The Introvert's Guide to Parenting

I like solitude. I generally like my own company, even though I sometimes worry about the slightly nuttier depths of my overactive imagination. All of that is kind of fortunate really, as I spend a lot of time working from home, devoid of any sort of human contact other than that which comes as a disembodied voice on the other end of a phone. I appreciate it would probably drive seriously extroverted types completely bonkers, but being happily far along the introverted scale, it suits me down to the ground.

There's only one slight snag to this whole thing, however - you see, I went and had children.

The discomfort starts with pregnancy - all of a sudden, friends, acquaintances and complete strangers start to make small talk about intimate details of your anatomy. Doctors and health workers poke around in places normally reserved only for the most intimate moments. Your body is suddenly no longer your own, and sometimes you wonder if your mind is, either.

Maybe you start going to ante-natal classes. More complete strangers you suddenly find yourselves thrown together with. Actually though, you think, it's not too bad. At least you have something in common, so the small talk comes fairly easily. Heck, even the dads start showing an interest and doing a spot of male-bonding over their collective fertility.

The general indignity of the actual birthing process passes you by in a haze of gas and air. "Student midwives? Hell, yeah - the more the merrier! Come and look at the stitches on this!"

The first few weeks are weepy and sleep-deprived, and you wish you still had that gas and air handy. But, generally, people at least appreciate that you kind of have your hands full, and are happy to ask if you need help or appreciate company. Soon, however, there comes a point when you can no-longer use newborn chaos to delay your return into society.

Then comes the dreaded baby group.

Is there anything worse for an introvert than the prospect of a noisy room full of other people and wailing children? You don't want to seem like too much of a grump, but really all you want to do is quietly read your book in a corner while little Tarquin* plays with the building blocks. That would be "weird" though, so you reluctantly feign interest in conversations about nappies, weaning and sleep patterns.

Really though, it's not that bad. Worse is yet to come. Your children start to communicate with you in ways other than screaming red faces. And once kids start to talk they generally don't stop much. Permanent chatter fills your home from the time they get up to the time they pass out from over-stretched vocal chords. The endless questions wear you down as much as any arguing or shouting (if someone could invent a volume button for children, please?) and the endless chatter. Oh God, the endless chatter. The commentary about EVERY LITTLE THING makes you idly wonder if someone would employ them to do those audio descriptions for deaf people. Still, they're your kids, you love them, and they can be kind of amusing at times, so you kind of forgive them and put up with it, silently looking forward to the days when they toddle off to childcare or school.

Rookie mistake.

Yes, the start of school gives you more time to yourself, but it also brings with it the introverts greatest fear; OTHER PEOPLE'S CHILDREN. Your own children will insist on inviting them round as play dates, where they will jointly cause absolute chaos in your homely sanctuary.. No longer can you ignore the infantile whys and hows as you can with your own kids - you have to show an interest in the little dears, despite the fact you patently really don't have much interest in them other than as playmates to keep your own children from bothering you.

So, one day, when your now 5 year old youngest daughter states that she doesn't "like people talking AT her", you smile, and advise her under your breath never to have children of her own...

Source

(*just stating for the record that Tarquin is not the name of either of my daughters)

Of Chalk and Cheese

Two very different incidents over the weekend have got me marvelling about how truly different my children are from each other. Little did I know, when I rashly exclaimed at number two's birth "My goodness, you're your sister", how wrong I would be proved. The physical changes became gradually apparent; after the shock of jet black hair they shared at birth had faded, DD1's colouring turned to my dirty blonde, whilst her younger sister stayed stubbornly brunette.

Physical differences are of course less interesting to me than their differences in character. In many ways this too became obvious when they were still tiny. Problems with reflux meant DD1's first few months were emotionally fraught and physically exhausted while her sister ate and slept well almost immediately, and it seemed reflected in their general temperament.

We popped to the shops on Saturday to pick up a few bits and pieces, and the familiar cry of "mummy, I need a wee" was soon heard. I looked around and mumbled something about trying to remember where the toilets were. When I looked back, number 2 had disappeared. I headed towards the toilets with DD1, only to  find DD2 purposefully striding towards the back of the store already. "It's ok, mummy", she said, "the toilets are over there - I asked a man". It truly amazed (and worried) me to see her confidence at age four - I barely dare ask strangers for directions at *cough* years older! Needless to say, even at two years older, it's not something her sister would ever consider either, which I must confess saddens me a little - I'd love to give her a bit of a confidence injection sometimes.

Yet an incident on Sunday reminded me that she has her own positive attributes where her sister may perhaps be "lacking". We went for a lovely bike ride with some friends along a canal. All was going well, when, around an hour in, DD1 slipped when pushing her bike up a hill, and fell. Her friend behind her struggled to stop, and ran over her arm at the elbow. From the initial cries we could tell something was not right, and my husband hurried back to fetch the car to the nearest point (thankfully close). From that point, through to being diagnosed as having a broken arm, having had it x-rayed three times and cast twice until we were ready to go home around 6 hours after the incident had happened, she was incredibly calm and uncomplaining, and her bravery really impressed me. It's probable that her younger sister would have howled and complained through the entire process.

I suppose it will never cease to amaze me how the same set of genes mixed slightly differently can result in such different little personalities, and seeing that mix develop and grow truly has to be one of the most fun aspects of parenting.