Birthday Parties

Party: A party is a gathering of people who have been invited by a host for the purposes of socializing, conversation, or recreation. A party will typically feature food and beverages, and often music and dancing as well. (Wikipedia)

So, who here loves a good party? I know I do! Except of course when it’s a party of a small person. My small people included.

I know when I was a small person I had birthday parties, but I don’t really remember them. One I do remember was when I was about 8 or 9, and I spent the entire party crying in the bath (no I don’t know why I chose there to cry) because one of my neighbours had eaten my birthday Twix. (Yes, yes I know, spoilt brat does spring to mind!!) But parties when I was young were very simple, you went round to someone’s house, played pass the parcel (with only ONE prize at the end, not with sweets in every layer because heaven forbid a child misses out) You played sleeping lions and had some food. Simple. Fun. But oh no, that is not allowed nowadays. Certainly not where I live. We have to have the loudest, most expensive, craziest parties ever. Ice-skating, horse-riding, swimming, tobogganing, flying to the f***ing mooning! My daughter was once invited to a shopping party, where the children were each given £10 to spend as they wished! Ridiculously extravagant in my opinion.

I’m beginning to think more and more that parents around here think the amount of money they spend on their child’s party equates to the amount they love them. They think that the more they spend on their children the more it shows everyone how much they love them. Maybe it’s that lovely parental guilt kicking in, possibly because the mum has to go out to work, but it worries me that parents think they need to shower their children with money in order for them to feel loved. It reminds me of the lady that appeared in our newspapers last year, who spends £6000 on each of her children at Christmas. Do not even get me started on her.

Where I live it also seems that every parent wants to out do each other with their children’s party and there is definitely an element of keeping up with the Joneses. With the activity, the number of invitees, the food, the god dammed party bags. And in my opinion, it’s all getting a little out of hand!

Having been a single parent with my daughter for several years, I never went overboard with her parties. She either had them at home or in the local church hall, with a few of her closest friends and ME providing the entertainment! (Lucky lucky girl I hear you cry!) Party bags for her were a bar of chocolate attached to a helium balloon, not a bag filled with a load of tat that will undoubtedly be immediately discarded in favour of the chocolate bar at the bottom. I remember clearly at my daughter’s 5th birthday party (Which we’d had at home) one very vocal child exclaimed, ‘but where is my party bag, what is this?’ when she was handed her balloon. Needless to say, she wasn’t invited the following year.

Children expect so much these days. And parents feel they have to give it. And it makes me wonder if some parents are afraid to say no? Is that why EVERY child must have a sweet for being ‘out’ in musical bumps, or a chocolate in between every pass the parcel layer? What is wrong with teaching children to be gracious losers? Because they certainly as hell won’t always win, or get everything they want in life just by default. More often than not you have to work for these things. Whenever I play games with my children I always try and win! And quite often I do! And do you know what, they don’t mind one bit, saying congratulations to me when I do!

Parties just seem an endless source of unnecessary stress. Especially when you get to the stage where the parents just drop their children off and then trot off for a couple of hours of childfree blissness! I’ve hosted one party when a child allergic to eggs ate a mini scotch egg, and another where we lost a friend’s sleeping bag and overnight bag at a bowling alley. And on a few weeks ago, at my son’s joint birthday party, we lost a child. The birthday girl. She was only gone for what could have been 15 minutes max, but it was enough for her parents to completely panic. It turns out she was in the toilet. They hadn’t thought to look there.

No matter how well planned the party is, or how organised and in control you feel, life (and parties!) have a way of throwing something at you. Usually it’s just that you’re one party bag too short, or that you have to deal with a tantrumming child because they didn’t win. But sometimes it’s a bit more serious than that. (I refer to the egg eating and child losing here!) And I know as a teacher I should be used to being responsible for other people’s children, but it’s not easy. There’s a lot of guilt attached if something goes wrong, even if the children’s parents are there!

My son’s party that weekend made me think about what he’ll remember about his parties in years to come. Will he remember the child from pre-school that he doesn’t really know being there because we needed to invite everybody? Will he remember the party bag with the carefully thought out gifts in it? I doubt it. All he remembers about his party last year was his Gruffalo cake. And when asked what was his favourite thing about this year’s he simply replied, ‘I loved my Spiderman cake!’

So next year I’m going to trust my instincts and throw him a party with just his closest friends at home, and not have a crazily expensive party that I think he ‘should’ have just because everyone else is having one. Just a party with the perfect cake, and I guarantee he won’t feel like he’s missed out.

So how do you feel about parties? Does the thought fill you will dread or do you think throwing the biggest party ever is what your child deserves?




Have not had many feelings,
For so long they disappeared,
And if I felt a feeling,
It was strange, bizarre, so weird.

The tablets took it all away,
Made me feel quite blank,
But they meant that I could function,
And not feel quite so rank.

Made those dark days disappear,
Trudging through treacle no more,
Made me want to live again,
Not run screaming through my front door.

Am now I’m learning to feel again,
Happiness, sadness, each one,
And learning how to live a life,
I thought forever gone.

Those tablets saved me once before,
Got me back on track,
For now they’re gone, out of my life,
But I know they might be back.

Today I’m feeling happy,
And positive at last,
I’ll hide those dark dark feelings,
And consign them to my past.

I know I am recovering,
It’s refreshing how clearly I see things,
And I know I am so lucky,
To be enjoying these positive feelings.

Cine Film Magic

Cine Film Magic

Cine is usually used to refer to one or more of the home movie formats including 8 mm, 9.5 mm, 16 mm film, and Super 8. It is not generally used to refer to video formats or professional formats (such as 35mm or 70mm film).
Cine film literally means ‘moving’ film; deriving from the Greek ‘kine’ for motion; it also has roots in the Anglo-French word Cinematograph, meaning moving picture.
Cine started the expanding revolution of ‘play at home’ movies.
Cine film started out expensive, but as it became cheaper the format started the craze of home recording. 50-foot reels were purchased for recording important events such as weddings and funerals.
However, sales started to decline in the early 1970s with the introduction of 16mm film. (Wikipedia)

This blog post is inspired by The Oliver’s Madhouse Magic Moments linky! And it is a perfect time for me to link up, as this weekend has been filled with a million magic moments. Magic family moments.

My mum lives over two hours away and I sadly don’t get to see her as much as I (or my children!) would like. I’ve mentioned her several times in previous blog posts and even though at times our relationship hasn’t been perfect (namely when I was a sh***y teenager!) we have always had immense fun when together, chatting endlessly, catching up on all of our news, whilst my three children get so unbelievably over excited and crazy that we end up having to shout over them. And now that my 11 year old daughter is on the verge of becoming a sh***y teenager herself I’m beginning to understand what I put my mum though. Endless backchat, pushing the boundaries, testing the limits. I’ve been having a difficult time with my daughter in recent weeks and have regularly doubted my parenting ability and at times my instincts. Our relationship has suffered and we’ve been struggling to connect. But this weekend was going to turn out to be a magical one for both of us. One where we both became a bit more understanding of each other. All thanks to some very old cine film, which my mum has recently had transferred to DVDs.

When I was growing up my dad (who sadly passed away 14 years ago) very often had a cine film camera (not sure what they are actually called!) or video camera in his hand. At the time, my brother and I were regularly made to walk, hand in hand, towards the camera, waving and smiling as we did so. We were filmed from the day we were born up until my dad passed away when I was 22. Birthdays, Christmases, holidays. All there on silent film. Magic moments scanning 22 magical years.

My 11 year old had recently been asking about my childhood, about what I was like as a child, and a teenager. She had asked to see photos and to hear stories. So instead of getting out all of my old diaries (which are cringeworthingly embarrassing) we decided to sit down after the little ones had gone to bed and watch the old films. Films I hadn’t seen for over a decade. It’s amazing the little things that I remember from my childhood, a toy at Christmas, an over sized bobble hat. We all smiled watching the films, we all laughed, and we all cried. Mum and I saw things we’d completely forgotten about, and things we remembered as if they had happened yesterday. My daughter was completely fascinated. For once she was silent, glued to the television. Amazed that there were no mobile phones, no iPads, and no awareness of health and safety whatsoever!!!

And then the 11 year old me appeared on the screen. Out for a family walk and yet not wanting to walk anywhere. I looked at my facial expression and knew I’d seen it somewhere else. On the beautiful face of my daughter. The two of us look very different, but it was amazing to see how similar we really are. The films brought back memories and stories of my teenage years and I suddenly remembered, and in remembering saw life so clearly from her eyes. How difficult the transition to secondary school is. How horrible girls and so called friends can be. And how, as a teenager, attitudes and feelings towards your mum can change. You’re not a grown up but you’re no longer a child and you’re struggling to find yourself and work out who you are. And as my 11 year old watched the films and heard my memories she realised that I’d been there, that I’d done it, and that I knew what I was talking about when I tried to help her through her struggles. It was a wonderful magic moment where we looked at each other and we came back together again as mother and daughter, we became a little closer once more. A bond that was damaged was beginning to mend. It was a magic moment when the difficulties of recent weeks were forgotten and we resolved to work as a team, to not battle against each other. Where we realised we both want the same thing, we both want her to be happy, and confident and know she’s loved. That we both need to trust each other, and to earn that trust.

It was magic because even though my dad is no longer around, he has helped to fix me and my daughter, just like he helped to fix me and my Mum (on more than one occasion) when we argued and fought against each other all those years ago. He’s still working his magic. And that…is possibly the most magical thing of all.

We are back home now and the first thing we have done this morning is dig out our video camera, which is covered in dust and hasn’t seen the light of day for a while. My 11 year old is chief camera lady and we have all resolved to capture our own magic moments on camera. And who knows, maybe one day she will be watching those films with her own daughter, and having their own magic moment together.


Slippers: A slipper or houseshoe is a semi-closed type of indoor/outdoor shoe, consisting of a sole held to the wearer’s foot by a strap running over (or between) the toes or instep. Slippers are soft and lightweight compared to other types of footwear. They are mostly made of soft or comforting materials that allow a certain level of comfort for the wearer. This can range from faux fur to leather. (Wikipedia)

So I’ll begin by saying that this post is slightly different to my usual posts, but it is very current and I felt I just had to write it.

This morning I made the mistake of turning on This Morning. I watched a debate about the recent budget and how it affects mums. How mum’s who go out to work will recieve a tax break to help with childcare. and how SAHMs don’t receive any such break. It’s an interesting debate thats been discussed in newspaper, on the television and of course on Twitter. It is one that is very divisive and seems to have once again put mums into two separate camps. Forget the attachment parents vs the Gina Ford devotees, now it is SAHMs vs Mums who work. (And then everyone vs the government of course ;-))

The original reason the whole debate started has seemingly been forgotten, as everyone tries to fight their own corner. Shout the loudest. Justify themselves and the reasons why they do/don’t work. The debate is an ongoing one, and whilst I agree that working mums and families undoubtedly need support with extortionate childcare costs, (it has now gone from I can’t afford not to work, to I can’t afford to work) I am hurt and deeply affronted by the suggestion that as a SAHM I have no aspirations. That I sit about in my slippers all day (yes someone did actually say that on the television this morning!) drinking tea and doing sweet f*** all else. That the budget is to help those who ‘aspire to work hard and get on,’ and that SAHMs are not seen to be doing that and how they are deemed somehow to not be as worthy of support as those who work. That SAHMs are somehow inferior and the government is not willing to acknowledge what they do or indeed reward it.

I mean, it’s not like I want a ‘chuffty badge’ (remember them?!) or a pat on the back, (or actually any of the taxpayers money!) but I, and several thousand other SAHMs out there, would at least like it acknowledged that we DO work, that we DO have aspirations, that we ARE setting our children a good example and that we ARE doing what we think is best for them. Some of us aren’t staying at home through choice, (some are sadly to unwell to work and some’s children are unwell and need caring for) and some of us work our butts off at home WHILST looking after our children. We are not rewarded, we are not applauded, and are now criticised for not having any aspirations on top of everything else. For being lazy. But I’m betting that if you asked a child if they wanted their mummy to stay at home or go out at work it wouldn’t take a genius to predict what they would say.

And yes, don’t get me wrong, I imagine there are mums out there who are lazy, and who do not look after their children even though they are at home with them all day, and are happy for the government and the taxpayer to pay for them to do so. But DO NOT tar us all with the same brush. EVER.

And what about choice? It seems in this country, where human rights and freedom of choice are shouted about so often, we are not allowed to choose whether to work or not. Those who go out to work are often made to feel awful for leaving their children, and now SAHMs are criticised for not leaving their children! When will it stop? When will people realise that being a mum is the most important job on the planet and we mums should have time, energy and support invested in us, just like we invest in our children. Whether we work or not. Since when did becoming a mum become so worthless?

I myself have been a single SAHM, a single working mum (full time), a working married mum and am now a married SAHM. Now after my third child I have asked for an extra year’s maternity leave, (unpaid obviously) because I have three children and I want to spend as much time with my children as I possibly can. Time with my children that I will never get back. I’m lucky enough that my career can technically be ‘put on hold,’ and hopefully in years to come I will go back to work and be as successful at my job as I was before I had children. But for now they are my priority. I do not want to blink and turn around only to see them moving out at 18. They need me now. And I need them. And it would be quite nice if it was recognised that this is an amazing thing to be doing. A worthwhile thing. A thing that can be aspired to. Why have children if you are never going to see them? I’m sure it’s not that black and white to everyone, but to me it is.

Anyway, I am guessing this debate will run and run, and is there ever going to be a conclusion drawn where everyone is happy? I doubt it. At the end of the day I applaud ALL mums. It’s a bloody tough job and we ALL need to stick together and support each other, and respect each others decisions.

Thank you for reading xx

A Monster Ate My Mum

I’ve now turned this poem into a storybook. You can read it here.

Mummy used to laugh,

Mummy used to smile,

But I haven’t heard her giggle,

Or seen her happy for a while.


She sleeps when it’s daytime,

And is awake all through the night,

I don’t know why, I don’t know how,

But something isn’t right.


She doesn’t shower ever,

She doesn’t even get dressed,

Her hair looks like it needs a brush,

It’s an awful, dreadful mess.


Her eyes are full of sadness,

When she speaks she sounds so flat,

I heard her saying she’s ugly,

And stupid, and useless, and fat.


I want to make her better,

To put a smile back on her face,

I want for her to be happy again,

And for our home to be a wonderful place.


But for now I’ll give her cuddles,

And rest my head upon her tum,

And if ever meet the beast,

I’ll whack the monster that ate my mum.



Expectations: Part 2 (The very honest part)

Expectations: Part 2 (The very honest part)

So after my ranty post last week, it’s time for some honesty.

As I have previously said, I have high expectations. Very high expectations. Maybe too high expectations. I believe that if a job is worth doing it’s worth doing well. And in stark contrast to when I was growing up, when people would always comment, ‘Ah, she gets there in the end!’ things for me now need to be very immediate. I expect results, quickly. (That’s why I hate trying to lose weight, it never bloody comes off as quickly as I’d expect, or would like!)

So when I first got pregnant I naturally had expectations. Of the pregnancy, of the birth, of what being a parent would be like. And with my first, and every baby after, those expectations changed, and were either challenged, or exceeded.

To begin with, when I was 24 years old, I didn’t expect to fall pregnant. Nor did I (Unsurprisingly!) expect the father of the child to say that I was a ‘slapper’ (I wasn’t) and that the baby couldn’t possibly be his. Several long and lonely months and one rather expensive paternity test later (funded by the father, not by Jeremy Kyle) I was proved right. Then, I expected things to change. I thought the hard work was over and that I wouldn’t be alone in this anymore. That he’d be around. But I shouldn’t have expected anything like that.  After a pregnancy where he saw me only twice and wasn’t present at the birth, I was silly to expect him to want to get involved. He didn’t. At all. He went to Crete for a holiday when our daughter was three weeks old, saying he was stressed about being a father and needed time out. *Insert own swear word here* So…he was in Crete, sunning it up, and I was awake 24 hours a day feeding a dependent little baby. I was exhausted. And felt isolated. I remember one particularly difficult day, when my Aunt came round to meet my daughter. She held her and said, ’She’s gorgeous, I bet you can’t stop looking at her.’ And I smiled, an empty smile, and said, ‘Of course.’ But inside, all I was thinking was, ‘Actually, I could quite easily stop looking at her.’

Don’t get me wrong, I loved her, very much, but as many new mums are I was exhausted, and completely and utterly overwhelmed. I would think, ‘What have I done, why can’t I settle my own child, what am I doing wrong?’ The health visitor wouldn’t even let me fill in the mental health questionnaire at my six-week check. She said I was obviously depressed. (No s*** Sherlock) But no support was offered. No anti-depressants, no counseling, no nothing…oh, except a half an hour visit to teach me the basics of ‘crying it out.’ My baby girl was just six weeks old. And I was told that crying it out was the only option, my only option, and the only solution to my problems. No recognition of the fact that I was doing it all completely on my own. That I was exhausted and doubting myself. That most of all I needed support, and encouragement, not some hideously awful method that leaves both you and your baby in even more tears and a worse state afterwards than you were before. But I was desperate, and against all of my instincts I followed the health visitor’s advice. One night my daughter cried on and off (with me going in regularly as instructed of course) from midnight until five o’clock in the morning. And so did I. But agree with it or not, eventually it worked, and she slept. And I began to feel better.

I met a lovely group of mums who met regularly. We each took in turns to cry when we were together, (Thankfully our meltdowns all seemed to happen at different times!) and we were all so fantastically supportive of each other. I never expected to make such wonderful friends through having a baby. And good friends we were, for several fun-filled years. But as our lives changed, so did our needs, and our friendships sadly fizzled out. I’d never expected that to happen either.

So…I put my post-natal depression down to the fact that I was a single parent, sleep deprived and struggling alone. And it was never mentioned or talked about again. Until I got pregnant with my second baby. (This time planned!)

My daughter was 6, and I was living with my now husband. I was excited about having a baby. About having a baby with a man who wanted to have a baby with me. I didn’t expect all of the unresolved problems and emotions from my first pregnancy to come back with a vengeance. I became irritable, panicky, suffering so many palpitations that I eventually needed an ECG, which thankfully was normal. I became a jealous woman, over obsessing about some woman my husband worked with. (Yes I even checked his phone and emails) I would cry, a lot. I couldn’t seem to get a grip. My poor husband could do nothing right (Don’t get me wrong, he’s not perfect by ANY stretch of the imagination, but he didn’t deserve the abuse he was getting) and my daughter didn’t understand where the mummy she knew had gone. So pre-natal depression was diagnosed. And this time I was offered counseling. There was a waiting list of course, but thankfully not too long. Counseling was hard. I regularly didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to talk about myself yet again. (Which is MOST unlike me!) I had light-bulb moment during session four, where I realized that I was subconsciously expecting my husband to be as big of an arse as my daughter’s father. That I was taking out all of my hurt and anger on him. And annoyingly now, even as I write this I’ve never been able to stand up to my daughter’s father, to tell him what I really think of him. He’s in her life now, every other weekend and I’ve left it up to her to make her own judgments about him. It’s not my place to tell her I think he’s an *insert own insult here* I should perhaps tell him one day though.

Anyway, my first son was born and it was wonderful. He slept better than my daughter had and I had a man there to help in the middle of the night. (Plus an iPod with games which I hadn’t had the first time!) I had however, expected to breastfeed. I tried. So hard. And he kept losing weight. So formula top ups were suggested. After only 3 days. My milk hadn’t even come in yet. But they worked and thankfully he gained weight. My milk came in and I stopped the top ups, expecting it to all be ok, like it had been with my daughter. (Well, until three months when some idiot on his mobile phone driving a massive lorry crashed into my car and the stress of the accident caused my milk to disappear overnight) But it wasn’t ok. My son lost weight again. My big hungry boy either wouldn’t latch on properly or my stupid boobs wouldn’t work properly, or the crash did untold damage. I had no choice but to continue the top ups and mixed feeding, and did this until he was twelve weeks old. I never expected to feel guilty about not fully breastfeeding, I was always and still very much am pro-choice, but I still do feel guilty. It’s not as easy as they say it is. It’s bloody hard work and it doesn’t always come naturally. No matter how hard you want it to work and no matter what you do, sometimes it just doesn’t. As always the media and social websites don’t help, often comparing formula feeding to smoking, but…I digress and once again that, is another blog post!!

So onto my third (and definitely last baby!) You’d think having done it twice before I’d be well prepared. That my expectations of parenthood and being a mum would be pretty much spot on. That nothing new could throw me because I’d been there, done it all and got the t-shirt! Oh how gloriously wrong I was. My third baby, my second son, would see all of my expectations get thrown out of the window. He would challenge them all. Every single bloody one of them. My first son had slept, and I’d coped, why on earth would I expect having this baby to be any different? But he didn’t sleep, at all. And I didn’t cope, at all. I couldn’t understand it at first, ‘But my babies sleep’ went round my head and out my mouth often. And yet he still didn’t. He didn’t do what I expected, and I wasn’t coping how I’d expected and it threw me. I spent my days unable to look at him as if I did I would have a huge panic attack. I firmly believed that I couldn’t look after him, I was scared I wouldn’t be able to stop the crying. I spent my nights desperately trying to get him to sleep, crying uncontrollably when five minutes after he’d settled he’d be crying for me again. I’d scream at my husband that I couldn’t do it, that he needed to take him away. I constantly planned how I would run away, where and when I’d go. (Middle of the night, to a friend up north) I mentally wrote the note I would write and leave to tell my husband that I couldn’t be a mum to this baby, that the family was better off without me because all I did was panic and cry and shout. I’d cling to my son during the day and not let anyone hold him because then he would wake up and the crying would start. People now say I looked trapped. I certainly felt trapped. Everyone knew something was wrong. Even me. But I just thought I was sleep deprived. That when I got more sleep I would feel better. Unsurprisingly I didn’t. Five weeks in and my son was only waking once in the night for a feed, yet I had developed insomnia, and would cry all night, unable to sleep a wink. Thankfully my health visitor recognised that I was ill. Very ill. And one day, when I was sat in my car outside the supermarket, thinking I’d rather go to sleep and never wake up again than live because life was just too damn hard, I recognized that I was ill too. And that I needed help. And lots of it.  

I never expected to get post-natal depression. And when I did, so badly the third time around, I never expected to be able to get better. But I’m getting there. I’ve been very lucky that I’ve been referred for CBT and art therapy and see my wonderful doctor regularly. But I’m also lucky that I have those high expectations of myself, and that I will do anything I can to get better and be the best mum I can for all of my fantastic children. (Um and yes, a good wife to that husband of mine too!) And get there I most definitely will.

Thank you for reading x

Expectations: Part 1 (The ranty part!)

Expectations: In the case of uncertainty, expectation is what is considered the most likely to happen. An expectation, which is a belief that is centered on the future, may or may not be realistic. A less advantageous result gives rise to the emotion of disappointment. (Wikipedia)

I’ve worked out why I dislike softplay so much. I don’t dislike children, far from it. I’m a mum of three, and when I’m at work I am a primary school teacher. I love children; they are my passion. But what I find frustrating (especially at softplay) are the many differing expectations other parents have of their child’s behavior. And how no one’s expectations seem to be as high as mine!

It is fair to say that I have high expectations, both of myself and of others. I expect a thank you when I let a car out, or when I wait and hold a door open for someone. (I rarely get one) But is it too much to expect parents to at least partially supervise their children at a softplay? To expect them to follow the rules? Be considerate? Maybe it’s my problem and something I need to just let go of, but quite honestly it annoys me when I see children who are say, over the age of four (usually by quite a bit) in the section designed for the under fours. Often with little respect for the equipment, or said under fours. (And yes in case you’re wondering, I am one of those mums who won’t let her children climb UP the slide!) It’s not the children’s fault, they are rightly absorbed in their own world of fun, but parents often seem to turn a blind eye to their child’s behavior or, in many cases, aren’t even keeping an eye on their children at all.

There have been many incidents I have witnessed this week where I have been left shocked, and thinking about the different expectations people have of themselves as parents, and of their children. One such incident was on a train, where a clearly harassed mother loudly told her screaming, ditressed daughter (who couldn’t have been more than five) to ‘f*** off.’ And another, where a mum told her child that no, she couldn’t play on the slide as she was disgusting because she had wet herself. The mum sat looking at her phone, not even attempting to clean or change her child, while the child sat crying, attempting to comfort herself.

It made me think. Do some people not have a natural parenting instinct (I find this hard to believe), or did they expect parenting to be easier than it is? Did they expect their children to behave without leading by example? Did they expect them to comply without supporting and loving them along the way?

And where do these expectations come from? Our parents, and our parent’s parents? Or social media and parenting books? Buzzwords, trends and manuals don’t help our expectations of parenthood. As I’ve said before, guilt and anxiety are intrinsic parts of being a parent, and sadly I think these buzzwords, trends and manuals, and the people behind them, feed on those emotions and our desperate want and need to do what’s best for our children. They can lead us to expect that our babies will sleep through the night from six weeks. (er, hello…I’m 36 and still don’t sleep through the night) They set expectations we didn’t know existed. Or indeed need to exist at all.

Expectations can be dangerous. As a parent we can set ourselves up to fail or be disappointed. These high expectations are partly what led to my post-natal depression. (Aside from the massive chemical and hormonal imbalance in my brain) I was never going to meet my expectations as a mother, and was inevitably setting myself up to fail. (More on that in Part 2) And on another level it can be dangerous for our children. As a teacher I have seen countless parents who have expected their children to be more intelligent than they are. Expected them to do better than they do. And refuse to accept them for who they are. You can imagine how these children feel.

Of course expectations aren’t all bad. When something unexpected happens it can be a wonderful surprise. A fantastic moment, which reaffirms your self-belief, and bonds you closer to your children. When our expectations are exceeded it can undoubtedly bring untold joy.

So…do I perhaps expect too much? And is this why I am often left frustrated and disappointed?

I expect so!!!

Is parenting how you expected it to be, or has it exceeded your expectations?