Catch Tara at Sticky Fingers http://stickyfingers1.blogspot.com/

Mia has a baby doll that she loves like it's part of her anatomy.

It's a grubby, raggedy thing now. Its soft body and legs loved so much they have lost all shape, her plastic head has lost a bit of its paint and her eyes don't quite close properly.

In fact I've tried my hardest to get her to replace it with something a bit more, well let's say aesthetically pleasing shall we, or cleaner, or a bit less offensive to your nasal passages.

But there is no way she is giving up that doll. Or Baby, as she's called.
She was never allowed a name. Anyone who asks: 'what is the dolly's name?" is treated to a withering stare as if you've just asked "can I cut your doll's head off" and she replies: "It's Baby". And you had best leave it at that.

Mia mothers this baby so tenderly it's a joy to watch.
Truly, it is so heartwarming to see her coo over this plastic monstrosity, rock it in her arms and move away an imaginary lock of stray hair all tenderly.It makes me want to scoop them both up (overriding my gagging reflex as Baby moves under my nose, obvisouly) and smother them in love.
Shall I pause here a moment while you ahh/tut/gag . . .

Mia takes Baby everywhere. It is her comfort.
I have a friend whose children both have comforters. Neither of them were the slightest bit interested in a dummy. But her six-year-old son has the raggiest, most thread-bare Bagpuss toy you have EVER seen (which also stinks) and her 4-year-old daughter has one of mummy's old vest tops which she calls Cuggy and drags it around like a female version of Linus in Charlie Brown.

Bagpuss has been banned from school (I suspect it's the smell, but I'm told the teacher said it's not 'appropriate') so mummy has to have it in the car at all times so he knows precisely where it is.
Cuggy must NEVER be washed for fear of it smelling 'wrong' and if it does ever come into contact with cleaning fluids it must under no circumstances be dried on the radiator because if it's warm, well put it this way, there will be screaming.

Dummies may have been a darn sight easier.

So tonight Mia is sitting on her beanbag, chatting to Baby in a tender voice: "You OK Baby?" she asks and rocks her gently in her arms.

And then it dawns on me! She's copying her mum. I have taught her those tender ways, that loving nature. My god, I did do something right! I am not a parenting failure.

Just as I'm about to swell up with pride or joy or arrogance or something much more unseemly, Mia stands up, picks Baby up by the leg and tosses her on the sofa.

Oh.

Do you remember way back before you had children - let's call it BC - when you made yourself certain promises about the type of person you would be in motherhood?

Do you remember being out for a nice meal with your other half while a couple of harrassed looking parents tried to 'manage' their screaming toddler is was yelling till his face turns violet that HE WANTS AN ICE CREAM and he wants it RIGHT NOW?

Did you tsk at them too?

It's OK, I've been there. And now I feel a great need to apologize out loud to all the mothers I ever gave dirty looks to for having screaming, unmanagable kids.

You see, BC you swear to yourself that you will never ever let your child become a walking advert for Barney/Dora/Pokemon or spit on a hanky while in public to wipe the chocolate from around their chops (them having eaten said chocolate just an hour before dinner time too).

And it sounds so great in your head. You'll be this tolerant, calm, earth mother whose yogic breathing practices will help her through the difficult waters and make sure she rises above the scraggy looking women with baby puke on their shoulder and a fistful of food in the back of her hair who are screaming at their tots with spittle flying out of their mouths.

I will NEVER be that woman you promise yourself.

Then reality hits you right between the eyes in the form of a child and you've got more chance of meeting George Clooney in the supermarket than having any time for yogic breathing - or any breathing for that matter - and you will do anything ANYTHING for a moment's peace or to stop your cheek-burning embarassment in the middle of a packed supermarket.

And it got me thinking, what did I swear I would never do in motherhood?

1. Bribe my children with treats.
Their little bodies are a temple right? Well not when I'm half way round Tesco with a full trolley and Mia decides that she kinda fancies throwing the shopping out of the trolley as fast as I'm putting in is the way to ease the boredom and shouting "oi lady" to other shoppers is way more fun than helping mummy with the shopping list.

2. Talk about my children ALL THE TIME.
Parents do that, have you noticed? Every little event in their child's development is replayed in graphic detail and if you sit next to a parent at work you know so much about their potty training/bed wetting/tantrums that you actually want to throw a tantrum of your own.
And heaven forbid you ever get two mums sitting together at work - it's like the waiting room for the local midwife.
Now I'm a mum I have to gag myself. "It was so funny this morning . . ." I start, then think actually, unless you were there it's actually not that funny at all.

3. Take your child to work.
A big no no. People say 'bring him in as soon as you can' but they don't actually mean it. They mean bring a photo in. Just as it was toxic to touch a child for the creatures in Monsters Inc, so it is for the childless at work.
I actually used to rush to the loos to avoid babies brought in to the office. And mums always always picked me to thrust their cherished newborn at.

4. Use the TV as a babysitter.
Picture the scene. You've just got in from work after picking the children up from school/nursery/grandma's. You need to make them something to eat, make yourself a medicinal cup of tea and juggle making their packed lunch for tomorrow while also thinking what to make yourself and hubby for tea.
While you're trying to do all this you have one child hanging off your leg demanding to be picked up, the other begging you to play Frustration with them (ah yes, very apt name for a game) and it's pouring with rain outside so if they do go out and play you have at least an hours clearing up to do after.
Who you gonna call? Sportacus of course - 25 minutes of Lazytown is just enough time to race around the house like someone pressed the fast forward button and get all of those jobs done.

5. Promise yourselves that your child will never be THAT kid that kicks, bites, pull hair.
Yeah right, until that is you get the call from nursery saying your cute little girl has been bullying the boys.
I remember the times the nursery staff had to pull me to one side to tell me some child had bitten Daniel or committed some other equally heinous crime. Boy did I tut and curse their parents.
And don't even get me started on the day he came home having learned to say f*** - and he had heard it from a four-year-old girl.
What's wrong with these people, I would rage at hubby, do they not have any control over their children?
Then I had a daughter and she seems to be slowly making her way through the Naughty Girl manual.

There are so many many more:
We will always sit down together and eat as a family
I will never feed my children chocolate before the age of 10
I will never let my children dictate our lifestyle
I will never scream like a banshee . . .

So what are the promises yo made yourself before becoming a parent?

There is a woman, a mother, who sits in the children's play area of our local park and she is usually alone on a bench on the sidelines, watching her little boy play.

The wind picks up and she pulls her scarf tighter around her ears, buring her chin deeper into her woollen coat, only raising her eyes every now and again to catch what is going on in the hustle and bustle of her surroundings.

She is trying to be invisible. She is trying to be noticed. She never moves from that bench, afraid to strike up conversation with someone, afraid that someone will strike up a conversation with her.
When I first saw her I thought it was one of the saddest things I have ever seen.


She scans the playground for her son, who is crawling over the metal apparatus like a little bug, oblivious to the biting cold.
He is only three but he has no problems making friends. He runs up to other children with that wide-eyed innocence of youth and requests their name. He talks to other parents like they have always existed in his world.
There is no embarassed pause. No reservations. No nervous laughter.

But all the while his mother sits alone, kicking her heels against the soft tarmac to keep warm, hands buried deep deep in her pockets.
She makes no effort to socialise with the other parents dotted around the playground. She doesn't know how to. She watches their easy chitter chatter and it stabs at her conscience. Did they know each other beforehand? Did they just meet? How did they just meet? How?

She has no idea how to approach the other mums and dads and make friends. She doesn't have her son's easy charm. She finds it makes her panic to think about it.

And so, every time they make that trip to the park or the play centre or a playgroup, she pushes that little feeling of dread to the dark recesses of her mind and makes the effort for her little boy.
I know all of this because I saw her one day and knew exactly what she was going through. I knew every stab of failure chipping away at her confidence and so I sat next to her and said something trite like: "It's not much fun for us mums here is it?"

She gave me a weak smile and carried on staring ahead at the swings. But I bulldozed on, talking rubbish, talking about the children's programmes I'm forced to watch, the 'treats' I'm bound to be buying on the way home, the pile of washing I'll have after this trip to the park.

Then, suddenly, she changed. A light sparked behind her eyes and she started chuckling along, joining in, adding stories.

After half an hour I knew how very lonely she had been for a very long time.
She moved to this area with no friends, no family and while her husband worked long hours, she stayed home with her son.
And it wasn't the life she had dreamed of.

Is that you? Has that ever been you?
I found the school playground difficult. My son started at a school where I knew no one, not a single soul and while he ran in through those school gates on the first day all arms and legs, I hung behind, not wanting to crash in on little cliques forming around the edges of the playground, too shy to say hello.
Luckily there were parents there who noticed me and strolled over to break the ice and for that I am eternally grateful, because making friends is hard when you're the new face on the scene.

Now I find myself in that position again as my daughter has started a nursery school and has been invited to one of her new friends' birthday party.

She is SO excited. I am secretly dreading it. I know none of the parents there. Sure I say hello in the mornings and make small talk, but attending a party for two hours is a different kettle of fish altogether.

And then I start to panic that my reservations will somehow percolate over to my children and infect them with my insecurities and they too will feel more comfortable sat in the corner on their own than mixing with anyone who will listen.

I'm not that bad I suppose. My defence mechanism when I am shy is to talk. Talk talk talk talk talk. It's to hide embarassing silences I suppose. Or to avoid giving anyone enough time to decide that actually they don't like me!

SO I wonder, what are your experiences - good or bad - of making friends with other parents?