Failure

If I close my eyes, I can still perfectly picture the moment.

Freya (one of my best friends in year 7 and still now) was going around the corner at her usual blistering pace. She hugged the curve like spanx. Watching her intently, I counted down the moments until I needed to launch off. We had a good 5-10 metre lead on the next class, and I knew I could take my opponent easily on this last leg, as I had earlier on that day in the individual sprints.  

I set off, victory in my sights.

Maybe I was too early. Maybe too late. Maybe too fast. Who knows.

All I remember was scrabbling around the floor looking for the baton.

I made up part of the gap, finishing third, only to see that we were disqualified for lane interference. I remember getting a “pity point” for some hopefully self-esteem building reason by our teachers who could see my whole world had come unravelled in that event.

I wasn’t the prettiest.

I wasn’t the smartest.

I wasn’t the  best musician, or actor, or artist, or anything else.

But I was the best runner.

“Was” it seems being the operative word.

This was the first time I remember failing.

---

I sobbed all the way home from the test centre after failing that first test. In hindsight, it was not the best idea to take it just two weeks before my due date. Unsurprisingly I had failed due to not being able to adequately check my blind spot as my burgeoning bump restricted my movement. I confessed to Steve that passing my test was my “present” to our unborn child, and now I felt I had nothing to give them, nothing to offer.

I was a bag of nerves throughout the second test. My legs physically shook as I attempted to negotiate my way around the city. Three minutes in I felt I had failed, and I remained silent, on the verge of tears, as I continued to confuse my right from my left and miss turnings on roundabouts and on the independent driving section. I wanted so badly to have a sense of worth. To not be the one that everyone had to give a lift to. To not be overwhelmed by the fact at the age of 29 I hadn’t achieved something 17-year-olds had. To not have to traipse around the city with Zella and another future baby on public transport on rainy winter days. My future family depended upon it, and I could no longer be a free loader to my husband, family & friends; I HAD to pass.

At the end of the test, the tears rolled like thunder, as I was faced with the reality that it wasn’t my inability to navigate that I had failed on, but a simple manoeuvre around a corner that I hadn’t controlled my nerves on.

Sometimes the fear of failure is the very thing that will cause you to fail.

Once again I found myself scrambling around on the floor looking for a baton, with victory racing off ahead of me.

---

I’ve always liked to win.

Growing up in a city full of athletic cousins with a penchant for competitive games, our days were spent competing on Alex the Kid megadrive games, and then running outside for sprints down the streets. With our parents excelling in athletics and boxing amongst other sports, it was in our blood to aim to be the best.

I excelled in school with perfect attendance eleven out of thirteen years (only marred by a lengthy trip to Jamaica in Year 3 and a stomach bug upon my return from an all-expenses trip to Leon, Nicaragua as an official representative of Oxford, it’s twin city, in Year 10).

I accumulated awards for sports and drama and captained many teams.

Besides misadventures in Graphic Design and Biology, my exam results have always shown A’s & B’s; I set my sights on university early on, and was ecstatic to graduate, and graduate well.

Until returning to England in 2011, there was never a job or course I applied to and wasn’t successful in.

I remember being told by a dance teacher that I wasn’t the best dancer technique wise, but I more than made up for it in my performance.

If I couldn’t win the thing, then I would win you.

I get things done.

But sometimes

I come undone…

When I can’t control the pressure.

The pressure created and fashioned from the dangerous workings of a mind weaving words that hadn’t been verbalised by none other than a dark and unconfident part of my psyche.

The things that keep me awake at night are not the reflecting upon my highs,

But on musing upon the lows,

wondering where I went wrong,

desperate to not repeat history.

Harsh words, failed attempts from weeks, months, years ago even

Still lie heavy at the front of my mind.

99 good things happen,

but you go home thinking about

the one that got away.

And in the desperation for that that to not happen again,

The winding up of pressure begins.

---

Around the same time as preparing for my second driving test,

Game of Throws was birthed.

I saw the advert for a recreational netball league in Birmingham

and realising that it would be cheaper price for me to be part of a team than register as an individual, I decided to create a team.

(The thought that I would have more control and not be subject to the whims of another leader on some random team was also a motivation.)

In my head, we were going to be amazing. Top of the league.

On the court, we were average. On a good day.

Rusty as it had been twelve years since some of us had played.

My stomach was in knots as we played, each game.

Nervous, desperate to win, and sick at the anticipation of failing.

But something happened

Amidst a season of 4 losses, 1 win on a technicality, and 1 genuine win (against the bottom team), I still loved every minute.

In the face of repeated weeks of failure, the team remained phenomenal, never giving up, playing respectfully, willing to try different positions, communicating well, encouraging each other, and even drawing the refs to make jokes with us at half times and after the games, such was our passion and fun.

I even said one night, “I am actually enjoying losing for once.”

Failure doesn’t have to be miserable.
Failure doesn’t have to be awful.

Failure doesn’t mean there’s no hope.

Do I want to win?

Of course.

(and always!)

But I refuse to let my world fall apart around me when failure comes.

Failure doesn’t mean it’s the end.

Slowly, slowly, my competitive side is getting my head around it.

And I’m finding freedom in the grace I give myself,

When I allow it to be ok,

If things don’t turn out perfectly.

It’s all part of the journey.

Pee & Poop

We were first inspired to start this journey early on by another parent we know who was doing “Elimination Communication” which is in essence leaving your child with no nappy on and watching their faces to learn cues for pee and poop! For us that sounded like to much work, especially in winter in a cold house, and especially with newborn poop, but it got something triggered in our head. Both my mum and Steve’s grandmother were grand advocates of the idea that babies aren’t really too young for the potty, and that there are specific times when they will almost always pee (and/or poop) and that you should put them on the potty at these times.

So here we are with a 19 month old who is basically dry through the day and night, and we aren’t really sure how it happened!! We are by no means experts in this field, but so far we have had a successful and unstressful adventure with potty training, and after some requests we thought it might be helpful to share some of our limited tips:

Positivity

We are an over-zealous and enthusiastic family at the best of times, and this has been encouragement overload!! Pees & poops get rewarded with praise and high fives, and when there have been accidents or she’s gone in her pants, we’ve explained “Try next time in the potty ok?” but not said “Bad Zella” or told her off. In part that’s because we recognised she was super young to be catching on to it, but also we wanted her to rejoice in her successes and never feel like a failure in this area as that could have put her a step back and created fear/anxiety.

Potty

Have a potty in your house from as early as you can. A lot of kids seem to be scared of potties, but it’s harder to be scared of something that is presented as friendly and presented early on in your development. We have had one in our house since 4 months old. We got a cheap one for a quid from Tesco, and when we moved house we got another one as we had an extra bathroom. Again, this was just a cheap one from Ikea. In addition we have a step stool to reach the toilet, and two of those seats that you add on to the toilet for little ones to do their business. So in each bathroom there was a comfortable toilet solution for Zella, and it was always at easy reach/could be moved into the living room if needed.

Pick & Put

We all as adults have those times we always go to the toilet – first thing in the morning, last thing before bed, just after drinking a massive bottle of water, right after a meal… Pick one time daily (we started with after dinner/just before bathtime when she was naked/getting changed anyways) and spend a week or more putting them on the toilet at that time. Chances are they will pee and it will get them more used to it. Then gradually add another time in (for us it was first thing in the morning). As she progressed and got it, we added more times in, and started to get to the point where she was giving us cues to go, or simply walking to the potty/bathroom herself.

Parade around

It has the potential to be messy, but embrace nappy off time as much as possible. If you are planning to be inside for a few hours, or it’s the evening before/after dinner, or at the weekend, and you are just chilling watching tv/playing with toys, then let them go free! It’s less disconcerting when you have wooden floor, but even with carpet, you could put down some plastic sheeting/a blanket if you are worried! Put the potty in a visible place and explain to them if they want a pee, then go there (pointing, being enthusiastic) and see what happens. We have had both pee and poop on our floor (have some antibacterial spray to hand), but it really wasn’t as bad as I thought.

Parental Peeing

Because its always important to model the behaviour you expect ;O)

Palm-Greasing

Zella is rewarded with chocolate buttons and we have no shame in that.

Public Praise

We all have a need in us to be loved and affirmed. As much as possible we have praised Zella in front of others. When in the house, if she has had a successful trip to the toilet, then we get her to tell the other parent who praises her. This works well in teaching the child to articulate to a grown up what they have just done. Zella doesn’t use words, but she points to the front if she peed and the back if she pooped, so she is developing the language of bathroom etiquette and communicating her needs. This obviously is useful when you go out in public, are at someone else’s house etc. She gets so excited telling other grown ups besides us when she has done something and getting a high five from them too, and means she won’t be scared to tell someone else when we aren’t around and she needs to go.

Finally, some interesting sociology/history for you:

In 1957 the average age for beginning potty training was 11 months old, with 90% of children being dry during the day by the age of two.

Fast forward to now, and the average age that parents say children show an interest is 24-25 months (2 years old), with 90% dry by age 3, and most dry all day by age 4.

How have things changed? Why such an increase in age?

In part, it is due to nappy types. Disposable nappies at their very nature are made to keep baby/toddler as dry as possible, drawing water away from their skin. Children therefore don’t feel wet, thus it makes it harder for them to discern needing the toilet and those various cues. We are great advocates for cloth nappies, gNappies being our only and preferred brand, and we think in part the use of cloth has meant Zella is more aware of it all, we change her a but more often, and she has learnt earlier on what it means to be wet and dry. The conspiracist side of me says, nappy companies want your money for as long as possible, and as the market has increased, and their absorbency has increased, so has the mantra of “waiting until the little one is ready” rather than leading as a parent. I’m a cynic, but I think there is some truth in that statement. The average child now wears 5000 nappies from 0-3. Imagine the hundreds of pounds you could save by cutting down that gap, even by a few months!!

I think in part, our culture has gotten a little lazy, and we don’t like too much hard work, and we are being trained to let our kids lead, when sometimes we need to be the grown up. Reports are showing that kids are increasingly starting nursery, reception, and even year one still wearing nappies. That isn’t because of medical issues, it is simply because time hasn’t been put in it at home. Life gets busy, and it has taken a decent chunk of time to train Zella, to take her to the toilet in the middle of playing at friends houses or at playgroup rather than just leaving her in her nappy, but I feel like it’s worth it.

(And I’m saving money and I like that feeling best of all!)

Steve wants me to reiterate that
(1) we aren’t experts

(2) we only have one child

so these aren’t hard and fast, tried and tested rules.

However, from conversations with older generations, and from research with a few early potty training parents and online, I think these tips could be used and really positive results could come from it!

Good luck with your potty training endeavours!!

Hairbands

She sat on the bathroom rug

With quiet methodology

Fingers grasped around the plastic tube

Holding black stretchy ring

She tested each for it’s elasticity

As they were pulled off and on to the floor

She looked up at me

With wide eyes bright

As I told her

“Put them back on”

Head back down

With determined obedience

Her little fingers once again clawed:

The ease with which they flew off

Was not to be repeated.

Each day we read.

With her wry grin

we turn pages,

sing songs,

speak high, speak low

and close our eyes into sleepy submission

But eyes were opened wide for these words:

And I feel my life

Is turning more into dots

A mass of gray

Gold desperate to twinkle through

More and more

My daily trawl of

Facebook

Online newspaper comments

Political discussion websites

TV debates

Seems like vomit

Thoughts of waste

Expelled from the mouths of drunkards

Down 3am dark alleys

Waking up with foul taste in mouth

Groggily justifying

“Hey, I’m entitled to my opinion,

I’m just saying what I think.”

I see your

#100DaysOfHappy

Your

#OnlyGoodThings

Your

#KindnessIsMagic

Desperate to speak against the barrage of hate of

#BigBenefitsRow

Controversy of

#CBB

Because nothing is sacred from public abuse

#HateTheQueen

Even when good is done

When NekNomination is turned upside on its head

With sandwiches instead of Smirnoff

Angry words still condemn

When did we get so critical

Deeming ourselves so high

So right?

When did we forget

That in each vein is blood

Pumping to heart

Desperate for life?

So me and my mini-me

immerse ourselves into the stories

Of the caterpillar that is hungry

Which lion is hers

Discussing the places she will go

And anything else

That allows me to do silly voices

And speak that truth

Reiterate It over and over

Until it becomes rote, ingrained, her being

Over and over:

The importance of words

The life and death they bring

And the difference they can make

They flick off so easily

So quickly

So flippantly

But can’t be put back the same

“Taste your words, before you spit them out”

The wise woman said.

Empty?

I felt empty.

Steve and I had dreamt about this weekend.

We had loved our time at Keele University:

the campus, the courses, the nightlife,

and the Christian Union.

The CU weekends away with inspirational teaching, relationship building and muddy football games were an annual highlight.

We walked away after graduation both wanting to go back and impart into students at a later date.

Knowing the CU president and our return to England imminent, the stars seemed to have aligned and opened an opportunity.

We were excited and eagerly anticipated all the things we would do, the ways Father God would move.

Who would have known that we would travel to that weekend, driving away from a house shrouded in grief just less than three weeks previously.

Like I said, I felt empty.

The weekend passed like a blur.
We had planned and prepared as diligently as ever, but I looked back and questioned whether things were as creative as we could have made them,

whether we really challenged them enough,

if our words were full of Holy Spirit, or just read off of a paper.

I wondered if I had really given my best,

if we had done the right thing.

After the weekend, our Facebook burgeoned with friend requests, comments about how much our talk spoke to them. And I got the warm and fuzzies.

When you think you don’t do well,

When things are super hard,

But you step out in faith regardless,

God can do great things.

True.

But not the end.

The thing is

I don’t just want warm and fuzzies.

I don’t just want to experience the high of a temporary feeling.

To think I did something good one day

And the next

Nothing substantial has changed

More was in store:

Never would I have imagined

That out of pouring myself out

That weekend still grieving

And being open to what Father wanted to do

That now

Two years to the day later

These girls who sat on seats and listened

Politely taking notes and clapping in the right places

Now

Sit at my table

Text me

Do lunch

Talk birth

Live chat through Obsessive Compulsive Cleaners

And pour into my sweet daughter

(with Petit Filous)

I don’t have much to offer this great world

Just my stories

My inappropriate humour

My meager words

And my love for people

But offer it I will

In the hopes that my longevity

My sticking around and involved

 it makes some difference

It changes some directions

It makes Father God bigger,

more visible,

more tangible,

in more lives.

Selfie

I’ll say it once, nice and loud for you all to hear:

"I want to see your face, but I don’t want to see your face THAT much."

Some pictures of you on hols,

hanging out with friends,

trying out new make up,

and definitely with cool clothes on.

But fill my newsfeed with twenty of the same posed,

but trying to be natural shot

With sepia, willow, X Pro II and every other filter under the sun

And I will delete you.

I rarely put up selfies.

If I do,

they either contain my sidekick Zella:

Or me doing some ridiculous face:

No one wants to see just my normal face.

No one.

Putting a picture up of me,

just out there,

puts me on display.

Exposes me.

I remember being pregnant and getting requests from friends far away desperate to see my ever burgeoning bump, and I recoiled in fear, scared of comments I would get.

What if they didn’t think I was pretty?

Me with Zella? Well you have to think that’s cute.

Me with a stupid grin? Well you just have to laugh.

Me. Just me.

Well…what if it doesn’t get “likes”?

The truth is

Behind the newsfeed full of posed photos

Or the one devoid of them

There sits a woman with phone in hand

Girl with laptop

Lady staring at a screen

With a beauty to unveil

Wondering if anyone will see it

Notice it

Care about it

Love it

Bikini jumping at beach, ghetto twerking poses, inappropriate Halloween outfits

It all screams:

Do you see me?

Baggy clothes dragging, dark hair over eyes, scar marks on arms

It all screams

Do you see me?

We first became undone

That 1800s day

When we looked up from the bathroom sink

And our reflection stared back at us.

And then when the weighing scales,

that once resided so neatly on kitchen counters,

or so officially in doctors offices,

Encroached into our homes

With constant reminder

That we didn’t measure up

We weren’t the right fit

We unravelled further

My teeth aren’t straight.

I was too scared to get my teeth taken out,and so the orthodontist couldn’t put braces on, and I look at my wedding photos, and regret that moment of teenage worry that means my mouth isn’t Colgate ad worthy.

My body feels weird.

Early puberty meant that since age 11 I’ve been this size, this weight, but yet I never quite got a grasp on it, and justas I started to feel comfortable, pregnancy attacked it, and now bits have got bigger, and bits have got smaller; unwelcome visitors in a place I’d just started to feel at home with.

But I cling onto the words that my Father God continually impresses upon me:

I am beautiful.

And that is not determined by merely the outside.

A 1900s girl,

without the trappings of adverts and angst,

described herself

based on her character

her skills

her attributes.

She was not to be described as merely the sum of her body parts

So on Saturday afternoon,

humbled with a clumsy hot chocolate wetting through my lap,

the girls and I wrote,

the beauty we saw in oneanother.

This is my real selfie:

The irony that the same teeth that repel me,

Are seen by another as “beautiful smile” 

And that what makes a difference

In the lives of others

What makes the permanent change

In communities

Is not the colour of my eyes

The outfit I wore last week

My waist size

But my personality

My gifts

My heart

So girl with photos

Cluttering my newsfeed

You won’t get deleted today

Because 

just like me

You just want to know you're beautiful. 

Ceasefire

A comment I recently posted in a mum’s Facebook group received more than 50 "likes" in the hour following my scribing of it.

At my last check of it, it had exceeded 100.

We are a lazy bunch in the Miller household.

Steve’s alarm goes off at 6am (when he actually gets up is debatable) but Zella and I are only awake before he leaves if thereis a feed to be done or a poop explosion to clean. Some days 8, some days 9, on the lucky ones 10am is the hour we make it downstairs.

I still breastfeed Zella, in spite of her clamouring on top of me as if I were some gymnastics apparatus, and the occasional nip from the four teeth she has recently acquired. I am more than happy feeding her in public: on the bus, at cafes, at others houses, in parks, and, if the moment arises, while running to catch a train.

Some days, we hang out and play with the toys, some wooden, some with batteries. Often the only toy she’s interested in is my phone or the video baby monitor. I know I use technology around her too much because she can swipe the Mac and change my screens, and enjoys sitting back and looking through the morning’s Instagram offerings. I do try and do reading everyday as well, to make sure she is a book geek like me.

Sometimes we head to the park, or go on the swings. Yesterday we did this on the way to Tesco. That Tesco trip where I brought more than I could carry, and had to pile the buggy high and carry Zella home. Which wasn’t a problem…until it started to rain and I had to fashion a covering for her out of the shopping trolley seat cover I have because I don’t want her to get germs. Because for me, the germs in Tesco on the carts are far worse than the germs from the raisins I let her eat off our living room floor. I have also unknowingly taken her to this den of bacteria when she had a viral infection. I'm clearly going for mum of the year. 

Often we go clothes shopping. I often get caught out and spend far too long shopping and socialising in town and am suddenly faced with a screaming babe. I hastily feed Zella the baby snacks and pouches of puree, trying not to condemn myself for not preparing an organic feast fit for The Savoy. At home, dinner times are a happy chatter amidst of baby-led mess; our kitchen tiles’ the loser, splattered with the disregarded and thus flung regurgitations of our child.

And on our favourite days, we hang out with other mums and babies. A year ago, I didn’t know anyone in Birmingham with a young child, but classes and playgroups have grown our circles wide. One mum and her son live nearby so we often meet spontaneously and talk about cloth nappies. Another mum teaches and is full of advice for Steve as well as support as she has carried on full-time breastfeeding. One mum is ten years older, a classically trained musician and a highly disciplined individual; on paper we should have nothing in common, but she makes me laugh hilariously and we have great conversations.

The reason my comment on that post

Seemed to resonate with so many others

Was because I attempted to speak out

Against, what I saw, as an unfair judgment of amother

Breastfed vs Formula

Baby-led weaning vs Purees

Co-Sleep vs Cot

Cloth vs Disposables

Baby carrier vs Buggy

Pacifiers vs Thumbs

Staying at home vs working outside of the home

In our attempt to make ourselves feel better about our choices

Often others are put down for theirs

We draw battle lines and the mama wars begin once again

With angry and judgemental words

The media provoking and antagonising

This fervent fire

A fire that causes another mother to weep

Pushing back the waves of post-natal depression

As at her most vulnerable

One hand cradles her babe

While the other shields her heart and mind

Why do we choose “versus”

Rather than “and”, “with” , “or” ?

I am more than aware that I’m not theperfect mother

I write my daily choices to show they are

Both good and bad

But am learning

Steadily

To rejoice in the fact

I am a mother

With healthy child

Who delights in my face

Who delights in our life

I look at so many of you and think you are thriving

Although you may only see your flaws and failings

But the truth is

We are all doing our best

Serving them best

Teaching them best

Loving them best

And our best is more than good enough

Though we act like these decisions

Are life and death

Denying child a place at Harvard or Oxford

In countries near and far

The abuse of children is far more abhorrent

Than the outcome of these differing views

For my friends

With babes unborn

Uncreated

Unfertilised

Dreams in your head for the future

May you carry the baton

Of freedom in motherhood

And support and love

In the face of this torrential storm ofwords

May we be free from the judgement

Free from the lies

Free the tangled webs of the enemy

That would convince us otherwise

Of the simple fact

You, my precious fellow mother, are doing a phenomenal job.

And as gummy smiles and toddler eyes reveal

That we are succeeding

May we take these words

And be a blessing to others.