Many are the new parents who will say that they only started to appreciate their own mother and father when they had kids themselves. And, from the early stages of my first pregnancy, right through to now, this has continued to hit me with increasing force. I like to think that I have always got on well with my Mam and Dad. We had the wilderness years of course, when I spent my time listening to Pearl Jam and cursing anyone over the age of 23 (for some reason when I was 17 or 18, 23 was a mythical age, the point when all the questions were answered, and after which everything went downhill. I was wrong on both counts naturally and thankfully). But it really is only since becoming a parent, or more accurately realising that I was expecting, that I understood exactly what their job was with me, and how much harder it was than I had ever given them credit for.
Over the last two and half years this realisation has dawned at many and varied intervals – whether it’s been swigging from my bottle of Gaviscon at 3am (and realising that my mother had to do that times four), to cleaning up toddler vomit (times four again!!!!), to delivering the toddler and equipment to them one wonderful Friday morning and returning to a happy, safe and well-fed toddler on the Sunday afternoon. This weekend was another prime example – as you all know, I am 32 weeks pregnant, and my mood is, errrr, a bit iffy to say the least. The husband took himself off to Berlin with the lads, his last hoorah – and while I was glad for him to go, I was deep green with envy and struggled hard not to be bitter and miserable. So, to cheer ourselves up, myself, the toddler, and my bad mood booked into my parents house for some TLC.
I’m a changed woman since – it’s amazing what a well-cooked meal, a happy toddler and some extra sleep can do for a girl. The toddler loves it over there, the relationship between kids and their grandparents is lovely to watch. When I rolled out of bed at 10am (yes, 10am. Between 3 and 5 hours later than usual!!!) Sunday morning, I looked out the window, to see a small child holding her granny’s hand and pointing at the “doggie inna window” – a dog belonging to a neighbour and a favourite attraction at Granny and Grandad’s. I had a shower in peace, without having to sing nursery rhymes / shout warnings or stop mid-suds to extricate the toddler from some mischief, and wandered downstairs to a cooked breakfast and a nice cup of tea prepared by my Dad. Heaven.
Of course it’s not all perfect – parenting ideas have changed somewhat in the last 25-30 years, and sometimes advice given, even with the best intentions, isn’t well received. But when I see a rash on the toddler, or feel strange myself, or just need someone to tell me that it’s normal to feel bewildered at this parenting lark, it’s to my Mam and Dad that I turn. It worked out nicely this weekend for the husband too. When he arrived home, a little tired and emotional himself (maybe the beds in the hotel weren’t that comfortable or something?), he was a little unsure whether his pregnant wife would be welcoming. But he was met with a lovely reception, a relaxed and happy mother and child, the picture of familial bliss – so much so that he is talking about a weekend in Spain with the lads next year!
Tags: grandparents, Parenting, Pregnancy, toddler
