Letting go as they grow

I had a nightmare the other night (well technically in the early hours of the morning as I'd been up most of the night with Violet.) So as I was saying, I had a morning-mare the other morning.

I dreamed we were in Singapore with my family and my brother took Cherry to a fair. When he came home he told me he'd lost her.

In that illogical dream-like way, a translucent Cherry was by my side as I searched frantically for her, high and low. We revisited the merry-go-round she'd been riding when she disappeared. It was smoky and still. There was no sign of my baby girl and nowhere she could have possibly gone. I turned to my brother. The ghostly Cherry at my side had gone.

When I woke up Cherry - actual Cherry - was bouncing by the side of my bed. I have never been so relieved to see her.

I thought about the dream on the way to pre-school this morning as Cherry barrelled along ahead of me on her little balance bike. In a typically dramatic way, letting go and the associated risks are clearly on my mind.

The invisible rope between my older daughter and I has turned into elastic. It's stretching.

For the last three years and six weeks I've been entirely content that my role in life is to, slowly, become surplus to my children's requirements. It's to hold them close until they are ready to go, and then it's to let them. It's to help them learn to live in the world, and then watch them as they go off and do just that.

I am already not without regrets. I wish I'd held Cherry closer, for longer, when she was a baby. Back then I felt the best way was to urge her towards independence and I hurried her out of my arms, off my breast and gave her a wooden truck to 'learn to walk' with, a dummy to replace the comfort of my breast.

Then in her second year I felt I needed to reattach and re-establish the bond we shared. I held her closer than ever. I never urged, never pushed, never suggested she climb the bigger climbing frame as she stayed, content, with the smaller one. I never told her she was a 'big girl now' when she asked to fall asleep in my arms, never chastised that 'that's just for babies' when she expressed a desire to latch on whilst her sister was breastfeeding.

I know that my role is to nurture the connection and closeness I have with my children and trust them to move towards independence when they feel they are ready. I no longer 'help' them physically or academically, they learn things in their own time. If they're stuck or feel unsafe, I will try and help them verbally rather than physically (safety permitting, of course).

If they can climb up somewhere, my theory is they are probably entirely capable of getting down.

I have put huge amounts of thought, time, research and effort into coming to the conclusion that the less I interfere with my children, the better. They learn by watching me, so I watch my own behaviour and actions carefully instead of hovering over theirs.

I trust my children.

And yet. And now.

Cherry is running ahead of me, laughing as she plays games of her own, as I walk along at Violet's excruciating pace. She's hurtling around on her bike. She's sat proudly atop a fat black Shetland pony.

She's a whirling ball of energy and excitement and new skills and physicality and she swings between cautious and fearless.

All of a sudden I am heart-in-mouth. I am the cautious Mummy I never thought I'd be. I am fighting the urge to bubble-wrap her. To unzip my skin and put her back inside my body, keep her safe always, where no harm can come to her.

Having always believed so strongly in letting my children GO as they grow, now I have to put my theories into practice. I have to watch Cherry fall, and hurt herself, and cuddle and comfort her without trying to take her pain away for her.

I have to hold back my urge to scream CAREFUL! 100 times a day.

It's harder than I thought it would be. Knowing that I completely believe in what I am doing is one thing, but having to watch it and feel it is entirely another. I've always said I am far from risk-averse, but few things actually test your theories about yourself like your children.

I have no issue in trusting her to carry a china plate across the room, a glass of water, or any other breakable/spillable items or objects. She's been chopping vegetables with me with my sharp knife for a fair while now. I barely blink when she pick up a pair of scissors.

But watching her run so far from my side feels like another step entirely.

I have to trust her, and trust myself that I have empowered and armed her with the confidence and capabilities she needs for me to to let her go.

I wonder if it's this last part I find hardest of all. Her growing up feels so sudden and so fast.

Have I done enough, or by my own definition not done enough?

At least I still get hold her close when she does come back, because she is after all, just three.

(Good reading on this subject is Letting Go as Children Grow by Deborah Jackson and this post by Lucy, which apparently caused huge controversy but to be honest it just read like common sense to me)

Living Arrows 1/52

For a few years now I've watched as bloggers I love have charted and documented their children through photography, week by week.

I absolutely love the idea of recording my children as they change and grow. I'm going to take part in the Living Arrows project, in which you share a photograph of your child (or children, in my case!) every week.

The project, now in its third year, is inspired by the following quote by Khalil Gibran:

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth

As I watch my two children grow and change I can't help but see myself, the bow, reflected back, in good ways and bad. I understand more and more that my role is to fire my children into the world armed with the weapons they need - courage, kindness and love, always, always love. 

I take photographs of my children all the time. To the point whereby I have to tell myself 'no, STOP' sometimes when actually taking a picture would be a really, really bad idea. Like yesterday when Cherry and Violet were wandering along holding hands and giggling and I thought 'that would be such a cute picture' but in between attempting to grab my phone out of my bag and keep hold of the buggy my concentration wavered and when I looked up again Violet was marching determinedly towards the road!

Lapses in judgement aside, I have plenty to share.

First up is V.

The softness of your face! Sometimes I want to freeze time and keep you forever my little baby. It's been a long time since you were that tiny peaceful contented baby and now you never stop moving, chatting and making mayhem. But when you sleep, I see that gentle, contented peace you carry around inside your perfect little self. 

Oh, this girl and sleep - will we ever get there? It's been nearly 17 months and she's as erratic as ever. Over Christmas she actually gave us two separate nights in which she only woke once - once, not until 4.30am. I felt like I'd been on a spa break! But with the new year came two new teeth and we're back to waking hourly. Last night she was inexplicably awake from 11.30pm until 4am. CRY. 

But all it takes is one look through my burning, reddened eyes at her beautiful face, captured here in that rarest of states, asleep, and I would forgive her anything. She's at the most delightful age, her comprehension and speech impress me every day and her sense of humour is particularly advanced for one so young!

You announced this morning you were a princess and needed a crown. You went to soft play with Violet and Daddy and napped in the car on the way home. When you woke up you were all at sea. You climbed onto my lap and rested your face in my chest. 'Mummy! I don't want to be a princess any more.' I asked if you just wanted to be a Cherry and you nodded into my jumper.

Cherry has started properly at her Montessori pre-school this term. Last term she did two three-hour sessions a week, this week she is doing three three-hour sessions and going to lunch club for two of them. All in all she's out for 11 hours a week. After a year at home with the pair of them full-time, being able to hear myself THINK for 11 hours a week is absolutely heavenly! She's so funny about pre-school, she seems to enjoy it when she's there, talks about it a lot, she's MAD about lunch club and is making friends. But every single day when we get up (at 5am, this week!) she asks not to go to pre-school. 

She's a sensitive soul and not the most adaptable child, she's very resistant to change and responds well to routine. So I am hopeful that going to pre-school more often will help her adjust. If I thought she genuinely didn't like it, I would stop her going immediately, but she is so bright and happy and full of chatter and confidence when I pick her up, and talks so often about her teachers and friends, that I am sure it's the right thing for her. 

She's at such a wonderful age, such a funny, creative, loving, capable little thing. Bursting with energy and happiness and love and a total motormouth. She's a real handful!. 

I am so, so, so grateful to be these incredible girls' bow. 

Gingerbread and self-esteem

Yesterday Cherry wandered over to me brandishing a small rolling pin. 'Look Mummy! Look what I got.'

Without thinking I said 'We need to bake some cookies.' Her eyes lit up. When Cherry wants to do something, she really wants to do it and Cherry likes cookies. 'Bake cookies! Shall we bake cookies, Mummy? Shall we bake cookies?'

So we baked gingerbread. Only the recipe we used called for golden syrup and I didn't have any, so we used honey instead. And we used wholemeal flour instead of white. As we mixed I opened my mouth to warn Cherry that our gingerbread might not be as nice as the gingerbread men we get from the bakery.

Then I thought better of it and closed my mouth again.

I think often about the things I do with my children and how it affects their self esteem. Apparently I'm incapable of even baking out-of-season sweet treats without pondering the impact upon their emotional development.

It occurred to me I bite my tongue a lot these days rather than surrender to my natural impulse which is to apologise in advance for the perceived inadequacy of what I am producing.

Cherry asks me to draw with her a lot. I'm really, really bad at drawing. Whenever she asks me to draw for her - usually a helicopter - I want to warn her that it won't be any good. I want to say 'this won't look much like a helicopter I'm afraid'. Or, 'I'm sure Daddy could draw you a much better helicopter than this. Mummy's not very good at drawing.'

But I don't.

SHE thinks my helicopters look great. But more importantly she thinks HER helicopters look great too. I can see the pride in her as she shows me them. She takes pride in many things, my girl. The size of her poos (seriously, she's entitled to. That child can SHIT.) The songs she sings, fudging the words as she goes. 'Playing' her piano as Violet drones into the accompanying microphone, creating a cacophony that only a mother could love.

The more I observe my children the more convinced I am that self-esteem comes from the process of doing, regardless of the quality of the outcome or the praise received. Traditionally praise was thought to raise self-esteem. Tell your children how brilliant they are, frequently. Concentrate on something they are good at and lavish them with praise when they do something 'well'.

Except I tend to believe that children find praise insincere and creepy, and rather self-serving, because it often is. Instead I use the classic 'say what you see'. Tell me about your picture. You've drawn a helicopter! It's green! You look like you really enjoyed that! Are you happy with it? And so on.

I want her to take joy in doing, just for herself.

If I begin every one of our creative sessions by apologising, it will only be a matter of time before she does too. Modelling is one of the most powerful parenting 'methods' there is.

If I apologise and draw attention to my perceived failings, and point out the flaws in everything, she will learn to do the same.

Instead I want her to learn that it doesn't matter if she doesn't have all the ingredients in her cupboard. If she thinks about it and she wants to badly enough, she can still make gingerbread men.

And when they're fresh out of the oven and in lovely shapes dusted with icing sugar, all tempting on a plate, they will still taste just as nice and nobody will know she used honey instead of golden syrup.