Before I had my own child, there were several comments I used to hear all the time. 'You
can't imagine what it's like till you're a parent.' 'Being a parent makes you so much less
selfish' and 'You don't know what love is till you have a child.' These comments always
used to enrage me, but because I wasn't a parent I couldn't argue with them or proffer an
opinion.
So now I am a parent and here's what I think about them.
Does being a parent make you less selfish? No. Your off-spring and anything you do for them
are an extension of yourself and your ego. Anything you do for them, you are really doing
for yourself. Let's not forget that people who don't have kids tolerate all the special
privileges society gives to kids and also pay their taxes so other people's kids get
educated. Plus not having children of your own means you can spend time doing other kinds
of good work or voluntary work, because you are more master of your own destiny. I did a
lot more for others when I was child-free than I do now. I also had a lot more time to
pursue things for love rather than money - which I think is a very healthy thing.
Did I have an idea what being a parent was like till I did it? Yes I bloody did. I knew it
was frikkin hard work and the more time you spend with little people the more you love them.
You can learn that from nephews and nieces and friends' kids. A weekend with my nephews
would finish me off when they were little and I'd be so grateful to give them back to their
parents. I knew it must be cope-able with full time, because people manage, but I also knew it
was bloody had work and to do it properly, you make serious sacrifices to your lifestyle.
But that's different to becoming less selfish. You have a different aim, so you make those
sacrifices accordingly.
I was never sure I wanted children and I as I headed into my late 30s, it looked more and
more like the possibility was receding. I certainly knew I wasn't going to do IVF or egg
freezing or anything. And I definitely didn't want to be a single parent. I directed a tv
series on single parenting once which made me certain about that.
I worked to be at peace with the idea of not having them. If anything it was more the fear
of regret that bothered me rather than the thought of a child-free life. My life was fine,
very interesting, lots of freedom, lots of friends only working on things I cared about or
wanted to do - whether paid or unpaid. My overheads were low. I had my siblings' kids to
hang out with if I wanted kid time.
Then I met Jake - a lovely man who would be the ideal father. He worked with kids and was
doing a Masters in Art Psychotherapy so he understood the whole parenting thing from top to
bottom as far as I could see. He knew what a commitment it was, he knew how to deal with
children and he could change nappies. (I've had a life-long fear of faeces which was a big
factor in me not wanting kids, in all honesty). We didn't exactly plan R but we also
weren't as careful as we could have been. We talked about the likely outcome of any
'accident' and Jake said 'it wouldn't be the worst thing in world and would maybe even be a
good thing.'
The main thing about parenting that took me by surprise is the simplicity that arises from
the possibility of endless choice being removed from you. There is something very comforting
about that. Before, I could choose where I went for work, what I worked on, what festivals
or parties or holidays to take, whether to do a meditation or yoga retreat.
Now, it's pretty much what soft play or playground to go to. How far can you make it before
your little one wants food or makes such a mess you have to get them home to clean them up.
In many ways it's just much easier. But MUCH more limiting. So you lose yourself in the
'unconditional' love stuff - which I can most easily liken to that the rush you get from
some clean MDMA. Though I hasten to add (mainly because of it's legal status and the
complications that could arise from me as a parent saying this), that it's years since I
did that. However - there are comedowns from or flips sides to both experiences.
And this may be cynical, but I also think your friends who have kids want you to have kids
because they like you and they want you to be in their boat, with the same options and
limitations they have. Now I have a kid, I definitely think EVERYONE I know should have
one.
Which brings me back to today. I have been asked four times in the last two days by
different backpackers: what's it like to travel with a kid? They always ask with a
benevolent smile. But I feel the question is a bit like asking someone what it's like to
travel as a ginger, or with one arm.
I know they are asking because they are thinking about what they will do when they are
parents - not because they really care about my experience. One very tall,blonde, beautiful
Scandanavian girl told me four days ago that she has experience with childcare. I 'joked' I
might hire her. Yesterday, she asked me the question and I said 'it's really ok. it's just
like travelling without one in a way, only you have a few less options available to you. I
say I think it would be really do-able with two adults but on my own it is a struggle
because I don't get any breaks. What I don't say is that in 18 days, I haven't been for a
swim or a walk on my own - except for 1 time I went 5 minutes to the laundry while R was
sleeping). The blonde looks at me with great pity and says 'if i wasn't leaving tomorrow,
I'd take him for a while.'
I almost want to explode with fury. If you weren't leaving tomorrow? Tomorrow is TWENTY
FOUR hours away? Do you know how long 24 hours is? Did you just listen to anything I said.
Half a bloody hour, so I can go for a swim. That could transform my day. Over the next 24
hours, I see her lounging around, chatting to different people, reading etc etc and each
time I hope I'm not throwing her a hateful look because that's how I feel.
Thing is, I know I made the decision to come and to do it alone and only I am responsible
for that decision. So I have no right to be angry at this beautiful girl.
The more I'm around this hostel, the more I'm remembering what child-free travelling is
like. You go to a place, you meet people you get on with, you form little groups based
around what activities you want to do, like go on a hike, go exploring, go on a boat etc.
Then you share resources/costs and you do it. Together. And that's what I'm really missing
from this experience. I feel like because of my disability (R), I can't ask or expect anyone
who isn't similarly limited to do things with us. Why should they sacrifice the quality of
their experience because I chose to bring a kid with me? I can't ask them to do that and so
far no one has offered. And yes, there are little joys to having this ball of at-times
cuteness and wonder and joy for company, but other people can experience all of those as he
toddles past, doing something funny at the hostel (which he has started calling 'the
hospital'). They don't need to take it any further. And to date, I haven't met any other
single parent travellers, and the few couples with kids have been very self-contained.
Self-pity over. Now where are we?
We had a good day yesterday at a different beach. R was exhausted but stayed up till 9pm
after I made a bad call on our dinner order.
Around midnight I was woken by the very loud exchange of other guests here who were having a
Colombian tea party. Or that's what I'll call it since they were discussing which toilet the
to go in and who had the card and the note. Today, the same characters were looking very
sheepish and seemed to me to be actively avoiding being around a child (or maybe it was the
'mom'!). I have witnessed this before and totally understand it. A good friend and big
caner, who shall remain nameless, shuddered one morning at a festival 'Ugh. Toddlers. They
see right into you.'
R sleeps 9-7 (only the second time he has slept till 7) but woke up in a stinky mood today
and has been whinging and moaning all morning. I have to try and cope with this in the full
glare of laid back and hungover backpacker land. I post on FB that 'I feel like an advert
for contraception.'
I decide to get the pushchair out for the first time in nearly a week and we go for a walk.
There's a huge statue at the top of the bay, over-looking the town which some of the
backpackers have been hiking up to. Someone told me the other day it would be impossible
with a pushchair but this morning, someone else tells me you could do it. So off we set.
After about 10 minutes, I realise my first mummy fail. I haven't brought R's shoes. This
means the terrain we can traverse are limited. After about another 30 minutes, my second
fail. I haven't brought any snacks for him either. I press on anyway. We end up taking a
few wrong turns and walk for some time down dirt tracks which aren't leading us the right
way. I don't really mind, it's interesting to look around and see the houses and nuggets of
people's lives. R isn't complaining either, though this is likely in part because I've let
him have his dummy.
The walk lasts over an hour but in the end it is just too rough and steep and we can't go
any further. Still, it was nice to do something different having been on beaches for the
last few days. On the way back, I spot an ice cream parlour which has a climbing frame in
it. It's full of Nicaraguans and the ice cream is way cheaper than anything else I've seen.
We stop there for a while and R enjoys playing in it. There's a tiny climbing wall which he
takes to very naturally without needing any coaching. It's nice watching him work out for
himself how to use his hands and feet on the different options. I'm aware that if he falls
backwards he will smack his head on concrete, but I trust him and his sense of balance.
We get back the the hospital (sic) and R is in full whinging effect. He wants x, y and z.
Non stop. For my own self-preservation, I decide to ignore him and do some writing. He is
fed and watered and in a safe place, so he's fine to be ignored. He starts to occupy
himself quite nicely, playing with a disconnected hose head and a box of detritus from
various board games. I'm ranting into the netbook (see above). Then R says 'I've pooed'.
I ask - do you mean you want to poo or you already have pooed? He says, I already have. I
say 'is it in your pants?' (he's in pants today, not a nappy) and he says 'yes it's in my
pants.'
I will spare you the detail, but let's just say it was a fairly significant and multi-
faceted clean up job. And for someone with poo-phobia, I handled it pretty well. Another
note on the poo-phobia. I had hypnotherapy with the amazing Jenny Glanville for it while I
was pregnant and I'm convinced it made a huge difference to how I have been able to deal
with shitty nappies. The other great help was that Jake never once, when he was alive,
turned down changing one.
Once I've cleaned up and gone back to ignoring R, I have a bit of a cry. Only my second one
in 18 days, so good going considering. Luckily the courtyard is empty so on one sees,
except R who comes up to me a couple of times, but for once doesn't ask me what is going on.
I tell myself that this is a process and of course I will feel like this at times, but
then it will pass. I'm kind of waiting for the really hard bit to pass so I can feel ok
again. Or wondering if I will have an epiphany and glide through the rest of the trip like
I have at past events (Burning Man, Nowhere, Vipassana meditation). No epiphany and no
glide, but I am able to get a grip again.
We go to the beach. I've invested in a plastic spade, a wheelbarrow and a turtle in the
hope he will occupy himself for a while and I can lie on the beach. This lasts about 2
minutes and then he starts throwing sand on me. So I make a pile of sand, mark a large
square out one side, put the turtle at the top and call it the turtle depot, then I put the
wheelbarrow on the other side and tell him I'm the boss and he has to fill the wheelbarrow
from one side, drive it around to the other side and fill the turtle depot up. Of course he
says 'why?', so I reply - because I'm the boss and it's what I've decided has to be done
(how's that for an introduction the real world of work?). He starts to do it but instantly
drives the wheelbarrow through the pile of sand instead of around. He keeps himself
entertained for possibly 3 minutes like this and then decides it's much more fun to throw
sand on me. Still - those 3 minutes were precious.
We swim and have fun in the water playing games and jumping up and down. R is gradually
getting the confidence to lie on his back in the water. We are talking about Dana who works
at the hostel and who calls R 'mi amor'. R says to me 'you mi amor'.
Then we get out and go shower and there are no dramas. I am wondering about a conversation
I had with Laura, H's mum last night. R's dad comes up and I tell her he is dead. She says
she knows, H told her. Which means R must have told H. Which is interesting because though
she understands English, she doesn't speak it. But she says R told her his dad was dead and
he died in a motorbike accident (!! - not the case). So this is the first time I have
heard a report of R sharing his 'story' with another child. Laura says she will try and
find out more about the motorbike.
We haven't really talked about home or people at home much at all.
On the way back from the beach, out of nowhere, R says 'Grandma is missing me.' I ask if he
misses Grandma and he says yes.
We shower and I am determined we will watch the sunset tonight as I can tell it will be a
good one and we haven't seen one so far. I drag R across the road to the beach and he plays
with two toy vehicles while I watch the sky change colour. It really is a cracker, and as I
sit there with bare legs and arms, feeling the warm wind blowing and taking in the beautiful
sky, I definitely get a moment's peace. I remember how lucky we are to be having this
experience (at this time of year) and how many people really are struggling on a day to day
basis to get by, while I have chosen to put myself in this position.
We walk into the town and R says he wants pizza. Quelle surprise. He hasn't had any for a
week though so I am open to it. As we walk past a restaurant, loud laughter comes out. R
asks me why they are laughing. I say I don't know - maybe someone is tickling them.
R's in luck and there's a pizza place so that's where we go. I order 1 pizza, with half
topping for me and half for him. I tell him we are going to share a pizza and he gets very
angry and upset, says he doesn't want to share and wants me to sit on another table. I say
that we can go somewhere else and not have pizza if he won't share. And so it goes on. I
ask the waitress if she can bring the pizza on two separate plates to spare the issue of
sharing when the food arrives. There are some advantages to being able to explain things
your child won't understand. She nods, but what arrives is two separate plates and a pizza
on one plate so we have to go through the whole thing again. In the end, I triumph by saying
if he eats all of his half I will order him another one.
There's a table of 4 people sitting near us. At one point, they all laugh out loud. R says,
why they laughing? No one's tickling them.
We go home and it's 7pm and he hasn't napped today so I know an easy bedtime is coming up.
Sure enough, changed, teeth, milk, mini discussion about lights, then sleep. I will read
him a story in the morning.
We have one more day here, then Tuesday we will set off for the island of Ometepe in Lake
Nicaragua. I had a superb time there in '98. We'll see how we get on this time. But
tomorrow I need to work out how we'll get there and what we'll need to survive the trip.
A note on photography: in case any of you are thinking she calls herself a film-maker but her shots are terrible. I probably spend less than one second setting up and taking each shot. Granted, I may take three or four and choose the best, but that's it. And I don't put filters on anything I publish. Defensive ? Me?