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Mother’s Pride – Does it have to be all about them?

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What’s the first thing you think of when I say mother’s pride? Is it watching your daughter play Mary in the school nativity? Seeing your little darling win the egg and spoon race? Hearing your child has been kind to another kid on the playground? Or maybe it’s just that old bread advert?

So, my kids are learning to ski at the moment. I know, toes feckin posh right? I might just buy one of those cars with a ski attachment in the boot… ok maybe not, the hook for my Lidl shopping bags is probably a tad more practical.

Now, my youngest is

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five, and before we arrived at their last lesson, I told them what they were going to be learning that day – the ski lift. My little one burst into tears.

‘No way.’ She said ‘I’m not doing that. Never!’

I asked her why.

‘I’m scared.’ She said.

Fair dos.

So how was I going to get her to give it a go? Two words – mini eggs. Yup, I did what any other shitty – I’ve paid a lot of money for these lessons – mother would do, and I bribed her with chocolate. And it worked. So even though she was terrified, once I’d dangled a

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packet of tasty Easter confectionery in her face, she gritted her teeth and gave it a go.

I was so proud of her.

As she tackled the slope from the very top I clapped and whooped with pride. I high fived and kissed her when she reached the bottom in one piece.

‘Mummy is so proud! You were very scared but you did it! That’s so AMAZING!’

She looked as if she might burst.

‘Mummy,’ She said, beaming ‘Do you know, sometimes I feel so proud of myself that I think my life is a dream.’

OMG! How. Cute. Is. THAT!

What a wonderful

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feeling I thought as I drove them home. That you recognise being proud of yourself as a magical, other-worldly, dream like, out-of-body type experience. And it was over something quite simple really. I mean it was a big thing for her… but it was just using a ski lift.

This kind of got me thinking… could I stop and take pride in my own daily achievements a little more? Even the small ones? Because as mums we focus our pride so much on our little ones, that sometimes we forget to be proud of ourselves. Instead we mainly focus on our ‘fuck ups’

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and failings. Know what I mean?

So I say – lets be as proud of our achievements as we are of theirs.

Ok, I’ll go first… today I am proud I got my girls up, fed them, and sent them to school (on time) in presentable clothes and with clean faces. I’m proud I didn’t lose my shit and punch someone in the face after saying – ‘get your shoes on’ for the fifty-millionth time. I’m proud of a fridge full of food and a nice nutritious meal for tea tonight, even if it is freezer tapas… again.

I’m proud of being a working mum and a strong

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role model to my daughters. I’m proud that they’re kind, thoughtful and loving. I’m proud that I read with them every night, even if the book is so dull I glaze over and find myself wondering how big Idris Elba’s willy might be. (just me?) I’m proud that they can wipe their own arses and make their own squashes, because stuff like this means they’re learning to be self-sufficient and independent.

I’m proud I go to yoga every Tuesday night because mummy needs some after school clubs too, right? I’m proud they’re happy. I’m proud I’m

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happy. I’m proud they’re looked after. I’m proud I’m looked after. I’m proud I’m doing great (mostly) in this relentless, challenging, unpaid, knackering – where’s the fucking manual? – job.

So puff out your tits and hold your head high. Hum that Heather Small tune if that helps goddammit. Be a lioness. Be a queen. Be a victress.

Be proud.

Because mother’s pride isn’t all about them, it can be about us too.

 

 

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Rhiannon Boyle

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- 6 Feb 19

What’s the first thing you think of when I say mother’s pride? Is it watching your daughter play Mary in the school nativity? Seeing your little darling win the egg and spoon race? Hearing your child has been kind to another kid on the playground? Or maybe it’s just that old bread advert?

So, my kids are learning to ski at the moment. I know, toes feckin posh right? I might just buy one of those cars with a ski attachment in the boot… ok maybe not, the hook for my Lidl shopping bags is probably a tad more practical.

Now, my youngest is five, and before we arrived at their last lesson, I told them what they were going to be learning that day – the ski lift. My little one burst into tears.

‘No way.’ She said ‘I’m not doing that. Never!’

I asked her why.

‘I’m scared.’ She said.

Fair dos.

So how was I going to get her to give it a go? Two words – mini eggs. Yup, I did what any other shitty – I’ve paid a lot of money for these lessons – mother would do, and I bribed her with chocolate. And it worked. So even though she was terrified, once I’d dangled a packet of tasty Easter confectionery in her face, she gritted her teeth and gave it a go.

I was so proud of her.

As she tackled the slope from the very top I clapped and whooped with pride. I high fived and kissed her when she reached the bottom in one piece.

‘Mummy is so proud! You were very scared but you did it! That’s so AMAZING!’

She looked as if she might burst.

‘Mummy,’ She said, beaming ‘Do you know, sometimes I feel so proud of myself that I think my life is a dream.’

OMG! How. Cute. Is. THAT!

What a wonderful feeling I thought as I drove them home. That you recognise being proud of yourself as a magical, other-worldly, dream like, out-of-body type experience. And it was over something quite simple really. I mean it was a big thing for her… but it was just using a ski lift.

This kind of got me thinking… could I stop and take pride in my own daily achievements a little more? Even the small ones? Because as mums we focus our pride so much on our little ones, that sometimes we forget to be proud of ourselves. Instead we mainly focus on our ‘fuck ups’ and failings. Know what I mean?

So I say – lets be as proud of our achievements as we are of theirs.

Ok, I’ll go first… today I am proud I got my girls up, fed them, and sent them to school (on time) in presentable clothes and with clean faces. I’m proud I didn’t lose my shit and punch someone in the face after saying – ‘get your shoes on’ for the fifty-millionth time. I’m proud of a fridge full of food and a nice nutritious meal for tea tonight, even if it is freezer tapas… again.

I’m proud of being a working mum and a strong role model to my daughters. I’m proud that they’re kind, thoughtful and loving. I’m proud that I read with them every night, even if the book is so dull I glaze over and find myself wondering how big Idris Elba’s willy might be. (just me?) I’m proud that they can wipe their own arses and make their own squashes, because stuff like this means they’re learning to be self-sufficient and independent.

I’m proud I go to yoga every Tuesday night because mummy needs some after school clubs too, right? I’m proud they’re happy. I’m proud I’m happy. I’m proud they’re looked after. I’m proud I’m looked after. I’m proud I’m doing great (mostly) in this relentless, challenging, unpaid, knackering – where’s the fucking manual? – job.

So puff out your tits and hold your head high. Hum that Heather Small tune if that helps goddammit. Be a lioness. Be a queen. Be a victress.

Be proud.

Because mother’s pride isn’t all about them, it can be about us too.

 

 

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Rhiannon Boyle

Hi, I’m Rhiannon. I live in Cardiff. I’m a wife and a mum to two beautiful girls who are 7 & 5. I’m a part time freelance writer/part time stay at home mum.

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