fear Archives : Me, Annie Bee.

Hey Wills, you’re not alone.

Anna — Mon, 21 Nov 2016 12:21:28 +0000

Last week, during a visit to Vietnam, Prince William admitted he struggled with parenthood. The internet was vicious! HOW VERY DARE HE? cried Twitter. “U don’t know meaning of struggle”* “This man has no idea what it means to struggle in life” *SLOW HAND CLAP* Well done the internet. You completely missed the point. I don’t for one minute believe that when William said he struggled he meant that he was strapped for cash or he was weighed down with laundry. He wasn’t admitting he found it a struggle because they need a new boiler but the kids need new shoes. He isn’t talking about a materialistic struggle. He is talking about a mental struggle. The one many of us go through when we question every little decision we make and action we take. When we second guess the impact the words we say will have on our children in years to come. The struggle of feeling like your wading through treacle rather than frolicking in leaves. The struggle of making decisions based on the impact it will have on a whole family unit rather than the impact it will have on yourself. The struggle of trying to encourage your children to be thankful, thoughtful, caring and kind little humans. It’s bloody hard work. The struggle of parenthood isn’t a working class/upper-class argument. It doesn’t matter how much money we have. It doesn’t matter how big or small a support network we have surrounding us. We can all find ourselves struggling for one reason or another. I’ve said it before, none of us go into parenthood thinking it will be a breeze but we can’t truly prepare for the impact on our lives whether it be our first, second or third (I assume). To sit behind a keyboard telling someone they aren’t allowed to declare parenting a struggle is a cop out. None of us have the right to decide that someone else can’t find things difficult because they have more money than us or a bigger house. It’s not for us to decide who is allowed to struggle and who isn’t. It’s also not for us to decide whose struggles are worse than others. It’s for us to support others who are struggling, if we can. Parenting levels the field. No matter how rich or poor we are we’ve all been sicked on. We’ve all discovered that questionable mark on our top once we enter polite company. We’ve all had pasta thrown at us. We’ve all questioned whether it’s a freckle or a speck of shit on our arm Give the man a break. He may be heir to the throne but he’s still a parent like the rest of us and I applaud him for admitting this. Wills, if you’re reading this, if you ever need a chat about this whole family/parenting malarky just drop me a line. You, Catherine and the children can pop round for tea and a chat. *No one is actually going to take offence at something written by someone who can’t even be bothered to write the whole word ‘you’.

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“It’s been a bad day, please don’t take a picture”

Anna — Thu, 26 May 2016 09:27:00 +0000

I have debated long and hard whether I was going to share this post today. I’m aware that it shows me at a terribly low point, at my worst and that makes me feel incredibly vulnerable. Saying that, I started this blog largely to be humourous but more importantly to be an honest and hopefully relatable account of the joys of parenthood. Something that maybe someone could read and go “Thank God it’s not just me/my child”. And so, I decided to share. I guess if I get uncomfortable with it I can always delete it. Just do me a favour, if you see me in actual real life, just pretend like you didn’t read it OK? Cheers. Deep breath……. Here we go…… This is a message that I sent Rory the other morning. Do you ever feel like this? Do you ever feel like you don’t deserve your children? Like they would be better with a different parent because your consistently failing them at every turn? I do. A lot. We’ve been having a few difficult nights with Aoife. She’s been shouting and crying at bedtime for no reason that I can get to the bottom of. “Mummy I need you” I go upstairs “What do you want?” “I want Daddy” “But you shouted me” “I changed my mind” Rory goes up and the scene is played out again. We’ve tried ignoring the shouting. It doesn’t work. We agree with her set times that we will go and check on her, she chooses the times, but starts shouting before we’re even at the bottom of the stairs. She wants her bedroom door closing. I close it and go downstairs. She gets out of bed to open it so I can hear her shouting better. She wants socks on. She wants water the water next to her bed passing. She wants a book. She wants to go in my bed. All of these demands screamed and cried at me. Initially I try to explain she can get her own water/socks/books. That doesn’t work. In the end I fulfil each request only for her to declare she wants to move house. The only request I can’t fulfil. This leads to more tears. She shouts “I need you mummy. I neeeeeeeddddd you” I feel awful “What do you need? ” “I need you” I don’t understand this. I’m here, in the room. Sat on the bed. We’ve had cuddles. I can’t be any more here. I don’t know what you want from me. After an hour I’m fraught, confused and at a loss. I’m meant to be making dinner but I’ve not even got as far as the kitchen. I’ve tried being calm, I’ve tried reasoning with her, I’ve tried explaining that I’ve done all that is being asked of me but nothing is making her feel better. Aoife starts shouting more and then I’m shouting and saying mean things. The neighbours are probably thinking we’re trash and calling social services. She’s I’m my bed, she’s got everything she asked for (except the house move) and still she cries. I eventually go downstairs and cry. Big, ugly cry. I can’t stop. I feel frustrated. I feel useless. I feel angry. I feel selfish. I hate myself. I hate how I handled it, or didn’t. I hate that she’s probably thinking how awful I am. I hate that I was mean. I hate that she probably would rather have a different mummy (I believe Miss Bolton is top of the list). I believe deep down she deserves a different mummy. A better one than me. I cry at how much I’ve potentially scarred her by being a short tempered bitch. I think of her in 20 years recounting this night in a therapists office. I feel guilty for thinking I deserved an hours quiet to myself. I feel exhausted. As I sit crying and hating myself I think how I need someone to give me a hug and tell me it’s OK. I’m not alone. Then it strikes me. Maybe Aoife needs me to give her a hug and just tell her it’s OK. Maybe she just needs to cry and have a hug*. The most simple role of a parent and I’ve forgotten it. *Incidentally the hug didn’t work.

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“It ain’t no use putting up your umbrella till it rains.”

Anna — Mon, 29 Feb 2016 11:50:00 +0000

My name is Anna and I am a worrier. I never used to worry, in fact in the BC years I was a ‘couldn’t carelesser’, but the minute I found out I was pregnant I started to worry. Will I be a good incubator? Will I want to eat coal? How will I get this baby out? (Yes, I knew how nature intended me to remove it but I wasn’t convinced, I didn’t even read past week 33 in my ‘how to be pregnant book’ as it all started to get a bit icky). Once Aoife was here safely the worry didn’t lessen, it got worse! Is she eating too much? Is she eating too little? Is she too hot? Is she too cold? Why isn’t she sleeping? Why is she sleeping too much? (Ohhhhh the panic the first night they sleep through!) The overriding worry from the start though has been that I will fail in helping her become the very best person she can be. I find myself worrying that I’m constantly sending mixed messages to my little girl and I won’t be able to help her grow into the wonderful woman I know she will be. I always said if I had a daughter she wouldn’t be a ‘pink’ little girl. It turns out I had no say in the matter. She was drawn to Disney Princesses and glitter like a budgie to a mirror but I worry that her love of princesses and shiny things will stop her being seen as the wonderful, clever little girl she is. I worry that she won’t feel able to stand up for herself and have courage in her convictions (then I get told off for putting the Elsa sock on the Anna foot and realise this is probably one concern I don’t need to dwell on). I worry that when she’s at school people might not want to play with her and she’ll feel bad. I worry that when she’s at school she might not want to play with others and might make them feel bad. I worry that her liking that Little Mix song is the start of a love of ‘pop’ music. I worry that one day she might sing that Lily Allen song in class, not the radio edit. I worry that I might be making her grow up too quick. I worry that I might smother her and make her come across as a bit immature. I worry that letting her do her homework straight after school might make her think I’m pushing her too hard. I worry that not letting her do her homework straight after school might make her think I didn’t care about her school work. I worry that her seeing me put my game face on every morning will make her think that’s just what everyone does and she will want to hide her beautiful face too soon. I worry that every comment, made by others, on her weight since she was born will be floating around in her subconscious waiting to leap into action when she’s 11. I worry that growing up she’ll be too much like me and I’ll be fretting about what she’s getting up to when she’s not at home (though she’ll be having loads of fun that I just don’t want to know about) I worry that growing up she’ll be nothing like me and she’ll be home all the time, going nowhere and then full of regrets for all the fun she didn’t have. I worry that she will settle and make do, plod along falling into a relationship and a job and an existence. I worry that she’ll be flitting off here, there and everywhere with fingers in every pie but no actual substance to her life and maybe ending up lonely. I worry that she’ll grow up resenting me for the things I did for her. I worry that she’ll grow up resenting me for the things I didn’t do for her. Then I remember that she’s five. She’s just five. And though these are (mostly) legitimate worries I need to stop worrying about them. If I carry on she’ll be 18 and I’ll have worried my way through her whole childhood. Instead I’m going to let her do pretty much whatever she wants (within reason, respecting the rules of the house and following basic health & safety) so she can be who SHE truly wants to be right now this very minute. I’m not playing that Little Mix song anymore though.

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