't you, it's me. Who knows, maybe they actually appreciate me not saying hi, as it means they can pretend not to have seen me either, neither of us has to talk, and we can both go about our days in blissful knowing ignorance. I'm sure this is true for some fellow anti-socialites I know. Furthermore, if I'm being REALLY honest, there possibly is a dash of "I won't disturb them because why would they want to talk to me?" in the mix of my thoughts too. On a largely unconscious level, I believe I'm doing them a favour by sparing them my presence.  Not a sign of healthy self-esteem I'm sure, but as I whinged a couple of weeks back, that's one of the potential downsides of being more self-aware...

Anyway, I made amends eventually today. As I was unlocking the buggy once I reached my childminder's, my friend walked past and I did then shout out a hello and apologise for ignoring her as "I wasn't quite sure it was you" (nearly true). We parted on smiley, friendly terms, and she admitted she had seen me too but had thought I looked busy so didn't want to disturb (I was reading an email on my phone, it's true). I have no real idea how much offence was taken though. I'll probably never know either, because, like me, she's one of those people who will keep on smiling even when you've spilled coffee in their lap. Which I have actually done. Twice. Oh dear, she secretly hates me, doesn't she?

Ten things to expect when renting a holiday home

The Ducks are currently on holiday (sorry, vacation) in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Not an obvious choice, I know, but it was the furthest place we could think of that would involve sunshine and beaches and balance maximum air mile usage (Drake has a bucket and spade load) with a survivable flight time (seven hours to Boston was only mildly hellish).  Plus the US is really child friendly. As is advisable for any holiday with small children, we're staying in a rented house rather than a hotel. The house is great - traditional shingled exterior, a stone's throw from the beach with a creek out back and a canoe! However, as with every rented house / villa / apartment I've ever stayed in (and I'm going back to my own childhood here), the photos and descriptions on which you make your choice don't quite tell the whole story. Here follows a list of Duck Family holiday home certainties:

1. You'll be slightly creeped out by the unfamiliar, mildly (sometimes very) shabby interior for the first day or two, and spend a lot of time with your feet tucked under you in case a hand reaches out from under the sofa and grabs your ankles or a bug runs up your trouser leg.
2. The kitchen will be stocked to the gunnels with a hodge podge of gadgets and gizmos that you don't even recognise, let alone need, but it will be devoid of several essential bits of kit that most people use every day. Our house this year has a crab pot and crab claw crackers (to be fair, we are in Cape Cod, seafood capital of the US), a Nutribullet, a capsule coffee maker with no capsules and no indication of what capsules it takes, three Tupperware tub lids (no actual Tupperware) and six chip 'n' dip bowls. It entirely lacks wooden spoons, a functioning potato peeler, sharp knives, a salad bowl, a proper chopping board, egg cups or any form of spatula.
3. At some stage, the house will be invaded by unwelcome wildlife. In the past we've shared our home with mice (twice actually), a swarm of harvest spiders, giant centipedes, ants, feral cats and, my favourite, a "ghost", which may or may not have actually been one of the rats that lived in the tree outside rummaging through our bins.  My Dad took us to the best places when we were kids...
4. There will come a point, usually three or four days in, where you sit out on a lounger at dusk, gin and tonic in hand, surrounded by chirping insects, and you'll say "why the hell do we live in the UK?" Then a moth the size of a sparrow will get stuck in your hair and you'll remember why.
5. The house will contain at least one fundamental design flaw / oversight that will bug you all week. This year it's the lack of a full length mirror anywhere, and a parasol so small that only one person can sit in the shade at a time.
6. Your welcome pack will contain local idioms or bad translations that make you laugh out loud. My all time favourite was in France, where the local restaurant guide suggested we eat somewhere with a speciality of "raw cow with truffle soil". I think they meant steak tartare with truffle oil, but we avoided that particular dish anyway, just in case.
7. Something will break or go wrong at some stage, often following a thunder storm that trips all the fuses. This year, it was a smoke alarm which woke us all up at 6 am due to a flat backup battery, then proceeded to beep intermittently for most of the morning until Drake found a loose wire and plugged the battery back in to charge. What a man!
8. However "child friendly" the blurb claims it to be, there will be at least one major hazard that you child will seek out within minutes of arrival. Like a sodding great river in the garden... Or the sharp, terracotta tiled steps my sister slipped on the first time she climbed them, necessitating a dash to a Spanish A&E for some chin stitches.
9. The artwork / décor / furniture will sit somewhere on a scale of "not quite to my taste" to "were they on f**king acid?!". Best ever = the house in Provence with a giant mural of The Cat In The Hat on the bathroom wall. That cat was no prude about folks in the nude... (sorry).
10. Whatever your initial misgivings, by the end of your stay you will have grown rather fond of the place and won't want to leave. I will almost certainly shed a little tear tomorrow when we go, though we do at least have a few more days in a hotel in Boston to round off the holiday nicely. Cue multiple accidental calls to reception, obsessive knocking on other people's doors and mini shampoo bottles emptied out on the carpet. Give me a rubbish potato peeler any day..

"I go boat in Mummy's doos?  Yes?" (N.B. we did not allow him to go out in the canoe in my shoes.  Or indeed at all...)

Does it pay to be self-aware?

Last week, I found myself drawn into a conversation with a colleague about a self-help book she'd once read on the merits of being "self-aware".  She couldn't remember the name (and a subsequent search of Amazon* didn't help much - there are hundreds), but the basic assertion seemed to be that self-awareness is universally a Good Thing for everyone. To be honest, this seems to be a pretty common theme in most self-help / management bible type literature (not that I've read much - money for old rope mostly, if you ask me). If you know yourself - so the thinking goes - you can strive to take action and improve yourself, which in turn improves your relationships with others, your life prospects and ultimately society as a whole. Hooray!  I have no doubt that there is an strong element of truth in this, and God knows the colleague in question needs a bit more self-knowlege. Since having Duckling, I've definitely felt the need to critique my own behaviour more too, primarily to ensure I don't set a crap example. However,  despite what the books say, I remain to be convinced that being really self-aware is that great for the individual concerned. Some of the happiest people I know are also some of the most blinkered, shallow and clueless, and they seem to bumble through life just fine, precisely because it never occurs to them that they should strive to be anything other than what they are now. Yes, the more unpleasant types piss other people off, but because they don't realise it, they just aren't bothered. It almost makes me jealous...

There seem to be a host of different ways of defining self-awareness.  At its most basic level, it is the ability to look in the mirror and recognise oneself as distinct from the surrounding environment; a conscious and autonomous individual in the crowd. Delve a bit deeper, and you discover more complex layers. The ability to recognise your own personality and key character traits. Knowing your strengths and weaknesses and your "place" in family, work and social structures. Understanding your emotions, thoughts and memories, and the fact that they might not always be accurate reflections of reality (at least not reality according to other people)... The list goes on.

When you think about it, it's actually quite a slippery concept. I consider myself reasonably self-aware under all the above categories (but then I would, wouldn't I?!), but it's difficult to be sure that I really am because self-awareness, as used in common parlance, doesn't actually have all that much to do with the 'self'. Herein lies my first issue. When we state that someone has no self-awareness, we generally mean that they have a poor grasp of how others (we) see them, not that they don't have a strong sense of who they are. That weird guy in accounts who always makes inappropriate comments about your outfits may be universally known as "Creepy Chris", but in his mind's eye he is "Cheeky Chris", and describing your new boots as 'kinky' will make your day (no Chris, it really won't).  Furthermore, character traits are socially constructed, and because we do not live in a vacuum, we can only really be defined when placed within a particular context and compared to those around us. So Chris is creepy, but only because we're in the office; in a nightclub he might get away with it. What's more, in comparison to Pervy Pete, Creepy Chris is just mildly inappropriate and a bit socially awkward. 

Poor old Chris struggles because we can only really understand ourselves by listening to the discourse around us and observing the reactions of others, and he's not very good at that.  He finds it tricky both because people lie (or at least don't reveal the whole truth for fear of hurting his feelings / embarrassing him / showing themselves up) and because his interpretation of their reactions is coloured by his own internal reasoning, which in turn is influenced by his past and personality. Chris sees us blush and turn away, but because of the way his Dad always talked about women and his Mum behaved, he thinks it's because we're flattered but shy, not, as is actually the case, weirded out and squirming. To be properly self-aware therefore, you ironically have to be a really good reader of other people, and this is far from straightforward.

The next problem: to be really self-aware, you have to question how and why you do things. A lot. If you're not careful, this can tip you into becoming either self-conscious or self-obsessed. You know your weaknesses and fret when these are tested. You know some people see you as bossy, and thus scan every utterance and every reaction to that utterance for signs of people being put out by your domineering style. Eventually, you can become so inhibited and guarded, that your fundamental personality and spontaneity can be warped. Alternatively, you constantly ask people "oh God, did I offend you?", which is actually more annoying than whatever it was that you thought might have been offensive in the first place. I struggle with the self-aware / -conscious / -obsessed balance regularly. 

Then you have the fact that being self-aware doesn't necessarily mean you can change your behaviour, which is very frustrating. I am perpetually late for everything and it really annoys me and everyone else I know, but recognising this and the causes for it doesn't seem to make me any better at leaving the house on time. I am also shy, some might say standoffish, when I meet unfamiliar people, mainly because I am afraid to let my more extrovert, know-it-all side out (years of being branded an uppity teacher's pet will do that to you). I worry that my new acquaintance will decide I'm really annoying or show-offy or weird, will call me names and won't want to play with me anymore, boo hoo hoo. I recognise being shy doesn't do me any favours, and yet I can't seem to change it because the alternative - irritating people - seems much worse.

Finally, in part because of the above, self awareness means you have to experience lows as well as highs. If you're a real happy-go-lucky type, chances are you're either not very self-aware (you just pootle through life unconcerned about looking like a fool or about your impact on others) or you're a bit of a egotist (you only notice your strengths and the times other people say you're great). Conversely really downbeat people often only notice their weaknesses, failures and less attractive characteristics, or fail to consider their own influence at all and blame their woes on fate, their crappy lot in life, or on other people. Thus they never see that they have the power to improve things.  Or at least that's what the books would say, I sure.

A truly self-aware person will sit somewhere in the middle.  They can recognise when they've really contributed to a job well done, and can feel good when they've consciously avoid causing offence, or actively made someone feel great about themselves. But they also have to stare the reality of the times they've been a bit shit square in the face. And that's HARD. Particularly when you're prone to guilt (i.e. female) and when you can't be certain how shit you've actually been. In some respects it would be great to be able to give everyone you know a survey about their impression of you to understand more about yourself. But the results would have the potential to completely shatter your self-esteem, and those with no self-worth are even worse for social harmony  than those with no self-knowledge. 

So while self-awareness is probably good for society as a whole, I think a bit of self-delusion is ultimately necessary to get us, as individuals, through life, help us achieve things we might otherwise think we couldn't and keep us from constantly being paralysed by anxiety and the knowledge that we are but an inconsequential speck of sand in the great desert of space and time...  I can never be sure how self-aware I really am, but I know for certain that if I didn't have some self-delusion about others' interest in my ramblings, I probably wouldn't be writing this blog. Though I might not be running quite so late for our flight right now.  I know it usually takes forty minutes to get to Heathrow, be we can do it in ten, right?

Maybe I should read that self-help book after all...


*just as a random aside, my quick search of Amazon inexplicably came up with this absolute gem at the top: Shiatsu Therapy For Horses.  Had me giggling for ages.

Twenty unsolved mysteries of kid's TV

Due to the multiple illnesses mentioned in my last post, Duckling and I have spent an unhealthy amount of time sitting on the sofa watching children's television over the past few weeks. Mostly the channel stays firmly on cBeebies to escape the insufferable tat-peddling breaks of most other channels, but we have made the occasional foray into Nick Jr, where Duckling has also discovered the joy of Peppa Pig.  Normally I try to do other things while Duckling is watching TV, but his refusal to be parted from me while ill has meant I've had to endure enjoy a far wider range of children's televisual delights than usual.

 

Now I realise that most programmes aimed at kids are designed to engage young imaginations and inspire a sense of wonderment, but frankly, I think this ambition is too often used as an excuse for inauthentic characterisation, hole-riddled plotlines and stories that lack sufficient exposé, all of which leave the viewer with a series of frustratingly unanswered questions. This fatigued. stir-crazy and slightly grumpy viewer anyway. In the hope that someone out there can help resolve these vexing mysteries, I thought I should put them out there for discussion. Here are my top twenty:

 

1. Where do Granny and Grandpa Pig fit in the Peppa Pig family tree? Are they Mummy or Daddy Pig's parents? Both Mummy and Daddy Pig refer to them as "Granny" and "Grandpa", so it's wholly unclear...
2. Why is Mike The Knight such an insufferable git for the majority of every episode? I understand that the moral is to "Be a Knight and Do It Right" when you've been behaving like a bit of a dick, but surely "take 10 seconds to think about things and avoid pissing everyone off" would be a better message?
3. Where are Sarah's parents in Sarah and Duck? I remain to be convinced that Duck is a sufficiently responsible guardian.
4. Talking of, in Bing, what IS Flop? Soft toy come to life? An adult rabbit in a world where everyone shrinks and becomes knitted as they get older? A child's cuddly representation of his much loved nanny? I need to understand the symbolism!
5. Why does Mr Tumble never, ever remember "The Magic", despite this being a fundamental element of every episode?
6. Why do the residents of Greendale love Postman Pat so much when he is essentially the cause of everything that goes wrong in the village?
7. A rocket, fuelled by rhymes? Seriously?
8. Was Iggle Piggle actually modelled on David Cameron, or is the resemblance just a happy coincidence? (Yes, I know I'm not the first person to notice this, but it still tickles me.)
9. Is Poi from Show Me Show Me pregnant for all the episodes shot in that weird shop / playroom place, or did she just decide to go with a billowy smock look for most of that series? 
10. How do Kate's parents remain so unfailing upbeat when confronted with the clearly delusional, hallucinatory tales of their daughter's adventures with Mim Mim?
11. Does Granny Murray get dressed in the dark? My eyyyyeeees!
12. What is Baby Jake's Mum's secret to looking that slim and cheerful after popping out ten children in such quick succession? (I have my suspicions that she's actually an actress and they're not really her kids - shhh don't tell anyone...)
13. Have the Cloud Babies writers ever actually studied basic meteorology?
14. Why are all the 'cheebies' in Waybaloo so appallingly dubbed? Why is Waybaloo so appallingly awful?
15. Given that Sid and Rebecca are so totally desperate for it to be 'them' that gets to dress up in Let's Play, why do they still grin like loons when they're not chosen? It reminds me of the way actors behave for the cameras when they don't win the Oscar.
16. Balamory - has everyone had a lobotomy or what?
17. Is Happy the Crocodile adopted? He appears to have an elephant for a parent, so I can only imagine he must be. (I LOVE Hey Duggie incidentally. Mainly because I am actually in love with Alexander Armstrong.)
18. Is Mr Bloom's regular statement "Hello my dear, haven't you grown?" to Joan the "lovely" fennel just a touch creepy or is it me?
19. Where is all the hitting and "Get off it's MINE you big Poo Head!" in Charlie and Lola?
20. Why doesn't Justin bake a nice battenburg or tray of flapjacks rather than all those custard pies? He'd save Robert the Robot a hell of a lot of washing.

Answers on a postcard / in the comments section...

The frustrations of looking after a poorly poppet

Duckling is under the weather again. Just a mild bout of conjunctivitis (so far) this time, but it comes hot on the heels of tonsillitis, a never ending snot barrage of a cold, then hand foot & mouth. The poor kid has spent more time ill than healthy over the past couple of months. And it's summer! God only knows what will happen when autumn sets in and the school germs start circulating again.

The neurotic part of me is worried that he has some kind of immune disorder. However, he never seems to get properly, worryingly unwell, he hasn't yet suffered a secondary bacterial infection and he has no wound healing issues either, which, Google informs me, probably all mean his immune system's completely fine. I can only conclude therefore that it's normal for a child of 18 months to get sick this much, as essentially he hasn't built up any immunities to anything yet (breastfeeding gives them antibodies my arse!). It doesn't make it any less frustrating though.

First, it's horrible seeing your child so sad and uncomfortable. Duckling does a good line in plaintive whining, looking morose, and melodramatically crumpling in the middle of his play mat because he feels so rotten. It's heart-breaking because I feel so powerless to help. Calpol is my only real weapon, but spat out and smeared all over clothing, the sofa and the curtains, it's not much use.

Second, the flip side of the heart-breaking lethargy is the rage-inducing clinging. Duckling is Mummy obsessed enough at the moment, but illness seems to have intensified his velcrosity by a factor of thirty. I completely understand why he wants constant cuddles and breastfeeding - I would too - but it doesn't make it any less frustrating when you're trying to cook / play a nice game with him / put your socks on / sleep. Constantly being in demand is totally knackering, however much compassion you have for their unhappy state.

Third, it often puts you in an impossible quandary when it comes to socialising. When your child is supposed to be coming out with you, you have to assess how ill they are (is it fair to take them out?), how infectious they might be (Day 2, probably very; Day 7, less so), the vulnerability / tolerance of the people you're going to see, your own energy levels and how much you need to escape the prison of your own home. If your kid's not coming with you, you have to try to balance the guilt of leaving them with an alternative carer (crap for both the child and the carer) with the urgency / necessity of your planned outing. I don't know about anyone else, but I find myself paralysed by indecision when trying to take all of these competing factors into account, as I know whatever choice I make, someone will end up with the shitty end of the stick. Possibly literally.

Fourth, in a similar vein, is the eternal 'what do I do about work?' question when they're too ill to go to nursery / the childminder / school. I have very laid back colleagues but even they have raised an eyebrow or two at the amount of time I've had to "work from home" over the past couple of months. Because we all know working from home is impossible with a child present, particularly a clingy, sickly child. Heaven knows what I would do if I couldn't pretend to work from home. I think my Mum would be called upon to rescue us every other week...

Fifth, there is always a point in all but the mildest of illnesses where you think "ooh, that doesn't look / sound good. I wonder if I should take him / her to the doctor?" You will then proceed to procrastinate for as long as possible ("I'll just see how he is in the morning") as you weigh up the severity of the symptoms with the pain in the arseyness of having to book and then undertake a visit to the GP, in the full knowledge that they will recover the second you step through the surgery door. So far we've only had to visit the doctor once but I do fear we're riding our luck a bit - most of my friends seem to have ended up in A&E at least once in their baby's first year or two.

Sixth is the mysterious nature of a lot of childhood illnesses. Three day temperature with no other real symptoms? What's that all about? (Viral tonsillitis for reference). Purple green poo? (Overdose of blueberries). Fever and spotty rash? (Chicken pox! Or maybe Hand Foot & Mouth. Nope, Chicken Pox. No, no, definitely H, F & M. Probably. Bloody clueless pharmacist.)

Seventh = snot, sick, spots, squits, scabs... Just yuck.

Eighth, the requirement to sit through endless episodes of Peppa Pig and other kiddies' telly delights (which is the only thing that'll keep Duckling vaguely content when he's sick). It will be better when he's older and can be left to have a duvet day on the sofa largely on his own, but for now, he'll only sit still and watch happily if he's on my lap. Which is kind of lovely for five minutes. Less so after an hour. Altogether now "Peeeeeppa Pig! Do do do do dodo, dah dah dah dah dah dahdah."

Finally, at nine, is the knowledge that however fastidious you are about hand washing and quarantining soiled items, at some point your darling offspring will sneeze / throw up in your face and you WILL get whatever they have. The only thing worse than looking after a sick child is doing it when you're sick too.

Essentially, in a shock revelation, looking after a poorly baby is a bit rubbish. Who knew?!  It is ripe with possibilities for self-flagellation ("I know I was threatening to spit roast Peppa Pig, but I can't believe I took him to the park with that cough. I'm such a terrible mother!"), exhausting, upsetting, miserable if you catch it too, deeply inconvenient in terms of work and your social life and generally a bit gross. On the plus side though, at least Duckling will already be immune to a whole bunch of stuff by the time he goes to school.  That'll mean fewer illnesses once he's there, right?  Right?!

A letter to myself, two years ago today

Dear Duck at 4pm on Friday 16 August 2013,

As you read this, you are sitting on the sofa, phone in hand, both willing it to ring and wanting it to never ring again. A week ago, you were told that your 13 week-old baby-in-the-making had a 94% chance of having Down's Syndrome. You are terrified. The Harmony Test the clinic used has a false positive rate of less than 1 in 1600. It's far, far more accurate than the standard combined test, which you also took and confusingly gave you a 0.007% chance. The consultant who stuck the giant needle into your placenta, making you faint on the Tube home is puzzled, and has given you a 50% chance. You are drowning in meaningless statistics and don't know who to believe. Google has been no help whatsoever as the Harmony Test is new and nobody else in the world seems to have been in this situation before.

You honestly have no idea what you're going to do if the news is bad. Before you agreed to the test, you were certain that the result wouldn't matter - after two miscarriages and a threatened loss early in this pregnancy, you just wanted a baby to hold, no matter what their abilities and needs might be. Now you're not so sure.

You've worked with young people with Down's Syndrome. You know they are individuals first and foremost, unique people with unique personalities, likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses, just like anyone else.  That extra chromosome does undeniably brings some challenges with it though. The problem is the unknown.  The severity of the health problems associated with DS can vary enormously, as can the extent of the learning difficulties. You don't know what their temperament might be or how much social awareness they will have.  You don't know many operations you might have to put your child through, or how much of your longterm independence you might be signing away. You don't know if going ahead is a decision that, in your heart of hearts, you might one day regret.  Just that admission has you wracked with guilt. You desperately want to be noble and selfless and liberal and say you don't care, but the reality is you do. This is your child, and your life, and you know with Drake away with work, you will be raising this baby solo for much of the time.  There will also be judgement from everyone, including yourself, whatever course of action you and Drake decide upon, and you're not sure you can handle it. Or the new fissure it will create in an already cracked heart.

I want you to keep it together though, because everything is going to work out fine. You had that one in a thousand false positive result. In a minute, the phone is going to ring and a lovely doctor is going to tell you that your CVS test was normal - your baby has the right number of chromosomes and there are no signs of any issues. And it's going to be a boy, much to your surprise. You will hang onto the windowsill for dear life as she tells you this, then you'll collapse onto the lap of your amazingly strong husband, a crying, shaking, laughing mess, not because your baby is 'normal' but because you no longer have to decide what to do if he's not.

In the days that follow, once the elation wears off, you'll wonder why the Harmony test gave you the unharmonious result it did (I'm afraid you'll never know). You'll spend some time feeling guilty that you got handed a golden ticket when so many others do not, and that you even contemplated ending the tiny life inside of you (that guilt will get worse when he arrives and you realise what unconditional love is like). You'll also be scared that after all this, you might still lose him, or that the CVS test will turn out to be wrong, all at the same time as feeling resentful that PITA (Pain In The Arse) as he will be known for the rest of the pregnancy and a little while beyond has caused you so much stress. You'll not want to be bloody pregnant any more, you won't want to see any more midwives or talk to any more doctors. You'll want to put your hands over your ears and shout "la la la" at everyone and at the contradictory maelstrom of thoughts in your tired hormonal head.

When he starts moving though, and you feel the strength of his kicks, you'll understand what a tenacious little boy you have on your hands, and how nothing was ever going to stop him making his way into this world.

I want you to know that if that call hadn't been good news, whatever you decided would have been the right thing. Being a Mum is all-consuming, and if you'd gone ahead with the pregnancy, you would have loved your baby from the moment he was born and done everything in your power to make his life a happy and fulfilled one, regardless of the difficulties and the problems.  It's a cliché, but love does always get you through.

If you hadn't then I wouldn't have blamed you either. For all the joy and love, motherhood is also incredibly hard work, precisely because your love makes you give your all. Love makes it worth it, but it doesn't make it easy.  The dedication required is unrelenting, even for a baby with normal needs, and it drives you to the brink on a regular basis. The prospect of that child never really growing up, of potentially needing you, as a child does, for the rest of your life, then of having to rely on strangers for care and guidance after you've gone... You would have coped because you'd have had to, but you would now be bruised and exhausted beyond belief. Except you'd never be able to admit that because you picked this path.  Having a difficult life handed to you is one thing. Actively choosing a more difficult life - for you, and your child - is another.

For now though, just keep that phone within arm's reach, and stay strong. One day this will all be ancient history; a tale to be told to the baby growing inside you, and to his children too. If I could hug you, I would, but as I am you in the future, you might have to settle for hugging yourself.

 

I should go before this gets too confusing.
 

Lots of love,

Duck at 4pm on Sunday 16 August 2015 x

The challenges of asking for "help"

Life in the Duck Pond has been a trifle wearing over the past few weeks. Duckling is going through some manner of ultra clingy developmental stage, he's all over the show with naps as he drops from two to one, he's had a snotastic cold (as have Drake and I) and as of Wednesday, we added Hand, Foot & Mouth to the mix too. I thought I was coping pretty well, all things considered, but as ever, you think you are until you're not. Cue a day of arguments with Drake, shouting at poor spotty Duckling and ultimately tears of the "why is this all so hard?" variety from me.

Part of the problem is that I'm rubbish at asking for help. For much of the week, I am on my own. I don't really have any option but to get on with things and immerse myself in the routine. Shattered? Tough. Craving adult company? Tough. Want to go for a wee without a child trying to post bits of loo roll between your legs? Tough. You'd think that when Drake comes home, I'd hand over the reins, but I don't - my gritted teeth determination simply spills over into the weekends as though the train might derail if I slow down too much. I still do at least one weekend breakfast, most morning dressings, all nap times, most nappy changes, lunch, dinner, bath time, bedtime, and all the breastfeeds and soothing of injuries in between. Drake is great and does most of the washing and hanging up of clothes, odd jobs, DIY, gardening, cleaning and general tidying. He also cuddles and plays with Duckling a lot (he's much better at it than me), and will take him out for a walk and a push on the swings if I really need to get on with something uninterrupted (like filing or cleaning the fridge - the thrills). But the mundane childrearing activities are still mostly me.

I am a feminist (in as much as I consider myself an egalitarian generally) so I'm not really sure how we've ended up with such a traditional division of responsibilities in our house. I honestly can't decide if it's a practical response to circumstance, or whether some more sinister and pervasive gender brainwashing has occurred somewhere along the line. I imagine it's a bit of both, given that our circumstances are the result of a traditionally gendered job set up - Drake has a well-paid role in the (male dominated) IT Sector, and I have a less well-paid position in the touchy-feeling and very flexible (female dominated) charity world, so practically and financially, it makes more sense for me to work part time and do much of the childcare. Duckling's personality plays a role too - he's very Mummy focussed, and won't settle for Daddy for any length of time if he knows I'm in the house (though he's fine when I'm not). I still breastfeed Duckling, so all things related, such as sleeping and comforting, are primarily me. I've always cooked (because I like it), so that lands on my plate, and bath time always seems to involve lots of singing, which I'm better at than Drake, so, err, that's somehow me too. Mostly, it's fine. But sometimes, like today, I have simply had enough of wrangling a cling monster, and I just desperately want to have the 'Mummy' responsibility lifted from my shoulders completely while I do something else for fifteen minutes - preferably sitting on the sofa eating chocolate and watching something exorable on SyFy. I find it almost impossible to ask for this though, which really, really annoys me, and really, really annoys Drake too. For him, in man-land, the process is simple:

Duck has had enough. > Duck asks for help with whatever task she doesn't want to do. > Drake helps with task. > Duck feels better and Drake feels helpful.

For me, it goes something like this:

Duck has had enough. > Duck would like some help, but she doesn't really know exactly what with, or how to articulate the fact she's had enough without sounding like she's moaning about how hard this Mummy thing is AGAIN. And besides, Drake did look after Duckling for a couple of hours in the park earlier while Duck got to see her friends, so she should really be feeling refreshed and relaxed, not shattered and grumpy. > Duck carries on and ignores fact she's had enough. > Duckling has a screaming fit in the bath. Duck has now REALLY had enough. > Duck snaps at Duckling. > Drake comes up to see what the issue is, but conveniently doesn't notice Duck's at her wits' end so doesn't offer to help and wanders back downstairs once Duck has dried the Spotty Goblin (sorry, Duckling) and he's stopped screaming. > Duck carries on with bedtime, cursing Drake for being oblivious, and for the fact he's now downstairs with his feet up, watching the cricket. Although, she supposes he did have to clean up the dinner mess, so it's not like he's spending the whole time relaxing. > But FFS, he has almost definitely spent at least 5 minutes doing bugger all hasn't he?! > Duck's resentment festers as she attempts to get Baron Von Lotsaspots to lie down in his cot and not wail like a banshee. > Up, down, up down, feed feed feed. Duck decides this is probably all that 'no feed to sleep' sleep training out the window, goddamit. She is so crap at this. > Finally asleep, Duck returns downstairs, muttering obscenities under her breath. > Drake makes a comment along the lines of "ho hum, that's just what parenting is like I'm afraid." > Duck explodes.

It's not that I'm not capable of asking for help generally - Drake is forever running up and down the stairs to fetch things for me that Duckling has discarded in another room. It's that I find it very hard to ask for help with things that have somehow become 'my job' - i.e. the childcare stuff. Because I CAN do it - of course I can - it's not rocket science and I do it every day. I just DON'T WANT TO. As much as I know that it's important for parents to give themselves a break, it feels lazy and unfair to pass something over to Drake that I don't want to do, because why would he want to do it any more than me? He works crazy hours when he's away, so needs his weekend downtime too. Plus I'll just feel irrationally guilty if he does do it, so cancelling out the pleasure of not having to do it myself. And, if I ask this one time, I won't have the 'right' to ask again for at least a couple of weeks, and what if I really need to, even more than today?! Or, what if this opens the floodgates and I suddenly can't stop offloading and I turn into a dreaded Lazy Mother?!!

So, yes, it would be much easier if Drake would just offer sometimes so I could avoid all of this idiotic internal melodrama over my totally self-imposed rules of childrearing responsibility. It might also make me feel slightly less taken for granted. But it simply doesn't occur to him, because we're both in our little routines, he feels like he's doing plenty of useful stuff already, and he's not the one in demand 24/7. When you're away a lot, time with your child is precious, so I'm sure it is hard for him to understand why I resent being with Duckling sometimes. Although at the same time, let's be honest, why would he actively want to do the (literally) crappy bits?

I did say a lot of this to him this evening, and I think I got through, after a bit of umbrage had been taken on both sides. I have agreed to be more forthcoming, and am going to start requesting he does at least one bath time over the weekend (even if this means I have to clean the fromage frais off the wall, post dinner). Ultimately though, I think I need to keep reminding myself that beyond breastfeeding, there is no rule book that says any of the childcare stuff is intrinsically My Job. I am not technically asking for "help" therefore, but simply stating that I believe it to be Drake's turn to do the task in question.  Drake is eminently capable (I can even live with his interesting sartorial choices for Duckling), so it is perfectly fine to ask him to do more. It doesn't make me lazy and he can always say no if he really doesn't want to. This shouldn't need saying. And yet here we are. Does anyone else over-complicate things to this extent, or is it just me?