Parenting is hard for us all, regardless of disability. But as a disabled mummy, I am only just beginning to come to terms with my experience. My girls are not babies anymore. They are confident, funny, kind, helpful, independent young ladies. I can take immense pride in the choice and deliberate action on my part to raise my beautiful girls this way. No-one gets everything right all of the time, but to see my girls as they are, I am, and can be proud to say I am a bloody good mum.
These girls are my everything. They have my heart and soul. They are the best of me. They live with the worst of me. I grieve their tiny baby selves, because I could do everything those tiny, smiley babes needed me to do for them. I was their world, just as they are mine still and everything I could do for them was enough.
As they move confidently in their own worlds now, trying their best at school, making their own friends, developing their own interests and personalities, I slowly, but surely feel them move away from me. Not in any way that children developing healthily shouldn’t do, of course. I am very deliberate in those choices, because I want my girls to have every opportunity I didn’t get, to have every assurance in their own abilities. Even so, I feel them need me less and it scares me. Much like my mum before me, these girls are much of my identity. I don’t claim this is fair, or right. Just truth. These girls validate my very existence. They are why I strive to keep going, almost in spite of myself. Whether I should be or not, I am not at peace with being a disabled person. I’m just not. I would give anything to be an able bodied mum for my girls.
They are 9 and 6 now and they are both so much more than I was ever able, or allowed to be at their ages. The only example of parenting I have to refer to is one where I was told I couldn’t, I shouldn’t, it’s dangerous, I’ll get hurt. So that is my instinct. I know it’s not correct when it comes to my girls. I fight it every damn day as they test their boundaries, moving further into the world, just as they should.
I wrote the letter below on my phone during the interval of Magic at the Musicals on the London Palladium. Random I know, but perhaps not so much. Firstly, I love musicals. They take me away to a place where everyone can sing and dance, where everyone joins in. Put so simply, it’s everything I wanted to be in a body I cannot. Not that I could not, simply now cannot because I was raised to believe it. That hurts smaller versions of me so much.
So many possibilities were closed off to me in ways that our more inclusive world would never be allowed to today. And I don’t know why. We never had much money when I was growing up, so maybe it was a resource thing. Maybe my mum was scared to see me fail and to quote Dancing Through Life from Wicked: “Those who don’t try never look foolish!”. Maybe it was more comfortable for her for me to never try. But she told me I couldn’t do things anyway so I really don’t know who it could have helped.
As a result, I’ve chosen to go completely the other way with my girls. I encourage them to do everything they want to, with the caveat that they need to be confident in their abilities because if, for example, they’re climbing a tree, I cannot help them. I did always wonder if they’d sense my fear and keep themselves small. I am insanely proud to report they never have. “OK Mummy!” they beam, scuttling off to climb trees, walls, whatever. I am in awe of them.
But increasingly, as they grow in confidence, they need me less and I can sit on the sidelines. I was never the beaming six year-old Gabby is, or the daredevil nine year-old that Immy is. They are both braver than I was ever allowed to be and it breaks my heart for the versions of me that have grown and gone by without the support and self-confidence these two wonderful girls, these incredible parts of me have.
It is harder to be sidelined in Immy’s life. She is my first born baby, the one who taught me how to be a mummy, who made me learn how to be better for her little sister, for myself. She’s less than 2 years frim high school. She’s pushing her boundaries, she wants to do more for herself, with her friends. All normal stuff I know. But I know that soon she’ll be independent and I’ll have to let her out into the world with her friends to be herself. I can’t do otherwise, because I know the damage it does to not be allowed your independence, to become yourself in the world. I won’t do that for my girls.
But Immy is there long before I’m ready, prepared. I could feel myself pulling away from both girls a little, feeling sidelined by the independence and the capability I have instilled in them. But Immy will leave me first, I will matter less to her first, because Gabby is still only six.
And as I sat in the London Palladium, having listened to absolutely stonking performances of “She Used to Be Mine” from Waitress & “He’s My Boy” from Everybody’s Talking About Jamie, I suddenly knew why I was pulling away. It’s not because I was trying to punish my girls. It was because they are my babies. Because through their whole lives, they would always be my beautiful bundles who make this life worthwhile. Part of me. Mine. Because if I was doing my job right as their mum, I needed to let them go, slowly, surely, to trust them to be themselves. Immy first. Because she was my brave baby bird, the first to start spreading her wings and looking to me for permission to fly. Because if, as her mum, I was to do my job the way I wish it had been done for me, I had to be proud of her for trying, not telling her not to, that she couldn’t.
So, I furiously typed this note, using the idea of the baby bird to hopefully help her understand how I was feeling, why there might be distance felt between us. I couldn’t wait to speak to her, because she deserved to know why I found it so hard to join in with the activities she loved, why I probably felt like a spectator in her life and growing up. I needed her to know it was not her fault, that she wasn’t doing anything wrong. I have always felt it important to help my daughters understand why I act and feel the way I do, sharing my feelings with them so they don’t grow up feeling resposible for them.
Immy
You are wonderful. Brave. Independent. Confident. Loving. Funny. You are so much more than I ever knew how to be at your age. I feel a bit far apart from you guys at the minute and I know my moods probably don’t help or make you feel good. I am sorry. I hope you know I’m trying to be better.
You know I told you I still am learning what to do with my feelings too? My mum could never tell me why she acted the way she did or how she felt. I grew up assuming it was me that made her feel bad and she never told me it wasn’t. I won’t be like that for you and Gabby. It is not your fault.
The truth is and I only worked this out the other day, I see you growing and becoming who you are. Your wonderful beautiful self. And you already feel more confident, braver and capable than I feel as your grown up mum. That means I did a good job because you are perfect. But I’m incredibly sad too because you’re growing up and will need me less, be braver than I ever was and experience things I never did. You already feel bigger than me. I’m so happy for you. You’re not doing anything wrong. As your mum, I am so proud of the job both of us are doing growing you up.
But all the child versions of me that live in my heart are sad. Because they want to be more like you and I can never be, cos I’ll never be that age again. As your mum, doing a good job means growing you up and letting you go live your brave, exciting life. But somehow, you’re ready to spread your wings before Mummy wants to push her baby bird out of the nest. I love you so much Immy and I am determined to let you live your life because I know you’re not me.
And I’m so sorry if it feels like Mummy is far away from you. I don’t mean to be. I don’t want to be. If you ever feel lonely, or like Mummy is far away, please just come give me a tight hug. That hug will remind sad little versions of Mummy she has the coolest friend and it will remind grown up Mummy that her baby bird is still in the nest and even if she’s ready to fly before I am, she is still my baby. I am so proud of you. I love you. My feelings just don’t know yet how to get ready to let you go and live your own life.
Because I don’t know when or how it happens. I’ve never been through it before, you see. Not with a child. Granny wouldn’t let me be that child. So I promise I’ll try. Hard. You deserve that. But I also know I’ll make mistakes along the way. So please forgive me. We’ll work it out together. I love you.
The next day, I sat on the bed with Immy and handed her my phone. When she’d finished reading, I summed up:
“You, baby bird. Me, nest. Mumma bird not ready for baby bird to fly and I know you feel more ready. I’m so proud of you. But I’m not ready to push you out just yet.”
My wonderful girl smiled at the analogy, took back my phone and tapped away at the bottom of the letter I had written her.
Me to I love you more than you’ll ever now, baby bird may be ready to leave the nest but baby bird promises to come back home were I love you
The level of empathy my nine year old has literally blows my mind. I’ll get things wrong, we both know this. And I know like all good baby birds, Immy will keep flapping her beautiful wings until one day she takes flight into the world. I’ll be terrified. She won’t. She’ll be just fine.
She’s my girl.
