Pretty Muddy 5k Race!

A while back my Mum and I signed up to do Cancer Research’s Race For Life Pretty Muddy 5k and we completed it last weekend!

Here are our before and after selfies! You will notice the temp tattoos Mum has on, well I only had one of my four on because the other three ended up on the rest of the family…

Roslyn got the pink army one, Sandy got “hell hath no fury” on his little bicep, and Stuart proudly wore “Stronger, Braver, Pinker” 😉

We ran with a group of ladies from the gym we go to, Bodymorph Fitness in Hamilton. As you can see, we were clean in our before shot, and not so much in the after…

However, Mum was miffed as I seemed to come out cleaner than her. The reason was clear as when you approached an obstacle people were spraying water and flinging shovels of mud at you, but only if you weren’t going fast enough! As you can see poor Mum got a pile of mud thrown at her as she entered the mud bath!

I loved it! And I was very happy with the time of 30 minutes considering my PB 5k is 28:50 not including any obstacles!

In fact it has spurred me on and Stuart and I have now shaken hands on taking part in a tough mudder sometime in the future!

I’ve Become One of ‘Those’ Parents…

It dawned on me as I we hit the third circuit. Standing over the weights, about to do a clean and press, and I pipe up to my Mum next to me, “oh, Sandy would get a kick out of seeing this”. And I realised it was about the fifteenth time I had managed to obscurely relate the circuit training class to Sandy and Roslyn in some way and I’d barely been there an hour. Last Wednesday was the first time I’d been away from Roslyn beyond 5pm since her birth eight months ago. A rare car journey not spent trying to become disjointed passing snacks back to newly installed rear facing car seats. I needed not to turn on the lights inside so Sandy could read Stickman and Walk of Life wasn’t on its seventh play. I didn’t need to concern myself with sneaky and inopportune naps. But as soon as I walked into the gym and a bunch of faces looked at me and a girl on a bike stopped cycling I reverted back to safe ground and I didn’t leave it. Roslyn wasn’t down yet, you know, and I kept checking that phone. You know what Sandy said this morning? It was so cute! Oh and Roslyn’s just learned something new. Check the phone. That weight is one of Sandy’s favourite colours. How cool would it be if Sandy was using this punching bag? Roslyn would love to crawl over here. And so I went on, unware until I started that clean and press for the third time and it was hurting now and I couldn’t think about what else Sandy and Roslyn had to say about the class and I realised that yes, I’d become one of those parents.

This week saw me out of the house twice in the evening. The second time was to attend my Aunt Lib’s 50th party. A party in Glasgow, at a proper venue, where alcohol would be consumed, and there would be no little faces, and only the floor would be sticky, not all the furnishings and everyone’s hands. Where I would have to wear a dress and (very, very slight) heels and I wouldn’t need to worry about things being boob accessible and my bag could be infinitesimally small. Strange foreign lands I tell you. And I went and as soon as I was settled on a seat with my parents beside me (thinking it ironic that my first night out would be spent with the same adult company I get to see most times anyway) I was being introduced as “Sandy’s Mum” and pictures of Roslyn were doing the rounds and I was discussing her being asleep when I left and what Sandy had eaten that day and I was safe and secure. Sometimes people say that you need to retain your identity and individuality when you have small children, and they relish the chance to talk about non-baby things. I agree but I don’t do it. I’ve become more Mum than Helen and more Mum than Wife even. Stuart and I go out and lament the lack of them and everything that happens becomes a big thing that they have missed. I feel bereft when they aren’t with me. It doesn’t feel like I’ve lost a limb but it feels I’ve lost a bit of my innards. I am them now, and myself and my confidence diminishes when they are not there. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

I know I will get back to myself as they grow. I’m often told that you get immersed in parenthood when they are young, and you finally emerge out the other side at some point. I’m in the depths just now and I’m okay with that. I had one of those “I’m going to miss this” moments this afternoon lying on the couch with Stuart, thinking of Roslyn’s size and Sandy’s words and my impending entrance to the job market. I honestly don’t want to be any less absorbed in my own little life right now, because I want to give it my all. I want no regrets and I never want to look back and think I should have done more. I’ve my whole life to sleep and read and drink, to stay out late and drink my tea hot; but only a few short years where I am everything to these two. So I apologise to all the attendees of the circuit training class, and all those at a party who are sick to the back teeth about discussing someone else’s kid, and to anyone in a shop who ends up hearing far too much about my life, and – of course – the poor souls subjected to mentions of the three P’s…pelvic floors, placentas and pee. I find it hard to take myself out of the bubble when I’m so much inside it. I’ve become one of those parents who are just a parent and not a real person anymore. I will be back, but for now, I’m happy as Mum, and Helen will see you in a few years; just call it an extended maternity leave of the mind.

Would You Say That to an Adult?

When sandy was born he came out with the most beautiful platinum blonde hair. I remember an orderly at the hospital comment “I’ve never seen such bright hair on a wean before”. It was the start of many such comments I’ve received on his hair.

While this comment wasn’t negative, it was made because he was different. Perhaps she loved his hair, perhaps she was shocked by it. Either way she saw something unusual and commented. As sandy grew his hair all but fell out and he was bald for at least six months and when his hair came back in it wasn’t platinum blonde but a bright sandy blonde. Then it started to get some more ruddy bits and became what I would now describe as strawberry blonde. It’s beautiful.

As it has grown so have the comments. From the seemingly innocuous “oh I love his red hair!” and “I’ve got ginger grand kids/nephews/god children” to the more abrupt “wow he’s got ginger hair” and the absurd “is he bad tempered? You know, because he’s a red head?”

At first I didn’t pay much attention, then as the comments increased I started to get annoyed. I didn’t know why at first but soon realised it’s because no one was saying to the mother next to me “oh wow, your daughters hair is so BROWN”. Yet sandy’s hair colour seemed something they just couldn’t avoid mentioning. Why? I doubted it was because “red” hair is so awe inspiring that you just had to say something. It’s not like his follicles were producing spun gold. I realised it is because people see it as a negative. They don’t like his hair colour. They see it as a bad thing and (for some obscure reason) think they have to reassure me by commenting on it. I really, really wish they would not.

Unsurprisingly when Roslyn came I didn’t get a single comment on her hair colour. Never has someone told me they too have brunette children, and no one has queried her for a placid nature due to the mousey colour she boasts. Such is vindication of the anger I feel when people mention sandy. But what I have experienced with Roslyn is comments about her birthmark. She has a red birthmark on her eyebrow. Her strawberry. And this is the thing people need to mention when they meet her.

“Is that a birthmark?” They ask. Yes, it is, and so?

“Did someone hurt her?” Is another I get. I wonder do they really think I hurt my baby or is it just a round about way to get me to admit she has a birth mark.

Most common though? “Oh DONT WORRY, it will go away” followed by some tale of someone their granny knew whose birth mark faded, thankfully.

You know what? I don’t care if her birth mark fades. I love her birth mark. And I’d love her without it. And I really do not need people going around commenting on it. I don’t need people commenting on my children’s appearances, especially to point out things they deem flaws. And it’s just that, because no one tells me that sandy is tall, and no one mentions that Roslyn is petite. There is no pointing out of button noses, or delight about rosy cheeks. No, it’s the hair and the birth mark. It’s all I hear.

Since when did it become okay to point out these things to children? You’d never hear someone say to an adult “is that a birth mark?” or “wow! Your hair is ginger!” It’d be not only incredibly rude, but hurtful to the person. So why is it okay to do it to my kids? No wonder some people view ginger hair or birth marks or otherwise negatively, when they are brought up in a society which allows adults to comment on them. I don’t want my children to be sensitive over these things, I don’t want them to feel ashamed of any part of their appearance. Sure, it will happen to some extent. I mean, I can’t patrol the playground waiting until a child makes fun of them. But I sure as hell can’t allow adults to do the same, in a faux interested way. They are going to get complexes about these things and it makes me so angry.

So the next time you comment on a child’s appearance, ask yourself if you are doing it for the right reason (that being to truly compliment the child) and if it would be appropriate to say the same to an adult. Or, just don’t do it. Just ask the child their name, or how old they are, or about their toy. There are a million and one things to discuss aside from personal appearance, so do just that.

My son has strawberry blonde hair and he loves tractors. My daughter has a birth mark and she flaps her hands up and down when she’s excited. These children are people and they should be treated with as much respect as you would expect to receive yourself.