All the Million Little Things

Once Upon a Time there was a woman named Thea who had a gorgeous little baby boy. She and her husband Chris were so so happy with their new family and embarked on the journey excitedly. Thea knew that being a mother would be a challenge not least because that’s what a child’s role is - to test their parents and push boundaries in order to learn about themselves and find their place in the world. But she also knew that she was up to the task and would be a great mum. Soon a daughter and another son arrived and their family was complete.

However, things were even harder than Thea had imagined, and she often felt lonely and unsure whether she was doing things right. Nevertheless, every day Thea stepped up and gave all her energy and heart to her children.

As they grew the gap between what she expected from herself and what she was able to achieve grew ever wider. She heaped impossible cultural expectations on top of her heart’s desire to do everything she could for her children so that - inevitably - she was unable to keep up. She began to become disappointed in herself, focusing on her flaws and faults, the things that she didn’t do right rather than all the million little things that she did well. So many little things that they all added up into the big important things. As she strived to be better Thea forgot to take into account all of the good things she did and achieved, the big and the small.

So, it’s beyond time for her to take account of some of these million things. Then perhaps she can feel proud of her role as a mother. Perhaps reading about all the little acts of love and compassion she gave her children will show her how they outweigh the mistakes she remembers and the regrets she harbours.

I would like Thea to acknowledge all these little things:

All the times that she listened, even before they could speak.

All the love that her arms gave them through her squishy hugs.

All the love in her words.

All the praise and recognition.

All the acknowledgement of their feelings.

All the interest in their interests.

All the eye contact and nodding.

All the laughter and joking.

All the baking of cakes.

All the pancakes on pancake day.

All the birthday pancakes with berries, squirty cream and Nutella before school.

All the balloons around the house on birthdays.

All the books read cuddled up in bed.

All the CBeebies and films watched cuddled up on the sofa.

All the picnic teas in front of the TV when she was tired.

All the pasta and pesto, and cheesy beans on toast, and sausage & mash she made.

All the ‘let’s pretend’ which she didn’t enjoy but did it anyway.

All the demands for attention even though sometimes they necessitated her breathing through her irritation.

All the early mornings so she could wake up before they padded into her bedroom and demanded her attention.

All the patience when they would not go to bed.

All the bathroom bubble monsters.

All the distraction techniques to make the day go smoothly.

All the counting and phonics.

All the daily organisation that kept a family functioning.

All the washing up.

All the washing.

All the tidying.

All the cajoling and encouraging.

All the standing around bored in a playground.

All the school playground small talk.

All the school letters, on paper in the book bag, in countless emails.

All the ironing of the school uniform.

All the packed lunches.

All the packed lunches she conjured up when she hadn’t been shopping recently.

All the school dinner selecting and ordering.

All the driving. Oh the endless journeys to and from school, nursery, clubs, train stations.

All the tears she soothed.

All the condolences she gave.

All the kindness she spread.

All the kindness she modelled.

All the kindness she encouraged.

All the forgiveness and generosity she embodied.

All the silliness.

All the connection she tried to create.

All the games she played.

All the times she bit her tongue.

All the times she walked away.

All the arguments she let go.

All the anger and frustration she learnt to express in a healthier way.

All the dishwasher action.

All the meal planning.

All the shopping lists she made.

All the shopping trips she made.

All the online orders she placed.

All the arguments she mediated.

All the subtle pre-empting and avoidance of sibling rivalry she attempted.

All the explaining she did to toddlers with so many questions.

All the explaining she did to curious primary schoolers.

All the explaining she did in vain to teenagers who wouldn’t accept her reasons.

All the boundaries she had to make.

All the boundaries she had to defend.

All the compassion she gave despite her heart hurting.

All the ‘being with’ she had to force herself to do instead of fixing and rescuing.

All the letting go, so her babies/children/teenagers could have the freedom and the confidence to fly.

All the driving lessons.

All the saying no to driving lessons.

All the organisation and planning to make long car journeys go well.

All the second guessing, pre-empting, reconciling.

All the apologies.

All the negotiations.

All the gifts, treats and presents.

All the holidays she planned and organised for.

All the birthday presents and parties she organised for them.

All the friend’s birthday presents she bought.

All the birthday parties, friends houses she drove them to.

All the tumble tots sessions she navigated with them.

All the school assemblies, plays and church services she went to.

All the school swimming lessons she helped with.

All the PTA events she volunteered at.

All the World Book Day costumes she created.

All the monologues she had to listen to while appearing interested.

All the rubbish jokes she laughed at.

All the peekaboo she played.

All the music she listened to that wasn’t necessarily her choice.

All the tastiest, last bites of food she gave to her children rather than eat herself.

All the sacrifices.

All the sacrifices she chose.

And all the sacrifices she didn’t choose.

All the sick she cleaned up.

All the dog poo she scrubbed from the soles of shoes.

All the sewing of ripped shirts.

All the naming of the uniform.

All the waiting.

All the sitting and watching.

All the jigsaws she did with them.

All the giggles.

All the putting things on hold to be there when they needed her.

All the reading she did to learn how to parent better.

All the reading she did about how to be a happier mum.

All the research she did about keeping herself calm.

All the early nights so she could get enough sleep so she could be calm.

All the sleepless nights when they were young.

All the breastfeeding she did.

All the leaking she did and breast pads she wore.

All the baby food she made.

All the baby feeding mess she cleaned up.

All the times she wiped the high chair table.

All the times she fed yoghurt to a child.

All the times she washed a plastic bib.

All the times she changed a nappy.

All the times she helped them get dressed.

All the shoes she put on and off.

All the car seats she strapped them into.

All the coats and bags and bottles of water she reminded them to take.

All the times she swept and vacuumed the kitchen floor.

All the times she cleaned the surfaces in the kitchen.

All the bathroom cleaning.

All the bins emptied.

All the recycling bins filled and emptied.

All the slimy compost bins emptied.

All the formula bottles she made.

All the bedtime chats reassuring the boys that they were safe.

All the ‘one last’ questions she answered.

All the persuading to try something new.

All the reassuring.

All the listening to problems.

All the trying to tease out the problem without getting them to close up.

All the looking after them when they are ill.

All the Calpol doses

All the Savlon and plasters.

All the looking after them when they are feeling down.

All the looking after them when they are feeling anxious.

All the assessing and thinking and ruminating about decisions so she could get it right.

All the meditation she did so she could be a calm mother.

All the therapy and coaching she had to be a better mother.

All the learning and personal growth so she could understand herself better.

All the self-compassion she forced herself to learn so she could be more compassionate for her kids.

All the dreams she said no to so she could be there for her children.

All the freedom she gave up to provide a loving space for her children.

All the breakfasts she made.

All the cups of tea and coffee she made.

All the squirts of ketchup or mayo that her fingers have squeezed out.

All the happy smiles.

All the unconditional love.

All the loving hugs.

So many wonderful hugs.

All the moments of acceptance rather than judgement.

All the moments of pride and love.

All the funny teenage chats.

All the million little things she did to proved a safe and loving home. The list is endless.

But, until now, when she looked back over the last twenty-three years Thea has ignored most of the good times and the little acts of love. Instead her attention gets stuck on the times she ‘failed’ and was a ‘bad mum’. Those occasional times that happen when humans get really tired, or really stressed, or really triggered and scared.

Human things.

Like when she shouted.

Or those few times she screamed until her voice was hoarse.

Or when she was so scared that she loved conditionally, which is basically saying: only when you do this will I love you.

The time that still haunts her when she shut the door and turned off the light.

The times she was so depressed she couldn’t take three children out to the park. It was too much.

The times she let them watch too much TV.

The time that she tried to force her son to ‘tell her the real reason’ he was giving up rugby when he was ten, and wouldn’t let it go. She feels sick thinking about that.

All the things she didn’t do.

All the things she could have said more explicitly.

All the life lessons she could have taught them when they were younger, if only she had known.

All the fun she wishes she’d had with them.

All the gratitude that she wishes she had more of.

All the fear that stopped her.

The time on holiday when she she got frustrated and told them they were spoilt, and her daughter told her years later that she had thought that meant they were ruined.

All the times she tried to teach her son to be understanding and see things from the teachers’ perspective when all he wanted was for her to be ‘on his side’.

All the times she said, ‘next time.. do it like this…’

All the processed food she bought for them because it was easier.

All the alcohol she drank, and what a bad role model that makes her.

All the activities, visits and family gatherings she didn’t organise.

All the teenage homework she didn’t insist on being done.

All the times they asked for something and she didn’t get round to doing it because she had no bandwidth for more.

Thea has always focussed on the regrets. But really she was always doing her best. And her best included all the million little acts of love and sacrifice and hope and joy.

Hopefully after reading this, Thea will now believe that she did do a great job of mothering. Even when times were really dark she did a great job. And after reading both lists she might even agree that there are far, far fewer regrets than she supposed.

She should be very proud of herself.

If you are a mother, you should be proud of yourself too, because I know every day you do a million little things for your family and each one makes a very big difference.

Until next time,

lots of love and compassion,

Thea, xx

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