Mum Overboard

I witnessed something quite spectacular in the doctors' surgery a couple of weeks ago. A be-tattooed biker type fellow, complete with leather jacket and dark 'don't mess with me/ even look at me' glasses, sat on the far corner of the seat nearest the door.  Short of waiting in the car park, he couldn't have been further away from the rest of us.  A few sniffling patients were exchanging pleasantries, along the lines of 'Haven't we been waiting ages etc?' but no one glanced in the direction of the aforementioned biker.  No one that is except a scruffy toddler who had set her heart on him reading her a story. One by one she brought him the dog-eared story books, crossing the entire width of the waiting room with each one.  Fortunately, her mum didn't stop her.   Angry Biker was accepting each gift bestowed so generously upon him; he was even smiling.  Yes, angry 'don't mess with me biker', who I would have avoided at all costs, turned...

I lost count of how many people told me this would get easier at the three month mark.   I longed for the time when I could be awake during daytime hours, when the weight of my boobs didn’t give me back ache and I had time in the morning for more than a cursory encounter with the shower.   However, I feared putting too much on this hope in case it turned out to be unreliable; a bit like the advice about shaking my baby’s bottom to stop him crying. It’s true – at least for me – there is something magical about three months and with the three month spring in my slightly lighter step I thought I’d share with you some of the pondering I’ve been doing: 1.       1) When you see a women in a supermarket with a baby she is living on the edge.     There’s something about Lidl that Elias detests.   Unless I can induce him into a full on sleep comma before we go in (careful nap timing required), he’ll cry and I’ll spend the trip aski...

Not all super heroes wear their knickers over their tights, gloat about x-ray vision, parade their web-shooting powers in public. Not all super heroes flex their guns, frolic about on city roof tops, iron their capes to make sure they flutter 'just so'. The super-est of all heroes can serve up breakfast whilst getting a two year old dressed, magic away tears and the monster under the bed, shape-shift between doctor, teacher and Sergeant Major . The super-est of all heroes is easy to spot; you'll find her waiting at the school gate.  She needn't flash her pants to draw attention to herself. "Honour her for all that her hands have done,      and let her works bring her praise at the city gate." Proverbs 31

I'm quite organised really.  In fact, scrap that, I'm as organised as a Filofax in its heyday.  On my long, long maternity leave (the era I will refer to as pre-Elias) I sorted everything from my teaching folders to my jewellery box; even Zane's socks found themselves in neat pairs. After about three weeks of determined sorting, I was ready; it was officially time for baby Duxbury to make a grand entrance. I borrowed a birthing ball to help him along...and we went for a curry...two curries...and I committed to stair climbing and long walks. In the end we drove to far away places like Horsey and Fakenham daring my little squatter to pack up and leave.  Needless to say, baby Duxbury was reluctant to fit to my schedule; he would not be sorted.  This, in the world of a woman who lives her life in accordance with a school bell, spelt disaster.  I realised God had a lesson for me to learn pre-Elias. It's confession time friends: I'm a dirty, dirty control freak....