t finally happened. I took my firstborn to Uni last Friday. And I left him there.

I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Still can’t.

Midwives are encouraged to reflect on clinical events that leave them a bit perplexed. Who am I kidding, it’s part of our revalidation process and we have to write several reflections every 3 years if we want to keep practicing. It’s supposed to help us focus on what went well, and what we could have done better in a given situation. I never thought I’d be up for non-mandated reflection, but I do feel perplexed, and since both Middle Child and Only Daughter might benefit from calm analysis of motherhood thus far, perhaps it’s not such a bad idea!

I was delighted to see that thin blue line announcing imminent motherhood. I was ready. I’d studied, I’d established some sort of career path, I’d travelled, I’d partied. Pressing pause on all that seemed perfectly acceptable. Scary too, obviously. I was a midwife, I knew all the things that could go wrong. I went to ultrasound scans with a healthy dose of apprehension each time. Looking back, I think I might have been a bit short-sighted! Pregnancy and birth seemed like the be-all and end-all, and if you (and the baby) survived that, the rest was a piece of cake. Not only that, but I was quite convinced that mine would be the best behaved baby, after all, he would absorb my chill vibes and peace out. So, you guessed it, it was a bit brutal for both of us. He was not chill. He bitterly resented having to learn a new skill (breast feeding) so soon after the great expulsion. I mean, whose dastardly idea was it to cut the cord, his perfectly acceptable source of nutrition? But he was a (young, idealistic) midwife’s baby, so he kinda had to learn. It turned out that my chilled state of mind was closely linked to the lengths of my nights. Which were drastically (if not unexpectedly) shortened by the arrival of this colicky baby. He was literally unputdownable. But not like a great book (you can in fact put one of those down). I could put him down in a moving pram (I’ve never walked so much in my life, it was great for my post-natal figure!) but every single other activity of daily living had to be performed one-handed with a babe in arms. I’m not proud, but all the rules about placing a baby in a cot to sleep… well, my firstborn wasn’t having any of that, at least not at night. If we were going to sleep, and that was a big if, then we would be doing it skin to skin. But he was a French midwife’s son, and everyone knows that French babies sleep through the night. So he kinda had to learn. After 3 months and impressive weight gain, he was placed in a cot at night, and after 2 resentful nights, he’d figured it out. Weaning was also not ok. After a tricky start, he’d decided that breast-feeding did in fact work well enough, and he was definitely not chill about introducing new foods. To be fair, he might have done better with baby led weaning but it wasn’t a thing at the time. The consensus was that you made purees and your baby was expected to love each new flavour. He did not. To be fair, broccoli puree? Yuk! Even carrot puree isn’t all that nice, really it’s just overcooked boiled carrots with no seasoning, yuk! After months of unhappy mealtimes, he eventually agreed that pasta with pesto sauce was acceptable and proceeded to refuse everything else. There were mighty few exceptions. But he was a French midwife’s son, and everyone knows that French kids are famously good eaters. So he kinda had to learn that too. Not gonna lie, that took quite some time. Let’s just say that he just didn’t see the need. And that pretty much sums him up: he still rarely sees the need to do/eat/study anything unless the consequences of inactivity are dire and/or immediately life-threatening. Need I add that learning to read was not considered life-saving – I would surely be around to decipher the dastardly squiggles for him so why should he crack it? Even teaching him his birthday provoked angry tears; would I not surprise him by celebrating it when it was time as I always had? My headstrong insistence that he be fluent in French was unwelcome. Piano lessons were detestable, and negotiating piano practices made the Cuban missile crisis negotiations seem basic. Every single thing he was expected to get to grips with was boring, useless and utterly rejected. Aeroplanes were good though (there isn’t a single thing that he doesn’t know about planes, all of it self-taught – I’m a midwife, I merely find them convenient). So yes, it’s been challenging. Here’s the thing though: he turned out pretty great! I took him to Uni didn’t I? He’s a fabulous musician and a great cook. He says he had to learn as my offerings (from scratch, healthy, every single day, I’m French, remember!) were seriously substandard and he was in fact at high risk of starvation! But does this mean I was right to fight? I suspect that without those painful interventions he’d have grown into a giant illiterate amoeba. I’m probably wrong though, and he’d be the first to confirm that. Because in his mind, I’m a giant PIA! I guess if I’d had a motherhood motto, it would have been ‘do it for them while they can’t; make them do it once they can.’ Which basically involves being one hell of a nag. Because of course it’s easier/quicker/more efficient to do it for them. My (mostly ignored) war cry was: I’m your mother not your slave! He truly didn’t understand the difference. Well (did I mention?) he’s at Uni now, I must have done something right because I’m still his mother and he functions more or less independently without me! I could end this here, on a note of self-satisfaction, but this is a reflection, remember? I’m supposed to focus on what I could have done better. Pretty much everything, if I’m honest. I swear he doesn’t know how proud I am of him, how much I love him. I had high expectations, sure, but I’d hoped it was obvious that this was because I knew he was perfectly capable. But French mothers expect their kids to be geniuses who will go on to rule/save/at the very least vastly improve the world, so I guess we’re never satisfied. Our kids might feel like they are underachieving. Me, I wanted to avoid giving the world a tyrant; would have been content with a child who could locate the recycling bin. But above all wanted my child to be content and confident. And there’s the heartbreak – I’m not certain. I fear that he doesn’t know how much I love him. I know he worries that motherhood ruined my life (well, I do tend to broadcast how challenging I’ve found it, but challenges help you grow, right? And motherhood was a freely chosen challenge, for me at least). All those fights, all those years of nagging, of asking for more, better, try harder, be prepared to fail, pick yourself up again when you do… Did that trump all the I Love Yous? All the I’m proud of Yous? In his case, I’d wager they did. I’m not too proud to admit that. So I’ll work on that. For his sake and that of his siblings. I’ll yell out the compliments over the noise-cancelling headphones, make sure you can hear them. But kids, I’m your mother, not your friend. I’m out to teach you resilience and independence, not to massage your ego with excessive compliments. I tread a fine line between cossetting you from the big world and preparing you for it. Not an easy task, but someone (who loves you and cherishes you) has to do it. I would hate to have spawned a tyrant, sure, but I cannot handle the thought of saddling the world with a snowflake! So, firstborn child of mine, if you ever read this: I am so proud of you. We’ve come a long way, you and me. I’ve learnt so much from you. I didn’t always get it right but you have evidently survived my errors, so kudos to you! You are on the path to success, but success doesn’t come easy. Nothing worthwhile ever does. Just promise me you’ll NEVER. EVER. GIVE. UP.