Lessons from Queen Victoria

Hermaphrodite Mum 
Three kids and a single mum

I read in The Times newspaper that a quarter of 14-year old girls are depressed. Good grief. The reasons cited for this dip in teenage mental health are familiar - a preoccupation with body image, as well as the pressures of social media and achieving academic success.

The lure of the mobile phone
© Mirko Vitali | Dreamstime

Helpfully, the newspaper provides a little quiz to test your daughter's own mental resilience. So when Quiet One gets home from school, she's barely had time to reach for the biscuit tin before I start firing questions at her.

"In the past two weeks, can you tell me if this statement is true, untrue or sometimes true..."

"Untrue."

"But I haven't told you the statement yet!"

A break from trampolining

Hermaphrodite Mum

Three kids and a single mum

So this is what a lie-in feels like. A house quieter than the grave and no one using me as an indoor trampoline. I almost start to miss them, but I am comforted by the thought of Errant Ex-husband staggering into his bijou kitchen to pour out three bowls of Cheerios while I luxuriate in bed.

One more surprise!
© Salpics32 | Dreamstime.com

I turn over and almost die of shock. Lying on the pillows next to me is a man. In sleep, his face seems almost unrecognisable, but eventually I recall how he came to occupy my bed this Sunday morning, after two years of sleeping alone and a lot of indoor trampolining.  

His eyes flicker open. "Good morning," he says lazily, crooking one arm to rest his head on. "Good morning," I repeat, before politely enquiring: "Did you sleep well?"

This, gentle reader, is Stay-at-home Dad. I met him last night through match.com. We bonded over tapas and one too many cocktails, methinks. My first foray into internet dating has served me well, perhaps too well. He has twin daughters (one's into ballet, the other Brownies) and he spends school hours painting canvases in a garden studio. Alimony from the ex-wife (City hedge-fund manager) keeps them all afloat. 

Bath-etic tragedy

Hermaphrodite Mum

Three kids and a single mother

Last week I made the mistake of throwing away the bath toys, a ruinous act that prompted my six-year old son to say he could never forgive me. The drama that ensued contained elements of a Greek tragedy: mother-son ructions, moral failings, hysterics and even some soul-searching. Who would have thought that a string-bag of decaying bath toys could have sparked such a crisis? Such are the vicissitudes of family life. One minute it's plain sailing and the next you are caught in the eye of the storm.

Reprieved at the last hour

It all started with a spot of belated spring cleaning. In a rare fit of enthusiasm, I went through the house like Kim and Aggie on speed. Jigsaws were dispatched to Oxfam, wardrobes were ransacked for old clothes and dogeared drawings from school 'mysteriously' found their way into the recycling. 

So far so good. Then my tyrannical eye alighted upon the bag of bath toys, each covered in a veneer of black mould. Middle child (my son) barely noticed them anymore and the mould, I decided, presented a health hazard to Non-walking toddler. Into the wheely bin went Thomas the Tank Engine, stacking cups, one puffer fish, a pink squirty tortoise and several yellow ducks.

Fast-forward to bathtime. Middle child was lying stretched out in the bath, refusing to wash himself while I rubbed Non-walking toddler dry.

"Mum, where are all the bath toys?" he asked languidly. 

"Oh, I threw them away. They'd gone mouldy."

"What?" He sat up.

"We'll get some more."

"You mean you threw away my squeezy Thomas the Tank Engine?" he wailed. "That was my favourite!"

"Darling, they were covered in mould! It wasn't even worth cleaning them."

"And what about Torty? Please tell me you haven't thrown away Torty!"

"Who?"

"The pink tortoise - that was my absolute favourite. I can't believe you've done this!"

Inevitably tears and lots of shouting (from him) followed... and persisted all the way until bedtime. Never mind, I thought as I switched off his light to the sound of distant sobbing under the duvet, he'll be over it in the morning.

Bathtime, day two, continued in much the same vein. He even muttered the immortal words: "I will never forget this, Mummy, not ever." On day three, he told me, "I can't believe what you have put me through." (See earlier reference to Greek drama.)

Needless to say, I was losing my nerve and sought advice from friends and family. One advised that next time I should "transition" the toys, in other words park them in a cupboard until their absence has gone safely unobserved. My mother advised, "Don't give in - you need to let him know who's boss." Hmm... 

Day four found me rifling through the wheely bin in the front garden, only to discover a now fetid bag of bath toys, coated in dead leaves and the entrails of the hoover bag. After half an hour of scrubbing them with hot water and Dettol, I returned them to the side of the bath. As soon as I picked Middle child up from school, I told him I had a surprise. His reaction was euphoric and he has been playing manically with the toys ever since. 

"Do you forgive me now?" I asked tentatively.

"Sort of."

"Sort of? After every thing I did to get them back..."

"Alright, keep your hair on, I forgive you," he said, giving me a magnanimous hug.

When I told my mother, she was outraged, but I still think I made the right decision. Knowing Middle child as I do, the purge of the bath toys would have become a stain on his childhood. I also had another (self-justifying) motive. By returning the toys, I showed Middle child that if you want something bad enough, and you are willing to persevere, you might just succeed. Not such a bad life lesson. What's more, Torty and Thomas lived to see another day. Now that's a happy ending.

Hermaphrodite Mum is a fictional creation of Emma Clark Lam

Previous posts by Hermaphrodite Mum:

Brother vs. sister

Growing Pains

Favoured chicks

Prehistoric parenting 

Brother vs. sister

Hermaphrodite Mum
Three kids and a single mother

Upstairs I can hear angry voices bouncing off the walls, punctuated by the banging of a door - twice. 

"I hate you! You are never borrowing my Nintendo, ever again." Slam.

"I don't care, you are just a poo-poo brain." Slam.

Best of friends and the worst of enemies 
© Cheryl Casey | Dreamstime.com

I feel obliged to join the debate. I stand at the bottom of the stairs and yell: "Don't slam the door! How many times have I told you?"

In the kitchen behind me, Non-walking Toddler (NwT) starts calling, "Ma! Ma!" She has been unsettled by my sudden exit.

"It's okay darling." I return to spooning Petits Filous into her baby-bird mouth. "More!" she tells me, pointing at the fridge. 

While I peel the film off a second yoghurt, Middle Child and Quiet One (my eldest) burst into the kitchen seeking adjudication. I listen to their account of what happened - there is injustice on both sides and I am hard-pressed to identify a culprit.

"Look," I reason, "I am busy trying to feed NwT. Why can't you just sort it out between you?"

They turn to each other, hot-cheeked and indignant. "That's enough," I shout over the ensuing argument. "The Nintendo goes on top of the cupboard until you manage to reach an agreement."

"That's not fair," cries Quiet One, "You always take his side!" And she flounces out, batting Middle Child on the head for good measure.

"YOU NEVER WANT TO PLAY WITH ME!" rages Middle Child. I wedge the kitchen door open with my foot before he can reach it to reinforce his point.

There is a jealous gene in our family - it runs through the generations, flaring with intensity in certain characters. In Middle Child, it combines powerfully with maleness and the need to compete. Whenever I hug one of his sisters, he's there within seconds to claim his share of my affection. As a toddler he would plant himself in my lap to prevent me picking up NwT when she cried.

Just recently, Quiet One has also been displaying signs of jealousy. It seems that Middle Child has fostered a sense of rivalry between them. They are the best of friends and the worst of enemies, capable of switching seamlessly between amity and conflict several times a day.

I know from my own childhood that such sibling rivalry is natural and I do my best to contain it by distributing my favours equally. However, the odds are stacked against me: I have three children competing for one parent's attention. 

In the past, my mother has consoled me: "Don't worry they are learning their way in the world and where they belong. They will find their own harmony." 

Halfway through NwT's third yoghurt, she grabs the spoon from me and shakes it at Middle Child, who is glowering in the corner.

"I think she wants you to feed her," I say.

Reluctantly he takes the spoon and begins to heap yoghurt into her mouth. She starts to choke on the third spoonful, but recovers and gamely continues. Middle Child starts to smile in spite of himself, his tongue rolling into his cheek.

"Hey, look at this!" I call out to Quiet One. She slides back into the kitchen to take a peek.

NwT immediately takes the spoon and hands it to Quiet One. After a tentative glance in my direction, Quiet One carefully loads the spoon and pops it into NwT's mouth. Middle Child watches but doesn't protest. After that, my baby diplomat scrupulously alternates the spoon between her siblings. 

"I'm sorry," mumbles Quiet One without looking at her brother. He doesn't reply but his spirits lift and before too long he is trying to dance around the kitchen, his arms wrapped around her waist.

"Let's go and play with your Furbie," he suggests when the feeding frenzy is over.

The truce holds. I know Quiet One will always be the child who says sorry first, but I also know that Middle Child has his own gift. In an attempt to get along with his sisters, he adapts to their tastes even though they differ from his own. After all, the flip-side of jealousy is wanting to fit in and be loved. For a few minutes peace reigns... until NwT starts to howl because I won't allow her a fourth yoghurt. At least she is too small to slam doors.

Hermaphrodite Mum is a fictional creation of Emma Clark Lam

Previous posts by Hermaphrodite Mum:

Growing Pains
Favoured chicks

Prehistoric parenting 

Prehistoric parenting

Hermaphrodite Mum
Three kids and a single mother

I feel as if I am emerging from a dormant state. I open my eyes wide and I finally exit the kitchen. No more slaving over a hot stove, no more clearing up. The e-cloth is threadbare. Christmas is officially over.

At the same moment, a tiny prehistoric creature emerges from an egg the size of a full stop. It has become the newest member of our household: a Triops! This species of crustacean is blessed with three eyes and has existed for millions of years, just hanging out in ponds. The Triops ancestors shared an ecosystem with Tyrannosaurus Rex and now we have one living in our kitchen in a petri dish.

The un-parented Triops 
© 3drenderings | Dreamstime.com

Middle Child was given a "Terrible Triops" kit for Christmas. Ever since we have been peering into our puddle of Volvic spring water, attempting to spy our tiny vibrating hatchling.

I explain to Middle Child that the Triops is a hermaphrodite. "What's that?" comes the inevitable reply. "It means," I say, picking my words with care, "that she doesn't need a daddy to have babies." 

Middle Child pauses for thought. He wipes away a layer of snot laminating his top lip. "So you're like a Triops then," he says, looking me straight in the eye. "You are a herm-afo-dite."

In a manner of speaking, I suppose I am (Errant Husband has taken a sabbatical from parenting). It is also well-known that I have an all-seeing eye at the back of my head. So that's what I am: some kind of human-Triops hybrid.

My eldest comes downstairs - the Quiet One. "What's for supper?" she asks. It is pretty much all she has said today. 

"I'm not sure," I reply, "I've only just cleared up lunch." Then in an attempt to distract her, I say: "Look! The Triops has hatched."

Quiet One leans over the dish. "It's a shame it never gets to meet its mum." 

"What?" asks Middle Child.

"Read your booklet nim-wim. The adults live for about a month, hatch their eggs and then they die. When the babies hatch, it starts all over again."

Middle Child looks to me for affirmation. "So they never get to meet their mum?" he asks in a trembling voice.

"No, love." Middle Child promptly bursts into tears. 

Upstairs there is the echo of a wail. Non-walking Toddler has woken up early from her afternoon nap. I go wearily up to fetch her. Maybe mother Triops was onto something when she cut parenting out of the loop. After all, the species has survived in identical form for more than 200 million years.

Non-walking Toddler stands up in her cot, cheeks flushed and arms akimbo. I pick her up and breath in her warm, yeasty smell. Ah! Maybe there is something to be said for evolution and intensive parenting.

Middle Child appears at the door. "I love you Mama," he says, his face still smudged with tears. I hug them both tight until they shriek.

Downstairs, Quiet One gives an uncharacteristic yell. We all thunder down into the kitchen to discover another hatchling. It is a conundrum - how has this species made it to 2013 without evolving? Middle Child gives his best T-Rex roar to welcome the new arrival.

"Is supper nearly ready?" asks Quiet One, covering her ears.

I sigh and glance round at my four walls. Oh well, I may live in the kitchen, but at least I don't spend my days swimming around a petri dish. Evolution has won me that much.

Hermaphrodite Mum is a fictional creation of Emma Clark Lam