On the merits of four children

On Sunday night I crashed on the sofa at 8 p.m. and stared out of the window. In the dusk the blue and pink, flowered, and polka dotted bunting fluttered in the grey light of a June evening. The air was fresh and the damp colour of the sky gave a clear indication that yet more rain was on the way . The bunting stood out brilliantly against the darkening sky and green grass – a patch of brilliance that therapeutically calmed my frazzled being.

Since the moment we got up on Sunday morning G and I had been getting everything ready, non-stop, for L.’s much anticipated fifth birthday party. This entailed hanging up balloons, bunting, shifting furniture (both inside and out) and getting a good spread together for when her little friends arrived.

After breakfast L. and I made two litres of custard and sprinkled it with chocolate shavings whilst G. was dispatched to get butter for the cake (which of course I’d forgotten to buy the day before), when he came back he drove K.M. to her second birthday party that week-end and then headed off, again, to the supermarkets to buy sausages for lunch and balloons (which I’d also forgotten to buy) for the party, whilst L. and I began to make a chocolate smartie cake. J. watched TV upstairs and little R. – well little R. was running around with a bare bottom and a t-shirt on.

Crazy. I admit it. I know, I know, to begin potty training on the same week-end as organising a birthday party is probably pushing ones luck a bit too far. I know. But, R. was beginning to develop such a sore behind and the thought of yet another month of forking out EUR 60 on pampers and wipes forced the situation.

We began the potty training on Saturday. The day before L’s big party. Now, every family has a different approach to potty training but my approach has been to just take the pampers off from one day to the next and encourage them to sit on the potty. Plunge ‘em in at the deep end so to speak. There’s no turning back. “Bye bye Pampers” R. and I said together as R. threw his last nappy deep into the bottom of the bin. Having been through this three times already I’m prepared for the mess and the dirt. G. was not. By midday he was beginning to look distinctly growly and annoyed. By late Saturday afternoon the only thing that was looking virgin, clean and white was the bottom of the potty; our floors and R.’s clothes not.

Rowena and Victoria were going to come around for coffee in the afternoon but G. was beginning to look even more glum so it was agreed that I would meet them in town instead. Bizarrely G. was very happy with this arrangement. As was I. I got to escape potty training hell and have a drink in town with two adults offering lively conversation.

As Rowena, Victoria and I sat down for civilised “sun downers” by Rodin’s on the Oude Markt, Victoria announced:

“By the way K. did you know that having four children is the new status symbol?”.

Actually I had. The Times had had a big feature entitled “Four richer. Four poorer”. How could I not have read this piece of journalism.

“What did you think of it?” Victoria asked

What did I think of it. Phew. Where to begin. Good title.

“I feel sorry for child number four." I stated. "Lets hope she doesn’t read the article when she gets older or she may end up with an identity crisis.”

The article began by giving the blurb that all “it” mothers are opting for larger families and that having four children is seen as a great status symbol. It then went on to give the account of two mothers. One of whom already had four children and the second who had three and was contemplating having a fourth - but who listed all her “sensible” reasons for not having a fourth.

In the first account, there was so much that every mother of children would recognise, sympathise with, and would probably have experienced themselves. I quote mother of four, Andrea Hey:

“A not untypical “first year” scenario involved driving to school with the baby screaming for some undiagnosed reason; Number Three being sick in a handy bucket; Number Two sobbing because I had put the wrong filling in his sandwich; and Number One announcing that I had forgotten her swimming kit again. The packed lunches were made with the newborn ululating for the morning feed. Tummy-bug victims couldn’t stay home alone but had to trail out on the school run."

Whilst Andrea “adores” her healthy children she openly admits that it is all too much. She should have gone for three and a half since that extra half was just that little bit too much.

“As Number Four starts to develop her own collection of little friends, fitting her social life into the busy whirl of the greater family is like stuffing a balloon into a sock. My brain can’t hold another classful of names, faces and birthday parties. I am stale. Walking into her “first” third birthday party felt like stepping back in time. The roar of the bouncy-castle pump, the rioting of hyped-up toddlers, the impossibility of conversation with other distracted parents: hadn’t anything changed? Well, yes. I had. Older children doing more grown-up things is exciting. Yet our late addition slows us down (or necessitates a babysitter).”

…and she goes on to say that her older children complain about having been promised a skiing holiday … instead they got “the baby”.

So, when Victoria asked me what did I think I wasn’t really sure how to respond. As anyone who has read bits of this blog will recognise having four children can drive one to distraction. Think: broken fish, dragon noise, bolshy nine year olds who want to go catch a wave, the Battle of the Brick … but what is the point of feeling “stale” about it. Perhaps “Andrea” hasn’t listened to Charlene.

My personal feeling is that at this stage I feel a lot more relaxed about parenting. I’m not so anxious about being the perfect mother who tries to stack the odds in favour of fruit and to banish sweeties from the house. I don’t worry as much as I used to and I take pee on the floor more in my stride….and hey at the end of the day four children is really good fun. The children, although they argue, are privileged to have each other as brothers and sisters.

I’m not really sure if Becky remembers this moment but some years ago, when I was still at University we sat in the tiny television room in Bedwyn and came to a profound conclusion and the conclusion was this: that at the end of the day all we really wanted out of life was lots and lots of children, to retreat to a farm house by the sea in Cornwall, own a potter’s shop, wear kaftans and let the garden grow completely wild with all sorts of flowering creepers, poppies and cherry trees.

Large families, in my opinion, were always more fun, slightly whacky and a bit more off-beat than average sized families. Children from large families always gave the appearance of being more adventurous, more independent and more interesting. The idea of large families, sitting around big tables, hearty laughter and biting conversations appealed.

Watching from the outside in, friends of mine who came from large families and who laid bare sibling rivalry and jealousy just added to the sense of intrigue and fun – much more entertaining than the one boy one girl outfit that Thomas Cook always promote on their holiday posters.

As with most things in life there is a huge gap between reality and the dream… but still the dream pulls one in.

I come back to Sunday. There are L. and I busy backing chocolate cake, with G driving K.M to her birthday party and J. upstairs watching telly and waiting before its his turn to be taken to Ivan’s birthday party later that afternoon. I turned around to reach for an egg when L and I saw R. walking nonchalantly past us with a white potty full of pee.

L. and I just looked at him in amazement. Even L. felt elated with this development. R. even did wee wee one more time on the potty later that morning – but then gave up when the house became full of screaming – and I mean literally screaming – five year olds. Who can blame him. I mean a guy needs space and privacy not a horde of kids watching him perform. Still I was happy. There was a glimmer of hope. Perhaps by the end of the week we’ll have cracked it after all.

For three hours G. and I entertained, served, and amused twelve five year olds in between downpours and dry spells. We headed into the garden. We headed into the lounge. We served chocolate cake. We served custard. We served apple juice. We tore-up a bust-up between the boys over a Power Ranger toy. We stopped them from all going upstairs. G. cleaned up an R. patch in the corridor by his bedroom. We offered wine to collecting parents. We cleared away the mess. We got supper ready. We put the children in the bath. We read bed time stories. We put them to bed. And then I crashed on the sofa and stared out of the window at the bunting in the garden.

Do I feel like Andrea. I sympathise with her but I don’t feel like her. Instead G. and I have managed to achieve that crazy, whacky, slightly off beat and a slightly deranged family of six that Becky and I had dreamed of all those years ago in the telly room in Bedwyn. As Hilda, a good friend of mine said only last week:

“What ever else K. Later on the four VC-G's will be a “mooie bende”.

Which translates as:

“What ever else K. Later on the four VC-G’s will be quite a gang”.

Yes, I like that image.

http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/families/article1967563.ece

The VC-G’s Forward Planning Unit

Tucked away in the European Commission is the Forward Studies Unit. It was set up by Jacques Delors in the heady days of the Single European Act when there were only twelve, yes twelve!, EU Member States. It is very much the creation of a French-mind – a calm place where grand ideas can be mused over, pondered on and ultimately presented in academic format to policy makers. It is the kind of Unit that gives fruit to one French Minister's famous remark to the Americans: “Yes, it works in practice but can it work in theory”.

I only know about it because a good French friend of mine did a six month stint in the Unit. Later I managed to direct Lisa Lyngso there when she was looking to do a traineeship in Brussels. She was, she told me, going to work on “Futurism”. “Futurism” didn’t sound exactly academic to me, more mystic Meg than high-brow intellectualism but Lisa assured me it was very much at the cutting edge of academic thinking.

Today, twelve years on, I gather it remains a lively Unit where Europe’s brightest and finest minds sit behind their desks overlooking a motorway that goes by the name of the Rue Belliard. I imagine them sitting behind their desks, feet on table, pens a'tapping, staring out of the window with glazed eyes and looking deep, deep, deep, deeeeeeeeep into the future of Europe:

“Hmmmm, I see the future and the future is …. a blue flag with inter-locking yellow swirling stars that reach out infinitely to the east …. …”

I have decided, based on last night’s experience, that the VC-G’s will benefit not from a Forward Studies Unit but a “Forward Planning Unit”. It is indeed sad that it has come to this since by instinct I am a laissez-faire kinda girl but what with four little VC-G’s in the house I have come to the conclusion that it is probably for the best. I need to plan the immediate future much better. The unit will not be at all theoretical. Rather, it will be purely practical based on strictly functional lines the ultimate aim of which is to save time and heartache so that at the end of the day G. and I can squeeze in a Saturday and Sunday morning lie-in – i.e. not being trampled on in our beds before 7 a.m.

Our Saturday morning had begun as usual – rushing out of the house, I to bring L. to ballet between ten and eleven and G. to bring J. and K. to karate lessons between ten and eleven thirty. After lunch I went with K.M. into town to do some shopping and to stock up before J.s birthday party the following day. I also bought a white rambling rose which I intended to plant in a shady corner at the back of the garden. K.M. and I had quite good fun in town but we did make sure we were back by 4.15 because G. had an appointment at the hairdressers and was going straight for a run afterwards.

The weather was warm and mild. As we walked though the door R. began bumping his way down the stairs from the telly room, J. was stuck behind his gameboy and L. was colouring in the kitchen. It all seemed very peaceful and happy. By this stage it was pushing five, heading towards late afternoon. A critical time when one has young infants because it is normally between five and six that their needs urgently need to be addressed.

What I should really have done whilst there was peace and harmony was: forward plan, seize the opportunity and:

i) tidy up the kitchen
ii) begin to get strawberries ready
iii) lay the table for supper

All three options seemed particularly uninteresting. Instead I decided to spend a small part of the week-end on something that I wanted to do. So, rather than beginning the tasks listed above I decided to plant the rose at the back of the garden.

The house seemed calm enough. Kids were all occupied and in any case it was a nice pleasant warm afternoon. So far so good. But, it was at this point that R. began to emit low level whinging noises. The kind of low buzzing noise that spells trouble. J., who had emerged from behind the gameboy wandered into the garden and began to play rough with R., who was just not in the mood. So the winging got louder.

Regardless, I still had my eyes set on the pear tree at the back of the garden and the potted rose I had just bought at bargain price on the market. I managed to involve J. in the planting, which he did quite cheerfully but R.'s bawling just wasn’t going to go away.

The whinge and whine dial was turned up a notch or two louder. I looked at the watch but it was only 5.30. I tried to jolly them along a bit further whilst trying to get some weeding done and hoping that it was a passing irritant: surely they would all cheer up soon and begin to play calmly with each other?

By 5.50, however, it was totally obvious that I had to give up. R. was standing in the middle of the garden covered in mud. J. began to complain of a really bad headache (probably because he only had two spoonfuls of rice for lunch), and L. was (literally) shouting: “I’m hungry Mummy”, “I’m hungry when is supper ready”.

R. began to cry full volume. Ahh yes, we had forgotten to give him is afternoon nap. So our fourth toddler in a trot was suffering not only from hunger but he was also, probably, tired. I decided the best option was to put them all in the bath and sort food out later. Normally a bath calms them down.

J., who was himself, a screaming toddler not so long ago, had no patience with his younger brother’s tantrum and began to shout over R.’s crying:

“Stop crying. Just stop it I have a horrible headache”.

K.M. and L. were playing at the back of the garden in a big cardboard box that they had been given by G. which involves crawling inside through a cut out hole, standing upright and toppling themselves over full force onto the ground. Such play invoves lots of screeching and whooping.

However, when L. saw me heading upstairs to bathe R. and J. she soon came running inside shouting indignantly:

“Where is supper? I want supper Mummy. I am hungry. I am hungry Mummy. Come down here. Where are you going? I am hungry”.

The “I am hungry” protest followed us up the staircase, from the kitchen and into the bathroom. Inside the bathroom the volume was amplified by the acoustics of the tiled room and water running into the bath. R. simply would not stop crying no matter how hard we tried to distract him and J. was beginning to look pale and shivery.

At this stage the cacophony was beginning to get to me as well and so I just walked out of the room to escape the chaos. K.M. decided to take action began to read Noah’s Arc to R. in a very loud shrilly voice that managed to transcend the screams and sound of water filling up the bath.

K.M.'s tactic began to work. Slowly but surely the wailing turned into sobs and the sobs into sniffles. J. looked relieved. As was I. Phew. We had a peace of sorts. The noise level dropped again to normal proportions.

When they were all out of the bath I ran downstairs to get R. his bottle. “I better find the bottle soon” I thought since the crying for “BOTTLE” was beginning to get louder and louder threatening to spill over again into a full-blow explosion. But – of course - not having tidied up I only had one clean bottle but no clean teat. In fact I couldn't find a teat anywhere let alone a dirty one. Quite frankly any one would have done at this stage – even one plucked out of the garbage. Eventually, I found a rather dodgy broken looking one which I quickly rinsed under the tap with some soap suds and ran upstairs to give it to R. One suck and the dude crashed.

Well at least that was one down. Three to go. It was later, whilst I was making a ton of sandwhiches in the kitchen that I stumbled across the idea of a forward “planning” unit.

Had I planned better I would have:

i) tidied up the kitchen when I cam back at 4.30. Result: no scrambling for teats off the dirty floor.
ii) prepared the strawberries. Result: very happy children prepared to be jollied along whilst I plant bushes.
iii) got supper ready. Result: could have given them their supper before the crying got too bad.
iv) given R. a nap in the afternoon, instead of wandering into town. Result: R. wouldn’t have winged and cried at five already and probably played happily until later. (Nor, would R. have woken us up at 6.30 on Sunday morning by bouncing on top of me saying “keekeboe” having gone to sleep at 6 in the evening).

Calm was just beginning to be restored when G. walked back through the door from his run.

“Sounds quiet upstairs. I take it everything went well then?”