Raising my game

Yesterday, friends, was a shit show. Georgia, who I suspect is approaching a three month growth spurt, was hell bent on being no more than three inches from my boobs at any given moment. And Ruby, approaching threenager status, was hell bent on causing chaos in every part of the house while I was trapped under her hungry sister. A standard scenario, really. 

Except it was a cold, damp Monday in January. And the thought of leaving our chaotic house seemed to be the only thing tethering me to my sanity. Alas, getting the three of us dressed and out the door was proving an insurmountable task. 

I brushed my teeth to the shrill sound of Georgia’s screams while Ruby span round in our bedroom curtains – a pink maxi dress to complement the tropical sun hat she’d acquired on an earlier sweep of the house. As Rubes approached my bedside table and began flicking the lamp on and off repeatedly with one hand while grabbing the baby monitor with the other, I abandoned aspirations of brushing my hair and changing out of my pyjama top, threw on the nearest jumper, grabbed the screaming baby and summoned the sass queen back downstairs.

Somehow, a spilt cup of tea, an obstacle course and countless sharp inhalations later, we made it to 2pm and arranged to meet friends at the park, much to Ruby’s disappointment (seems the cold winter has turned this southern softie against outdoor exploits). I used a carefully balanced combination of bribery and threats to get us out the door, only to discover it was raining again. 

At the park, Georgia – who’d fallen asleep – started kicking off. I was trying to settle her in the pram when there was a loud thud. I turned to see Ruby laying on the floor having been completely taken out running in front of a kid on a swing. Shit shit shit! The silence that precedes only the biggest of screams hung in the air, before Ruby dwarfed Georgia’s cries and scrambled to her feet to reveal a bloody nose and a purple cheek. 

She was, to her credit, incredibly brave. I had to follow her lead in suppressing my own tears:  frustration that I’d allowed it to happen, frustration that she’d forgotten the thousands of times we’ve warned her not to run in front of the swings, the relief she wasn’t more hurt and the worry this might be worse than it seemed. 

While I was comforting Rubes and inspecting the damage, my friend Hannah managed to get Georgia back to sleep. Just in time for me to take the two of them along to the doctors, where I was due my latest smear test. Oh yeah, this was the day that kept giving. 

Ruby is a behind the curtain kind of character in every scenario. Not one to be shut out of anything, midway through she barged in and held my hand while craning her neck to observe this most invasive procedure. As we were leaving the practice, she announced to a packed waiting room – the fullest I have ever seen in any doctors: 

“You’ve just had a test on your bottom!” 

Nervous laughter. “No Ruby, it wasn’t my bottom… it was… errr….” 

“Yes it was! It was a test ON YOUR BOTTOM!” 

Walking home, I could feel hysterical laughter rising. Ruby instructed me to stop pushing the pram so I could concentrate properly as she recounted the story of the swing smashing her in the face, using the buggy board she was standing on as a stage for the re-enactment. 

Raising these girls is, for sure, the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. It’s hard in a constant, unrelenting way. The unprecedented level of emotional investment means the ups and downs will have no end. Every day there’s a new need to draw on untapped reserves of patience and energy and enthusiasm while being repeatedly confronted with my shortcomings. The guilt, the love, the repetition, the love, the worry, the love…

I’m being forced – kicking and screaming, ironically – to be more calm, compassionate, caring, resilient and open. And when I don’t get it right, inevitably, I’m forced to acknowledge that too. 

“Mammy. Say sorry. You need to say you’re sorry for shouting at me in the night!” 

Oh God, yes. Yes I did raise my voice in the depths of the night. When Ruby wouldn’t stop shrieking. When I was half asleep and greedy for more. When I didn’t want her sister to wake up and want feeding. I really did shout. And I got back in bed and said to Tom: “that wasn’t great”. Then I briefly wondered how much therapy time Rubes might spend reliving that particular moment as an adult, before promptly falling back to sleep. 

‘Cos I can’t dwell on the many occasions I fall short of ideal. I’ve just got to show up, breathe the hard stuff out and remember to inhale every ‘bottom test’ moment. These are the antidotes to the swings in our faces. 

So no resolutions again this year, these sprogs are already forcing me to raise my game. Happy 2023 people. Let’s have it.