Then there are mornings like this morning.
Let me set the scene by telling you that Audrey has never been a great sleeper. That's fine, it happens, we deal with that with a lot of love and patience and acceptance (and whinging about how tired we are). But last night, she was distraught and not sleeping and I was so exhausted that I fell into a sort of half-comatose daze on the bed while Ian took her downstairs where she would cry for me and hyperventilate and be so distressed that he would bring her back up, and I would drag myself from mostly-dead to barely-awake and try to calm her, nurse her, until she would get fed up of being in bed and run to the stair gate screeching "Dada dada DOWNSTAIRS!" and the cycle would repeat. This went on for quite a length of time, until eventually she fell asleep.
Audrey lately has been refusing to wear clothes or nappies (or to use a toilet or potty). Friends, I am trying SO. VERY. HARD. to be understanding and patient about this, but I'll be honest with you. This pushes at the very limits of my sanity. We can't go out anywhere, we're always late, and I am FOREVER cleaning up "accidents" from the carpet, the bed, even (on one very memorable occasion) the vacuum cleaner. So when she eventually fell asleep last night Ian and I managed to scrape together the presence of mind to put a nappy on her before we collapsed, still fully clothed, into bed.
This morning Audrey was not happy that we'd had the temerity to put a nappy on her over night. She didn't eat breakfast, wouldn't let me put a nappy on her, wouldn't let me put clothes on her. Normally fine, I'd give her some space and let her cool off and we'd try again later while she's distracted watching endless episodes of Pocoyo. But today was a bit special. See, today I'd organised a special meeting of the creative writing group I run. I'd been trying and failing to organise this for a couple of weeks, since I'd had no time or energy to get it properly sorted, but finally I'd managed to get it settled for this particular day - and due to exhausted bad planning, I'd had to cancel another meeting that I'd managed to cross schedule for the same time. I'd organised this meeting for fairly early, 10am, so that it would be done before Audrey's nap time. And now, with about an hour before we were due to arrive there, I got a message saying that the place we were supposed to meet was actually closed and we'd have to change the meeting place at the last moment. Argh!
Friends, I don't - as a rule - force Audrey into things that are to do with her own body, like nappies and getting dressed. Yes, that means more work for me. Yes, that leads to the mind numbing futility of trying to argue logically with a 2 year old (if you want to go outside, you have to put your shoes on!). But for me, it is so very important to respect her autonomy, her consent. Her no and yes. There can be consequences - no time outside if you're not dressed. But I'm not going to forcibly put clothes on her struggling body while she screams no at me. That feels REALLY WRONG. What am I teaching her about consent? What am I teaching her about who owns her body? I'm not going to do that.
Except, this morning, stressed and harassed, I did. I forced her into a nappy and her clothes and I felt awful about it. I said to myself - it's not worth it. Being on time, being there at all, it's not worth it. I hugged her tight and apologised, we had a quiet moment of recovery, and we were off.
I was so overwhelmed and exhausted and guilty that it wasn't until we were most of the way into town that I realised I'd gotten on the wrong bus. A bus that takes me to the new town, when we were meeting in the old. I look at my phone - we're already a few minutes late. Damn. I decide to tough it out, to get Audrey off the bus and carry her all the way to where we're meeting. It's maybe a mile away, up a very steep hill. But I'm a mum, I'm a badass, John McClane's got nothing on me, I can do this.
When we get off the bus, I pick Audrey up and sit her on my shoulders, because that's the quickest way to carry her without my arms falling off after two minutes. We walk up the wide, busy Princes Street, get to a crossing. Audrey pushes the button, we wait for the green man, we start to cross.
Audrey starts to vomit. All over my head, my face, into my clothes. She keeps vomiting. I can't put her down - it's a wide, busy road. I have to keep going. So does she. When we get to the pavement I stand her on her feet and she keeps throwing up onto the ground for a few moments. I bend down to stroke her back and can feel the vomit dripping off my hair and face.
I have spare clothes for her. None for me. I scrub at myself with baby wipes, but there is vomit inside my clothing, on my breasts and my stomach and down the back of my shoulders. It mats my hair. The wipes hardly help. I take Audrey's clothes off and she instantly insists she isn't getting dressed in the clean clothes. I have a most-naked, vomit covered toddler shrieking "NONONONONO" in the middle of Princes Street and everyone is staring at my coat, my hair, my child. There's no bin to put the dirty wipes in so I stuff them into my bag. There's no way to get home that doesn't involve getting on some kind of transport which might make her throw up again. I'm starting to feel about as vulnerable as I've ever felt.
I manage to get her dressed, and we go for a walk because that might settle her stomach, right? And it does seem to, so we keep walking. I carry her when I have to. We walk a long way, towards where we live - an impossible distance away. I know I can walk that distance in just over an hour when I'm on my own and in good form. Audrey could never make it, even when she's not ill, and I can't carry her that far. We stop in to a newsagent and I buy her anything she asks for - a sausage roll, a bottle of water, a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. She eats them while we walk, and I feel like this is all my fault - she didn't even want to go out today. I pushed it, I organised things, it's my responsibility. I'm a terrible parent, if I was a better parent maybe she would sleep better, maybe she would get dressed easier, maybe she'd learn to use the toilet instead of the hoover. I think "eff it" and decide to try a bus again. I put my arm protectively around her and give hard looks at anyone who wrinkles their nose at us - at the smell and the matted hair and the way my two year old scoffs down vinegar crisps instead of the banana I lovingly packed for her snack. I'm daring someone to say something, because if I can snap at someone then maybe I won't cry. I send distraught text messages to people explaining our absence, and tell Audrey over and over that I love her, very quietly. I point at things outside the window and try to get her interested, thinking it will help any nausea.
We make it home. My eyes are stinging from the vomit. I carry her, my arms aching, the short way from the bus stop to our house. Up all the stairs. In our front door. She takes off all her clothes, as she does, and we crawl into bed in the dark side by side and lie there until she falls asleep. I sneak a nappy on her.
I take a bath. I write this post. I wait for her to wake up, for it all to start again.
