…Versus the unvarnished reality

I have a problem: I do want to be a grandmother. But my daughter has specifically asked me to write this post exploring how my expectations of having children matched the reality. Telling the whole truth and nothing but the unvarnished truth might not be conducive to grannyhood. Because the reality isn’t exactly plain sailing. As her mother, I ought to warn her, right?

But who listens to their mother?!

Anyway, if you want kids, you won’t heed the warnings. I should know, I’m a midwife. Every single antenatal consultation I’d given should have been a red flag. Every birth I attended should have triggered a piercing alarm. The warnings could not have been clearer, or more obvious or more explicit.

I still went ahead.I’ve alluded to this a few times in this blog: how our vision of parenthood is dreamily, hopelessly, hilariously different to the reality. For starters, we’re all convinced we will do better than our parents. Even when we are living proof that our parents did ok! Equally, when confronted with a (what turns out to be your average) snotty, tantrummy, picky-eating, occasionally bitey toddler, we just know with absolute certainty that ours will be different. By which we mean perfect.

Our progeny will:

– Be born following a drug free unassisted labour, in a carp-filled pool possibly with a whalesong soundtrack and definitely candles. Oh and no pain. Pain is for losers who didn’t properly internalise the hypnobirthing mantras.

– Have an ‘off’ switch. Needless to say the child sleeps at night. And an hour in the morning. And 2 hours in the afternoon. The off switch will never ever involve a screen.

– Understand that they are loved, will respond with love and this will be reflected in their words and their behaviour.

– Be gentle, they wouldn’t hurt a fly let alone a younger sibling. Only other people’s kids behave disgracefully, starting conflicts instead of using their words to deescalate and resolve disagreement over who plays with which toy…

– Be trainable; after a few short years, they will become a helpful member of the household, they just need a little assistance at first.

– Always do their best, aided by an impeccable moral compass which will guide their every action.

– Be unaffected by puberty hormones. Because by the time they hit adolescence, they will have aced life in general, achieving grade 8 in two instruments, having read all the classics, earning black belts in various marshall arts, getting straight As and playing as captain of the rugby team.

– Respect their elders, never refering to them disparagingly as Boomers, never failing to give up their seats.

– Have predictable likes and dislikes which are communicated using words, and don’t fluctuate like the weather in April. They will like their veggies, their imagination-enhancing toys, physical exercise, school, reading and instrument practice.

– Understand your values, and live by them too because,  duh! How else will they turn into responsible adults who contribute meaningfully to society?

Needless to say your career progression will be unimpeded by this picture perfect addition to your life. Because how hard can it be to go back to work, I mean, there’ll be a dad, for sure. Plus, people will be queuing up to look after your little angel for free… After all, it takes a village, right?

The reality is a smidgen tougher. Because what you get is a baby human. What you get is:

– A normal (uncomfortable, stressful, nauseous, sleep-deprived) pregnancy and a straightforward (hospital, epidural, a little help to get to the finish line) birth. There are scars. You are scathed.

– An adorably cute mini tyrant who has zero concerns other than meeting their immediate needs for physical comfort at no cost to themselves.

– A picky eater who scorns your attempts to feed them gut-biome-supporting foods. They are only hungry for snacks and dessert and are not prepared to negotiate.

– A fussy dresser who will not engage with the daily necessity of wearing weather appropriate clothing.

– A hygiene refusenik who won’t suffer the indignity of a nappy change, contact with soap, or immersion in warm water (an icy muddy puddle is acceptable), or any interaction with a toothbrush. Toothpaste will be tolerated as a snack, not as a cleansing agent.

– Unending mess: bog standard filth which includes but isn’t limited to mud, excrement and food (spilt, thrown and/or vomitted), perma-clutter, unpaired socks (you’ll find its twin eventually), broken toys, and a vast array of  just-in-case-ical stuff. Attempts to declutter are futile because you don’t have time. Also, you don’t have permission to throw out your little tyrant’s treasures, namely their kindergarten artwork, his outgrown batman costume, her princess dress, her visibly abused and neglected dolls, his crashed broken cars, her glitter which only ever stuck to the inside of your nose and the corner of your eyes, the happy meal toys they own even though you’ve never taken them to the golden arches. And when you have a mahoosive, deep diving, time- consuming but ultimately satisfying junk-annihilation session you have to keep schtumm about your herculean labour lest it be undone.

All communication is loud, whingy, tearful, snotty, and occasionally bitey and kicky and punchy because actions speak louder than words. You should know better than to offer healthy foods/limit screen time/enhance learning/enforce bedtime… I mean, come on, what were you thinking?

Love? Well obviously they are loved. Unconditionally. It should be perfectly obvious to them. There’s no way they’d even be alive if you didn’t adore them. They are your creation and you’ve put your soul into raising them. But, you know, if you did it wrong, if they behave monstrously, that’s on you. Remember, they never asked to be born. Maybe you read the wrong manuals. Maybe you didn’t use your words properly, maybe you even lost your temper. Perhaps if you’d played more Mozart to them when you were pregnant…

Puberty is a sh!tshow. Just as you thought your little humans were getting the hang of tolerably civil behaviour, the hormones come crashing in and you lose 10 years of painstaking progress overnight…

Obviously your career is on life-support due to inadequate affordable childcare and sodding never-ending school holidays, inset days, bank holidays, sick days… The dad?  Straight out of Never Never Land. Turns out he never grew up. He can babysit, though, so there’s that. Oh, and there’s no village. If you are lucky,  like I was, you’ll have your mother. That’s a game changer.

Fortunately, the best things in life are earned through hard work,  patience, resilience, determination and sheer pigheadedness. Parenting is hard. But the rewards are out of this world.

Full disclosure: it’s a long game.

Don’t take my word for it though, sweet child of mine. I know you’ll do a much better job. Your kids (if you choose to have them) will be little reflections of the sun, perfect rainbows, sparkling stardust.

And I’ll be your village, you know, just in case…