A daughter’s view on motherhood

Every interview tells a story and this is no exception.

As parts of the world prepare to celebrate Mother’s Day this weekend, it is my pleasure to share the fragments of understanding that one of my 6-year old daughters revealed during a recent interview at school.

This short interview teaches me one, important thing:  Despite the apparent complexity of modern family life, there is a simplicity to it all that perhaps only our children can reveal to us.

The rest needs no more explanation.  

1. Why did God make mothers?
Because he wanted everyone to have a mummy.  One baby grew into a mummy and that mummy had a baby.  Then that baby grew into a mummy and had a baby.

2. What ingredients are mothers made of?
Babies, bones and skin.

3. Why did you get your mother and not some other mother?
Because I was in my mummy’s tummy.

4. What kind of little girl was your mother?
She liked Barbies.  She played in her bedroom a lot.

5. What did your mother need to know about your father before she married him?
She needed to know my dad’s name first.

6. Why did your mother marry your father?
She talked a lot with my dad and got in love with my dad.

7. Who’s the boss of your house?
My dad.

8. What the different between mums and dads?
Mums like to hug and kiss a lot.  Dads like to work a lot.

9. What does your mother do while you are at school?
She goes to work and sometimes she eats lunch at home to be with the dog.  At work I think she writes e-mails to people like my dad.

10.  If you could change one thing about your mother, what would it be?
Nothing.

Broken, but still successful

Let's face the brutal facts.

Modern family life, even at the best of times, is a messy, complicated, and unpredictable business.  In fact, ask almost anyone to tell the story of their family and it is immediately obvious that they too are an exception to the urban myth of mum, dad, and two point four kids, living together as a harmonious, mutually supportive unit.

Once we start talking about it, in fact, it seems that we all have a ‘mad’ aunt tucked away in dusty photo albums, unresolved family feuds that occasionally explode into life (particularly around Christmas and at weddings), or children that, from time to time, push us to our limits and challenge us to our core. 

In other words, if the myth-makers portray family life as a Sunday afternoon stroll in the park, the sobering reality for most of us is of a cross-country marathon across difficult terrain.  We’re cold, tired, dirty, and it’s as much as we can to do to keep everyone together, motivated, and out of harm’s way.

Sadly, not all families cope under this kind of pressure.  For whatever reason, one or both of the team ‘leaders’ simply reach a point where they choose to pull away from the group and follow a different path, more often than not leaving the children to pick themselves up, navigate the disruption, and carry on as best they can.

The turning point
My own turning-point in the race occurred nearly ten years ago now.  Almost overnight, I went from Sunday afternoon walks in the park to being a ‘Eurostar Dad’, committing myself to a fortnightly journey across the Channel and being the link between two sets of fabulous kids.  In the years that followed, in other words, I did what many dads do following a divorce: simply hold the various fragments of my life together and place them into some kind of meaningful whole. 

Alternate weekends in London were spent at the park, sharing news about school, getting wet, shouting at one another, eating together, watching Match of the Day together, and making each other laugh.  It was almost always the same.  But, then again, we liked our routine and it worked for us. 

My embrace of one child, however, was always felt as absence for another.  How could I forget those two little girls in Brussels, growing up with a father who wasn’t always there, to take them to the park or simply support their mother in the tricky business of raising twins?

Even today, I seem always to be journeying, always somewhere in-between, but it seems to be the least I can do to show my children how forever precious they are to me.

The opinion
In a recent conversation about this non-traditional tale of family life, a ‘friend’ declared to me that, in his opinion, I no longer had a family.  Rather, he went on to explain, I had to face up to the fact that I am now a member of a broken family.  

Putting down the phone, the more I thought about his remarks, the more awkward and resentful I began to feel.

And here’s why.

I’m open to other suggestions, but I’d dare to suggest that all of us are part of families that are intrinsically broken – not just those of us who have gone through the pain of separation and divorce.  That’s right!  In one way or another, we’re all messed up and scarred by the wounds that we have inflicted upon one another – as parents, children, brothers and sisters.  Behind closed doors, all of us guard familial tales of hurt, disappointment, that make us feel ashamed and somehow different from the rest.  So let’s not single out one group as somehow being ‘more broken’ than others.  We’re all hurting.

On the flip side, though, I actually remain deeply optimistic about modern family life – in all its forms – and increasingly find confidence in the ‘elasticity’ of families to accommodate all manner of stresses and strains over long periods of time.  Even when stretched to their limits, modern family life reveals itself to be a positive, meaningful and, ultimately, successful social unit.  At least, that is my story.  Despite everything and despite feeling stretched between two countries for a decade, I can honestly say that I have no regrets and nothing but heartfelt appreciation for every one of those precious moments with those I love the most – moments borne out of the complexity of all the journeys, all the hellos and goodbyes.

A story that is ours to celebrate
Once upon a time, we were all once taught to believe in the perfect, circular shape of ‘mum, dad and two point four children’.  In reality, though, as time passed, many of us found that our families don’t hold this form for long.  We had more children, or less.  We found that we couldn’t have children at all, or decided to adopt.  Extended family members came and went.  We hurt each other and the scars remained.  Family members passed away – leaving a space where they should have been.  Families broke up and attached themselves to other families.

Stretched by our history in all manner of directions, more often than not our stories completely break the mould of a traditional nuclear family.  We break.  We change.  We adapt.  We grow into something unique and generally get used to who we are.  And if we’re honest, some of us wouldn’t have it any other way.

And, in my book, that’s success.

This article was written for publication in TOGETHER magazine, Issue 22, December 2010.

Approaching 40

They say it's when life begins, but to be honest I'm not totally convinced.

 Isn't it possible that someone simply made this story up to comfort a loved one, anxious about the inevitable decline into old(er) age.  I mean, come on, it is no more logical than suggesting that the second half of a game of football is always better than the first.  Of course, it can happen.  Down 3-0 at half time, there's nothing better than seeing my team win 4-3 after extra time.  In reality, though, I'm just as likely to see 11 increasingly tired and demoralised men going through the motions - longing only for the final whistle to blow.

Isn't it also true to say that one of the main differences between life and the 'beautiful game' is the fact that there's no telling when half time actually is?  Worst-case scenario for me, right now, is therefore the possibility that some ‘divine referee in the sky’ already blew up for the interval somewhere around my twentieth birthday, without me noticing. 

That would mean, I should now be playing (or praying) for extra time.

A sobering thought.

Looking back on my life to date, though, however much of it I've actually had, I'm curious about the fact that of all the birthdays my own father celebrated, it is his 40th that I recall most distinctly.  I clearly remember him saying to me how he didn't feel 40 in his head.  As far as he was concerned, he explained, there was nothing in him that suggested that he was anywhere near half time.

And here I am, nearly twenty-five years later, thinking exactly the same.

So just as my father marked out this day for me, I'm hoping that these short notes will be at least enough to give my own children some food for thought as they journey towards life's next milestone.

Kids, here goes...

I'm turning 40, but inside I'm feeling 5.  It may not make so much sense to you now, but as we sit around the dinner table together I often feel that, from the oldest to the youngest, we're all the same - all struggling to make sense of the world, all trying to fit the pieces together, all learning to trust, all trying to keep believing that the tooth fairy, Santa and the magical kingdom of Narnia really do exist.  I know that you will rarely see the child in me, but believe me he's still there: crying sometimes, getting scared often, stomping his feet occasionally, or simply looking for a hug and some reassurance.  Never lose this inner child in you.  Protect it.  Feel proud of it.  Love it unconditionally.

I'm turning 40, but inside I'm feeling 15.  You'll call it denial perhaps, but I still think that I should be able to beat any one of on the football field, at the latest game on the Xbox, or in just about anything we decide to do.  And not only because I'm your Dad, but because in my head I'm still 15 and as fit, dexterous and talented as ever I was.  I'm still as 'cool', still one of the gang.  And even if these days you have to give me a 6-0 lead and play me at Xbox using your 'wrong' hand, before you too quickly relegate me to 'the old man in the car picking you up after practice', just remember that one day it'll be your turn!

I'm turning 40, but inside I'm feeling 25. Twenty-five, I reckon, is a good age to become a Dad.  It's old enough to avoid starring in a teen pregnancy documentary and still young enough to be sure that I don’t get mistaken as ‘Grandpa’ at the school gate.  Even at twenty-five and with several degrees under my belt, though, there was still so much more to being a parent than I could possibly have imagined - and not just the practical business of how to change diapers, heat up bottles at 3am, or the 300 different strategies of potty training.  It's all the emotional stuff that really makes your brain freeze.  So, here I am, fifteen years later, finding myself learning something new almost every day.  Back then, I thought I'd have this parenting thing sussed by now.  But, oh no!  It's as if we'll still on day one.  Believe me, most of the time, being a parent is like living through an episode of Groundhog Day.

I'm turning 40, but inside I'm feeling 80.  Most of the time I'm fortunate that I don't feel my age.  But even if my shiny, new grey hairs betray who I really have become, even before I run onto the football field, I do feel older in one simple respect: if this was to turn out and be the moment when the full time whistle blows, I'd have no regrets and want you all to know that I have already lived a life so full, so enriched by your presence, that I'd feel pretty much the luckiest man alive.  Some men would need to live several lifetimes to experience the joy, love and peace that you have already brought to me. 

So in just a few days, the cake will be eaten (I'm hoping chocolate) and the candles will go back in the drawer until it is someone else's turn. 

And just in case you’re worried, rest assured I won't be writing anything like this again for at least another ten years. 

Assuming I get that far.

So how about that game of FIFA11?  I'm feeling lucky!

While you were arguing

My dear children, this one is for you.

Stop what you are doing for just a moment. Don't worry about who said what, who did what and whose turn it is to sit in the middle. If your brother touches you, let it go. If your sister winds you up, respond with a touch of humour and generosity.

No, we're not there yet.  In fact, the journey is only just beginning.  And anyway, its not about what we do when we 'get there' - its about the 'getting there'. 

So wind down the window and enjoy the view.

When I was about your age, I always imagined that one day I would have the chance to visit this land of adventure and opportunity. And as strange as it may seem to you now, it was my dream growing up to see 'Jaws' at Universal, visit the rockets that stand outside the Kennedy Space Center, and experience the magic of Disney first hand.  Night after night, I remember reading about this stuff in the encyclopaedia next to my bed and wondering how anyone could have turned an entire country into such a wonderful playground for teenage boys.

So, if I'm honest, we're doing this for me as much as for you.  I know that Jaws is not so realistic when you're up close.  I know that Mickey's world is a rip off - where people pay to queue - and that the whole business of space travel today has nothing of the noble romance of yesteryear.  That said, I'd still like you guys to stop telling me that you are bored and let me enjoy my moment.

No, that came out wrong.  I don't want you to think for one moment that I want to do this thing alone.  Quite the opposite.  It's so much more fun with you guys next to me.

Maybe you don't realise it now, but this trip is about all of us creating and laying down stories together - fleeting moments in time that for the rest of our lives - no matter what the future holds, whether together or apart - promise to remind us and define us as a family.

Some might say, perhaps, that I'm just an experience junkie, pretending to be an 'experience architect', passing on to you (my kids) a dangerous habit. And, perhaps, that is true.  But let me tell you this.

When I saw your face as you swam up close to that dolphin; when I recall our conversation after surviving that roller-coaster; and when I think about you drawing breath in awe as you watched the sun set over Manhattan, I cannot help but feel that these moments together are ours to treasure, forever.

For what they are worth, then, this is my gift.

And before I go, there is just one more thing.

While you were arguing in the back seat, you remember that I asked the taxi driver to drop us off at the front entrance of the swanky hotel and not the side. This was frustrating for your guys, as it meant we sat several minutes longer in the Manhattan traffic. 

You were tired, I know. Believe me, though, I did it for a reason.

I wanted you to have your moment.  I wanted you to be the stars.  I wanted you to live the so-called american dream.

I was hoping that you would stop worrying about who was in the middle and who said what.  I wanted you to wind down the window and simply enjoy being the centre of the world - just for a moment.

Not just the centre of mine.

One day, if not now, you'll understand and want the same for your own kids.

Your Dad.

10 things my child’s teacher has taught me about good parenting

Good teachers enable our children to write a different kind of future.  That’s a fact.

As another school year end, however, I left thinking about the way in which the best teachers have not only gifted my children with an empowering learning experience; but, along the way, have unwittingly taught me a thing or two about how to be a ‘dad’.

Here’s the short story.

1. My children need me.  Our children need us to wake them up in the morning, prepare their clothes, make their sandwiches and get them to school on time; they need us to help them hang up their coat, kiss them goodbye and promise that we’ll see them at the end of the day.
2. My children don’t need me.  It takes a while for some of us to realize, but the entrance to the classroom is marked by an invisible line; a threshold beyond which the genetic claim upon my children changes; a reminder of the fact that ultimately these little ones do not and cannot depend upon me alone, but will enjoy a variety of ‘significant others’ in their lives – each one enriching and bringing themes of hope, love and life to their unfolding story.
3. My children thrive with consistency.  It’s the relentless, daily routines that make a difference, bring security, and make their world predictable.  In the curious land of our infancy, consistency is king and, as parents, we ignore it at our peril.
4. My children enjoy inconsistency.  Bring a tree trunk into the classroom and ask the children to paint it in bright colours; take a trip to the local supermarket and draw a map of the journey; meet a local author in the library and listen to him tell his stories – it is this occasional disruption of the routine, the element of surprise, that fills my children with a sense of awe and wonder.  As a parent, it is good to be reminded to be creative and ‘shake it up’ occasionally for those entrusted to our care.
5. My children are part of a group.  There comes a moment for all of us, when we suddenly realize that our weekends are destined to be spent wrapping presents for 5-year olds and driving our kids to remote locations across town, in search of the house with balloons out front.  It is at this same moment we realize that our children actually have a secret life beyond our reach.  It’s like when I walk across the playground and an older child comes up to my daughter and greets her.  For some reason, I am always taken aback – and somehow left feeling that she’s still too young for that kind of independent socializing.
6. My children stand out from the group.  A class is nothing more than a list of names on a rota.  At least, that is what some teachers would have us believe; except the good ones – who, with every word, make me feel that my child is the most precious, unique, and deserving child they have ever taught.   I continue to be in awe of how they manage to do this with all twenty children in the class.  As a parent of six, I am already finding it a challenge!
7. My children can do nothing.  There’s never enough time for anything these days.  We find ourselves as families rushing from one place to another, desperately trying to fit everything in.  ‘Rest time‘ in the classroom, though, is different.  It speaks of quality rather than quantity – and the importance of balance in our daily routines.  I need to get better at teaching my children that ‘nothing’ is sometimes ‘everything’.
8. My children can do anything.  As we grow into adults, most of us find ourselves locked into certain roles.  Perhaps that’s why I still love the ‘dressing up corner’ of the classroom; reminding me that we can do and be anything.  Children desperately need to believe that and, even more, believe in themselves.  I love it when my little girl comes home and tells me that, when she grows up, she wants to be a chef, a fireman, a cleaner or a hedgehog!
9. My children will forget.  Lost property bins flourish around young children.  It’s just in their nature to forget these various items of clothing from time to time; just as it is part of learning involves forgetting, making mistakes, and failing occasionally.  Some teachers believe that forgetting is bad and that memorization is key.  Great teachers, I have learned, simply help children to re-trace their steps and find their way back to whatever it is they have lost.  Great teaching never, ever involves humiliation or red-faces.  
10. My children will remember.  Perhaps this is the most important lesson of all.  It’s not the big things, nor the expensive things, nor the fancy things that will stay with them into adulthood.  As parents, I know we know that; but it is good to be reminded that what stays with children are the moments we offer them when they can be utterly themselves and know, in that same moment, that they are safe, loved, and truly unique. 

J., M., A., and C. (you know who you are) – you are all wonderful teachers and it has been my privilege to learn this much from you these past months.

Thanks also for making a difference to the future that our children are writing for themselves.

Time to enjoy the summer break.