Call yourself a Good Mum?

I was in Starbucks having a much needed injection of caffeine, (grande skinny latte with an extra shot...I know, but if I top up before 11am I can still sleep that night). It had been one of those mornings so I stopped off at my local coffee shop for a much needed change of scenery.

I looked around and saw a number of women sitting round a table, hemmed in by some very fancy buggies - I guess these machines are the 4x4s of the stroller world nowadays. I thought back to the double buggy I had for my kids and remembered that it was always a balancing act. I couldn’t hook too many bags of shopping on the handles and let go for fear of the buggy collapsing and my children being catapulted backwards through the air. But that was long ago and far away.

I couldn’t quite catch what this group of young mums were discussing but one posed the question, “So that’s being a good mum is it?”  Her face was perfectly made up and she had the most amazing long nails, (how does she cope with them I wondered, and immediately winced as an image of her changing the baby’s nappy, and a tiny bit of pooh getting stuck under a nail flashed before my eyes - oh the horror!)

She was very animated with the enviable ability to raise just one perfectly plucked eye brow as she talked. I have always been slightly in awe of people who can do this, as try as I might I can’t. I can do both brows going up into a surprised face, or both going down into a scowly face, but fail miserably at the single brow trick.

I guess these women could be classed as Yummy Mummies: with not a hair out of place and nails and faces perfect. They were immaculate, as were their charges. I would even go as far to say co-ordinated, which was a little scary but even so I was slightly envious. My mind went back to when I was about their age, but I was a manic, single working mum with three very small children who never had any spare time, and if I did I used it for one thing - sleeping, (which was a treat in itself in the early years!)

But the question made me think. What is being a ‘Good Mum’? I mean I have never mislaid any of my kids, does that count? And then a memory, long buried, resurfaced.  I was in a supermarket, almost twenty years ago and my youngest, Ash, would not sit in the seat of a double shopping trolley. Rosie, who was a year older, but the same size, had slotted in perfectly, but Ash had gone rigid. Trying to force his unbending legs between the metal bars whilst keeping a smile on my face, (so that everyone knew I had this under control), and starting to feel the burn in my arms, (as children are always a lot heavier than they look), became impossible. I gave up, telling him to hold on to my hand, which soon became impractical as I had one of those trolleys with a wheel that goes in a different direction to the others. So I told him to hold onto the trolley.

I went whizzing down the aisles, grabbing the bogofs, (buy one get one free), whilst keeping an eye on the time. Things were going well, shopping almost done, mind racing about the twenty things that had to be completed in the day and then I heard it: the ding dong of the public address system. A nasally women started speaking, “Would the parent or guardian of a small boy wearing a Spiderman outfit please come to Customer Services where we have your child.”

 I froze...

I closed my eyes for a second and then looked down at the empty space, although already well aware that Ash would not be there. Let’s face it how many small boys are there at any one time wearing Spiderman outfits in a supermarket? C’mon it was 1992 - it was okay back then...

As I made my way to Customer Services Rosie started to cry. I took a deep breath as I reached the counter, “I’m here to collect my son...the one in the Spiderman outfit...the announcement said ...” my voice trailed off and I tried a ‘whoops silly me’ face and smiled.

A stick thin woman in her 50s, whose perfectly coiffed grey hair was kept in place with a can of hairspray, looked over her glasses at me. She said nothing at first, just slowly looked me up and down as I self consciously tried to hide the stain on my jacket where Rosie has been sick the previous day. She looked across to the wailing Rosie, face bright red by now and snot hanging from her nose. I then followed her gaze as she noted all the special offers in my trolley and I knew that she was judging me.  I became conscious that my face was make- up free and my hair, scraped back in an elastic band, was in need of a wash. She raised just one perfectly plucked eyebrow and said:

“Call yourself a Good Mum then?”

I remember shrinking to the size of a small insect and wanting the floor to open up. But then, as if by magic, Rosie stopped crying and smiled as she saw her brother. I grabbed Spiderman who hugged me as if I had been gone forever and I also smiled, a big beaming smile, a smile that goes all the way across your face and makes your eyes go all crinkly, and my world was once again happy, perfect and complete.

I have three incredible children: Ash got out of his Spiderman habit and is now a soldier in the British Army, having served in Afghanistan last year during Operation Herrick 14; Rosie has turned into a beautiful woman and has just completed a Masters in Forensic Computing at Portsmouth University, and landed herself a fantastic job;  my eldest, Gary, has made it to his 30th birthday, despite having me as a mum, and is amazing person as well as an inspirational Master Personal Trainer and all round good egg.

Ooh, I’ve just remembered - I’ve got to dash, as I am having hair, nails and face done, in practice; so when the time is right I want to have a shot at Call Yourself a Good Nan then?!

Cathy x

If at first you don’t succeed...

Staying power and focus are admirable qualities. Unfortunately in my working life and housework I don’t see myself as having either trait in vast quantities, but when it comes to my children I produce a will of iron from somewhere deep inside me and refuse to take no for an answer. I have been likened to a dog with a bone, or even less (?) flatteringly an Exocet, (for those who don’t know this was an anti aircraft missile used extensively in the Falklands war. It could be launched from almost anywhere and lock onto its target regardless of anything in its way).

I suppose I would have felt better if I was likened to a lioness protecting her cubs. This, in my mind is far more noble and positive...and then I think of the documentary footage of a lioness bringing down a tiny deer or a strayed baby wildebeest and the whole thing becomes slightly confused and a tad awkward, but I digress...

 I have been a single mum since the children were very small. I have tried, with varying degrees of success, to put them on the right path; a path that would see them safe and happy. So when Ash told me aged 15 that he wanted to join the Army it was the determination in his eyes and his resolute and unshakeable faith that this was his path in life which made me feel that I had a responsibility to make it happen.

It wasn’t easy, I was wary about my baby boy joining up. He seemed too young and yet there was a knowingness about him, he was so sure, and through that I became sure. There were interviews and paperwork, tests and more tests, mostly involving me taking Ash to the Army Recruitment Centre in Blackheath and waiting. There was a lot of waiting. 

The path through the recruitment stage was long and arduous and I learned that only 1 out of every 10 young men who walk through the Army Recruitment Centres doors actually make it to basic training.

The morning the letter arrived Ash was at school, so I opened the letter and read that he had been turned down on medical reasons. I stared at the letter and reread its contents. It was because he had had asthma. Thoughts raced through my head and I instantly remember the bad attacks Ash had when he was small, being hospitalised once when I will never forget his tear stained faced begging me not to leave him...but that was years ago and he hadn’t had an asthma attack since he was about 6 and had been off the inhalers now for years. I scratched my head and read the letter again....my eyes darted over the page until I saw the words “Appeal against the decision”, so there was hope.

I found myself checking the clock at regular intervals during the day, waiting to hear the key in the lock and Ash to come home from school. He sat down as I told him the news. His eyes got wider and wider and then started to glisten,

“But Mum” he said “What do I do? What do I do now? It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And I looked at him, this young man with eyes the colour of conkers, and I knew that I had to make this happen. I had no choice because I was his Mum and that my job, regardless of how I felt, because it was about him, and not about me.

So I wrote the letter, and fought the decision. After a few weeks the decision was over turned and Ash was cleared to go to basic training and to join up. He was going into Army.

It was on August 28th 2007 in the Army Recruitment Centre in Blackheath, in front of Major M Norris, (a man you had joined as a 16 year old raw recruit), that Ash swore his allegiance to the Queen, I cried, he was not just mine anymore. He was 16 years old and agreeing to serve, to defend, and potentially lay down his life in order to protect others.

“ I Ashley Thomas Wiles swear by almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, Her heirs and successors and that I will as in duty bound honestly and faithfully defend Her Majesty, Her heirs and successors in Person, Crown and dignity against all enemies and will observe and obey all orders of Her Majesty, Her heirs and successors and of the Generals and Officers set over me."

 I was humbled and immensely proud of this young warrior, my son. And through the tears I laughed. A silent inward laugh as he pronounced the words Heirs as Hairs, and it made me want to hug him as I realised just how young, how vulnerable and how very unworldly he actually was.

It was a few years later that I was to remember that it was my decision to send the appeal letter and to fight for his right to join up. It was my actions that would eventually result in my son, my baby boy, going to Afghanistan and to war...

Madness is inevitable

“I suppose madness is an inevitable outcome...” I overheard these words as I stood in the checkout queue in the supermarket. The woman in front of me was talking into her mobile. I immediately became interested, and stepped closer to her.

An outcome to what?  Why was madness inevitable? Who was she talking about? I strained to catch the rest of the conversation, but it was her turn to be served and so she moved away to the bagging end of the counter. I took a couple of steps closer but she caught my eye, flashed me a look as if to say “Get back to the shopping divider” and said something quietly into her phone whilst holding her steely gaze locked into my eyes. I shifted slightly uncomfortably and rummaged around in my bag looking for an imaginary something. I considered the words and realised that she may well have been discussing me, not now of course, but me, last year.

My youngest son is currently serving in the British Army, 207 Signal Squadron and went out to Afghanistan last year aged 20 on a 7 month tour. During that time I wrote a diary, trying to purge the thoughts I was feeling. I took the ‘better out than in’ approach. It was a peculiar time for me.

 I existed.

Every waking moment was consumed by Ash in Afghanistan. I longed for his call. I scoured the internet to read anything and everything about Nahr e Saraj, the area where he was based. I became obsessed, focused, determined and slightly batty. But I still had to go to work, keep the house and be here for my other two children. I had to function on the outside, and for all intent and purpose I was under the impression that I held up fairly well.

Well that’s if you don’t count the meltdown in Bromley High Street when I missed a call from him after an 11 day silence, or confusing the telephone call from my hairdresser with somebody from the Army, and of course the time when...hmmm, yes well perhaps, with hindsight, there were a few wobbles on the way, and perhaps madness was inevitable, even though it was only a temporary state of affairs. Perhaps the supermarket call was referring to another mum whose boy has gone to war. Perhaps madness is the tightrope we walk when our boys and girls get deployed.

I don’t come from a Military family, so when Ash aged 4 said he wanted to join the Army I just thought it was a typical 4 year old, lost in play, dressing up in tiny camouflage trousers and toting a plastic gun. Even when he was 13 and joined the Army Cadets I thought it was a good thing. It would keep him off the streets, out of trouble and teach him valuable life lessons.

As a single working Mum I was always slightly concerned about the absence of a Father figure in his life and welcomed his involvement with the Cadets, going away with them of their expeditions tromping through god knows where in the middle of the night reading maps and getting lost.  He loved it all, sleeping in tents and marching and was very proud of his uniform. Even when he became more serious about his career and told me at aged 15 that he wanted to join the Army, I didn’t really have alarm bells ringing. I was more concerned that he would be leaving school too early with just average GCSEs. He told me that he didn’t want to stay on and take his A-levels, that school wasn’t for him and that he didn’t want to go to College or University.

His one and only desire was to join the Army. I remember his eyes: big, brown, determined, focused. He looked at me with an unwavering stare. His mind was made up, and such was his determination I was slightly caught on the hop. Ash had always been so laid back, so calm and yet here was this young man in front of me, his jaw set, his lips pursed, knowing at 15 years old what he was going to do.

If I had realised that he would go to Afghanistan at that point I think I would have stuck him in a bag and locked him in the cupboard under the stairs. But hindsight is a wonderful thing!

Although there were wars in Iraq and Afghanistan going on at the time, and had been for some time, I didn’t connect the dots. Had I been wearing my sensible head then I’m sure it would have put the two together. Clearly though I wasn’t, but I’m still not too sure why I gave it such scant regard.  I honestly do not remember this conundrum ever gracing my thought process. I am a little ashamed of this fact as it now seems slightly irresponsible that as I was the one who had to sign the consent forms, it was my signature that would send him to war...
Cathy