Chez Spud

This is not a post I ever thought I would write. But necessity means I must buy a new bike. When I say ‘new’ I mean I must replace the bike I bought when I was 18 (bought with the profits of selling my scooter, weep) which I rode about twice (both times clad head to foot in Laura Ashley) before giving it away in 2003 when I moved in with MrSpud. It was a Raleigh. It was pink. It had white wall tyres. It had a white wire basket on the front. MrSpud was embarrassed by it, but his ‘cool’ Shorditch mates thought it was ironic. How little they knew me, ho ho. It wasn’t an ironic statement…it was just totally uncool.

I think we can safely say I am not a passionate bike rider. I blame my parents. Well of COURSE I blame my parents, that’s what parents are for surely? My Dad ‘taught’ me to ride my bike when I was 3 by taking off my stabilisers and repeatedly pushing me down the hill in our garden until I ‘got it’. Harumph.

So, I don’t own a bike. But needs must. I have two bike riding pre-schoolers and I can no longer keep up with them in the forest by ‘jogging’ (think: shambling along and gasping for breath like a committed smoker). I need a bike so I can keep up. Although I’m not sure what I do when one or other refuses to cycle anymore since, currently, that involves me carrying either a child or a bike (and frequently both) miles back to the car. Woe is me.

MrSpud, a very keen cyclist, has all manner of ideas of some kind of ‘hybrid’ bike for me (d’ya see how I’m getting the lingo?). He’s thinking this, a Trek Allant. Kind of cool?  Apparently I needn’t limit myself to girls’ bikes. There’s no reason why I can’t ride a ‘male’ bike as long as I’m prepared to get my leg over further, as it were ….ahem.

This is EXCELLENT news. As what I really want is a Pashley bike. Oh swoon…vintage styling…handmade loveliness thou shalt be mine. Pretty much all of their ‘contemporary’ bikes should be in my garage, but I’m quite taken with the Tube Rider – Double Scoop. Add a Leather Handle Bar Bag at a cost of £195.00 (getting on for half the price of the bike) and I’m all set.

Kind of dreamy huh? Although possibly the charm of its pastel loveliness might wear off. It’s a pity of terrified of traffic otherwise I’d be ordering it tomorrow. But, alas, the Pashley loveliness isn’t going to cut it in the forest. That’s only an out an about on the road kind of bike. Hmm. So what I need is TWO bikes. All of a sudden I’ve gone from zero bikes to needing TWO bikes. One for the forest and one for the road (although, sshhh, isn’t that what cars are for?).

But it’s OK. MrSpud (currently owner of 3 bikes, one about to be sold to be replace by …er…another bike apparently) has admitted he’s a FIVE bike bloke. Erm, racing bike, road bike, mountain bike….and two other bikes that I can’t remember since I’d glazed over at that point. He definitely wants yay NEEDS a Pashley too. Apparently we will dress up in vintage clothing, smoke gigantic pipes and grow vast moustaches (even me) and then potter around Suffolk on our his ‘n’ her Pashleys.

Who cares what bikes he wants though. The point is this: his five bikes equals my TINY two bikes plus pricey camera equipment. Plus, bonus, my camera kit actually EARNS money through client work. Score! I win, as ever, I win.

I’m a bit cross about spoiling the look of the lovely Pashley with a helmet though. It will detract rather from its ‘Brideshead’ elegance, no? Although possibly my big, fat, gurning, sweaty face will detract more…

I haven’t actually ridden a bike since 1990 but I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’ll be like, er, riding a bike. Won’t it?

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Last weekend, at the beach, I spotted my 10 year old self. An only child I suppose, since no siblings were in evidence nor cousins or friends. Just her, plus parents and assorted grandparents. She pottered about the beach on her own, making up games, paddling, making sandcastles, swimming a bit. Every once in a while she’d call out to her family, ‘Look at me!’ or some such. But, mainly, she watched the other groups of children rather wistfully…clearing wishing she could join in. She’d edge nearer and nearer, and then back off again. Later, a very glamourous Italian teenage girl turned up. “I wish I could be like her”, I could almost read her mind since 10 year olds haven’t yet developed the skill of covert observation. My heart broke a little bit watching her since she reminded me so much of myself at that age. A little bit plump and plain, comfortable and confident in the presence of adults but always wishing I could part of whatever group or clan I inevitably was excluded from. And I definitely always suffered from French/Spanish/Italian teenage girl envy on the beach, always wanting to be older, taller, slimmer, more suntanned etc etc.

Then, somewhere along the line, I shed my awkwardness and put on the Confident Cloak instead. If I want to join a group of people, I join in. I no longer want to look like an Euro Teen. I’m comfortable in my skin. How did that happen? Did I do it myself, though a combination of nature/nuture/force of personality? Or was it instilled in me by my parents, friends and peers?

A friend’s son, 4, seems to be suffering from low self confidence and, when his brother tells him that he’s a ‘rubbish waste of space’ the boy will cry and agree, ‘Yes I AM a rubbish waste of space’. His mother was chewing over how she can help him to believe in himself, how she can bolster his self-confidence and teach him to stick up for himself a bit. We were both a bit stumped for ideas and I’ve been mulling on it ever since.

So how DO you help someone to love themselves, to have confidence and be proud of who they are? Success, does that breed confidence? Should we be helping our children by creating situations where they can succeed and be proud of their achievements? That seems so artificial but surely self-confidence must, in part, be reinforced by the confidence others have in us?

But it’s SELF-confidence. The nub of the issue is in the title. It’s something that we, as individuals, have to find in ourselves. And I don’t know how you do that. But I wish I did so I could parcel some up for the wistful girl on the beach and the 4 year old boy who, quite genuinely, thinks that he’s “rubbish”.

Anyone got any ideas? All gratefully received.

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Anyone still here? I took an unplanned, extended blog break…partly going away on holiday and life getting in the way  but, mostly, not having anything to say. Anyway…

When the Megaboys were babies I was in a state of near constant worry. There were the every day, moment-to-moment worries about whether they were too cold, too hot, getting enough milk/calcium/protein, eating too much sugar and salt, whether they were getting enough sleep etc etc. But, much worse that these ever present daily anxieties was a near constant, background worry that I was Getting It All Wrong. That, despite attending to their every need and following all the available advice, I was basically making a total hash of it. It seems quite laughable to me now but,  when Bertie was a small baby and rubbish at napping, I seriously worried that he would be developmentally delayed through lack of sleep and it would be All My Fault because I was incapable of putting him down for a nap.  These kind of parenting demons haunted me throughout the baby days. No wonder I dropped my baby weight pretty rapidly – just the sheer energy expended by maintaining my constant state of high anxiety melted those 5 stone away…

Eventually I relaxed in to it, and the boys grew from babies in to toddlers and pre-schoolers without incident. I stopped worrying about Getting It All Wrong and accepted that sometimes I’ll get it right and sometimes I’ll get it wrong but, for the most part, we’re on track. But, just recently, that old nagging fear of Getting It All Wrong has made a very unwelcome appearance. I can’t quite put my finger on why though.

I think we’re entering a new phase of parenting as the boys turn from pre-schoolers to almost-schoolers, so perhaps that’s it. I can see the challenges ahead are a whole lot more complex than the ones we’ve left behind and, at this stage, I feel completely ill-equipped for them. Also, we’re dealing with some fairly difficult behaviour from them at times and I’m completely at a loss to know how best to tackle it. But I know I’m not doing it right, because my 4 year old rather quietly, rightly and heart-breakingly, told me so.

Generally I can breeze through most of the pressure points of parenting by reminding myself of that old ‘this too shall pass’ adage. And perhaps this tricky stage will pass, but in the meantime it DOES need addressing somehow or other because they are testing boundaries and we have a responsibility to set them and enforce them. I don’t want to rule with a rod of iron but I can’t abide dreadful behaviour in children either.

But firm ‘management’ is tipping over in to shouty fishwish mummy once too often. And meeting their rage with my rage isn’t helping anyone, quite the reverse. I need some new tactics because my armoury of warnings, giving them choices, picking my battles, time out, walking away and yelling isn’t cutting it.  I can’t expect them to address their behaviour until I’ve addressed my own – I think that’s the nub of it.  I’m the parent, I’m supposed to lead by example and not fight fire with fire. Ah, amazing what happens when you decide to ‘blog something out’.

Any wise sages out there care to share some war stories, or tips or techniques? I don’t want to go in to battle with my children anymore, I want to enforce the boundaries and diffuse their frustration in a calm, adult manner. HELP.

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