I didn’t know who Katie Hopkins was until maybe 2 months ago when she turned up on This Morning debating attachment parenting with Peaches Geldof. Her original fame seems to be from being on The Apprentice, which I dislike for its bullying and cult of famous-for-five-minutes, and she seems to have gone on to make a career out of rubbishing anyone who doesn’t agree with her, making herself look silly and bigoted in the process.
Her latest piece is an article ridiculing the five types of mum she dislikes. And it was reading this that any animosity I had towards her for peddling her controversial views turned to sorrow for her.
Katie Hopkins has tried to have it all. She failed to endear herself to Lord Sugar and although she withdrew it was because she was unable to balance her family life with her work. And I think privately she feels regrets about her parenting. She regrets not spending more time on the sofa cuddling her babies. She regrets the hours she put into sleep training and the fact she barely saw them bundled up in their fancy prams and strollers. She may even regret their names given her views on naming children.
She probably misses, like pretty much all mums do, the small squidgey baby that came home from hospital and felt and smelt sooooo sweet because she fell into the camp of detached parenting and felt guilty everytime she didn’t put the baby in the Moses basket or didn’t prod Daddy out of bed at 2am to make a bottle. She has so many parenting regrets that she has no choice but to defend them as not only the right choice but as the only choice because to do otherwise would be to admit she got it wrong.
I think that privately she admires PTA mum, without whom school life would be much more dull, she admires dad mum for his guts in entering the SAHP world, she admires eco mum for trying to do things differently and she admires home school mum for spending the formative years of her children’s life in their company without going doolally. She may even, really secretly, admire fat mum for simply being herself which something Katie Hopkins feels she can no longer do.
BaBa has woken too early again. She won’t settle now but if offered a boob she will doze off.
It is wonderful to watch her dozing so peacefully. In a few minutes I’ll have to get up to start my day but for now I’m just enjoying the quiet. The house is silent and the only noise is her breathing. It is a very meditative time for me. A chance to organise my thoughts before the rush rush rush of getting everyone up and organised begins.
A meme that has been circulating in the wake of the Boston bombings is “look for the helpers”.
Look for the first responders who ran towards the explosions to stabilise and evacuate the wounded.
Look for the runners, exhausted runners who had just completed one of the harder marathons, helping the wounded; pushing wheelchairs; offering shoulders.
Look for the people, some of whom came straight from the marathon, who inundated the blood bank to the extent that they had to turn people away with the message “we have enough”.
Look for the residents offering beds, couches, mattresses and floors to total strangers.
Look for the big heroics but don’t miss the little ones; the shared phones and borrowed clothes.
Look for humanity. Because when something happens as big and terrible and wrong as this was you realise that for all our arguing and different beliefs most people just want everyone to be ok.
When you see a fellow human being injured and in need of help you don’t ask “are they gay?”; “are they here legally?”; “do they believe in my God?”; “are they claiming benefits to which they are not entitled?”; “are they republican or monarchist?”. You respond. You offer what aid you can, even if all that is is a hand to hold or a voice to attract more help.
There are some who believe that within us all there are two wolves fighting. One is glorious and good; the other evil and bad. The wolf that wins is the one you feed. Events like yesterday’s explosions show that these wolves can live in a whole society too. Look for the helpers. Feed the good wolf. Starve the bad.
I’m ill. Sore throat. High temperature. Headache. Feeling crap and falling asleep all the time. No appetite and then I’ll be starving and need to eat three bowls of rice krispies NOW.
I hate being ill. I hate that DH had to come home from work because I couldn’t stay awake any longer. And that he cancelled a trip to conference because he didn’t expect me to be well enough for him to go. I hate people bringing me drinks and that my housework is undone. What I hate most is that I caught it from my son.
Because this means he’s about 36 hours ahead of me in getting ill and 36 hours ahead in getting better. So when he’s fully recovered and raring to go I’ll still have a fuzzy head and difficulty concentrating. I won’t be well enough to take him for a walk to the post box let alone a trip to the park to burn off his newly restored energy.
Boo had it mildly and didn’t seem too ill at all; BaBa doesn’t seem to have got it at all. Which can only mean that the wonderful protective properties of breast milk are working and with every mouthful she’s been gobbling down lots of antibodies.
The other thing that I hate about being ill is when DH succumbs. He’s come home early, cancelled a trip and kept things ticking over so he really deserves a better roll of the dice than to spend the next 48 hours in bed. But that’s the law of families – what one gets the others share.
Welcome to this blog. Whatever I write here I will regret in a few weeks time when I see where the blog is going. I plan to write my thoughts and musings on parenthood and parenting.
Why more than my milk?
I love breastfeeding. I love seeing my babies grow big, strong and healthy. I love snuggling with them, full of milk and sleepy. I love being able to feed anywhere and anywhen. Breastfeeding is a whole way of life to me and provides so much more than my milk to my family.
But this blog isn’t just about breastfeeding either. It’s about attachment parenting, babywearing, baby led weaning. And about getting to piano lessons on time, playgroup coffee mornings and PTA meetings. Because being a mother – a mum – is about more than my milk too.