Routine Reflections

I’m currently slap-bang in the muddle of what I describe annually as the “birthday binge”. All three of our children’s birthday celebrations within five farking festive weeks of each other. So it’s a time of cake and carnage. Fairy lights and financial free-fall. It’s also a time when I reflect on being a mother. What I’ve learnt so far. What I know I’ll never learn. The ups. The downs. The upside downs. Every year I marvel at my children’s smarts. And every year I’m mortified by just how stupid they can be. The eternal pendulum of maternal pride and shame.

A number of my good friends are currently pregnant with their first babies. On the rare occasion I’m asked to share any advice with expectant mums who’re flushed with hope and hormones, I suggest that a strong stomach, a good sense of humour and an annual subscription to a wine club that delivers can pretty much see anyone through anything during at least the first couple of years. All gospel truth, obvs. But this year, I’ve decided to share a pearl of parenting wisdom that I’ve only just discovered. And it's taken three children and nearly nine years to find it.

It should come as no surprise that my A-type personality can’t cope well with chaos. I analyse, organise, OCD the stuffing out of pretty much everything. I’m not alone in this though. There are a lot of us out there. People-pleaser perfectionists who strive to garner control in a world that’s out of control. Some hide it better than I do. I've learnt to simply accept it. It's how I handle life. And it's how I planned to handle parenthood. The parenting gurus all supported it. They advised me to establish a routine as quickly as possible. Babies thrive on structure, they said. Babies need boundaries, they said. Don’t let your baby get into any bad habits, they said. You’ll never sleep, they said.

I’ve realised that it’s all bollocks, really. A strict routine for an infant is all about the mother’s need and has nothing to do with the infant. In my opinion and in my experience, a baby needs their mother and her boobs (or bottle, depending on your feeding situation). They need to be held. They need to be loved. No rigorous routines. No cry-it-out sleep training. No we-can't-leave-the-house-during-nap-time. They don’t need the cribs, lights, rockers, pillows, music and all the pricey paraphernalia. They need you. Not on your schedule. On theirs. Never have I felt less of a failure as a mother than when my carefully crafted routine was kaibosched to all kak and my child didn’t feed/burp/shite/sleep on schedule. I revered the routine with my first two children. It broke me. And worse, it broke them. And so I threw away the rulebook with my third. And we’re all happier for it.

I wish at the brink of the birth of my firstborn, someone had said to me “Sal, you’re going to want to control everything. And you’re going to try to. And that’s ok. That’s your need. That’s nearly 30 year’s worth of your coping strategy kicking in. Being a mother is different though. It’s different to how you’d prepare for a new job. A new relationship. A new city. It’s the biggest undertaking of your life. It’s the one thing where you can’t practice to make perfect. Because there isn’t any practice. And there isn’t any perfect. You can’t control it. So just go with it. Be gentle. Listen. Trust your instinct. You are not a moron. You are a mother. And you can do this. Your way."
Hindsight eh. All the help you need... just after you need it. Like a massive sale just after you've coughed up a kidney to buy five air tickets.

There will come a time that your child sleeps through the night. In their own bed. Without their dummy. Or your boob. I don’t know a fifteen year old that sleeps in their parent’s bed, wakes to be nursed, sucks a dummy or willingly wears a nappy. Not even on American TV. There will come a time when your child no longer wants to be in your arms because that’s where they feel safest. Or come to you when they fall. Or call for help on the loo. Or kiss you on the lips. And you will miss the feel of a tiny hand in yours, little arms around your neck, a chubby cheek wedged against your chest.

My eldest will be nine in a few weeks. Nine, almighty. He’s lanky and tall, a bag of bones as my gran would've said. He wears a serious face but behind the frowny facade he's the biggest tease. Every now and again I’ll snatch a sidelong glance at this long lithe one sitting at our kitchen table or draped like a sloth all over our sofa. And the sheer sight of him takes my breath away. How the chap has grown. I still see flashes of the blue-eyed baby he once was. But those days are long gone. He’s a young lad now. And I know it’ll feel like just a moment and he’ll be a man.

So my advice now for new mothers is to ditch the bloody routine. Feck Forget the lot of it. All the schedules, curriculums, clubs and routines you can possibly cram into your i-cal are just around the corner. Let them be babies while they’re still babies. Use a dummy if that’s a comfort. Bring them into your bed for a cuddle. Breast or bottle feed as long as they need. Potty train on their terms. And hold them close every chance you get. Because as the infinitely wise Gretchen Rubin says:
“The days are long, but the years are short.”
And the childhood years are the shortest of them all.

Literally just after each of them was born.

Literally just this weekend past.