Category Archives: parenting

Creating a positive body image for our toddler daughters

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What do our children see when they look in the mirror? How can we as parents ensure that they like what they see?

Anorexia and bulimia, disorders which are most associated with teenagers, are now being diagnosed in children as young as five. Therefore, it is crucial that we as parents encourage our children to love themselves and to define themselves by who they are and not how they look.

 

Being a parent in twenty-first century Ireland seems to be so much more difficult than it was twenty years ago. The media has become much more influential, with young children being exposed to thousands of advertisements relating to body image. However, it is all too easy to use the media as a scapegoat for the rise in eating disorders in young children. If we as parents want our children to develop a positive body image, we must ensure our children know how to love themselves.

My three year old daughter has been defined by her weight and her appearance from the moment she was born. At birth, Alison was 8lbs 4oz, ‘a fine weight’, and her skin was blemish- and eczema free. In the absence of a personality, this is how she was described. From about six months onwards, a phenomenon that psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan refers to as ‘The Mirror Stage’, Alison began to associate her reflection with herself. Henceforth, her appearance became an important part of her identity. She has been told by many people, including us her parents, that she is beautiful. Consequently, when Alison stands in front of the mirror, she likes what she sees.

Furthermore, Alison’s obsession with Disney princesses, especially the heroines of Frozen, Elsa and Anna, has greatly moulded her perception of what defines beauty. When she twirls around in Elsa’s trademark dress, her imagination allows her to become Elsa, Queen of Arrandale with flawless skin, perfectly groomed hair and ridiculously petite physique. Disney is renowned for their formulaic composition of the stereotypical princess, and despite the rise of feminism, Disney princesses continue to equate beauty with being painfully thin and blemish free.

Although USA Today reported in September 2013 that it is the mother who has the biggest influence over their daughters’ body image, responsibility for the development of positive body images lies with both parents. According to an article by Margarita Tartakovsky entitled ‘Dads, Daughters and Body Image’, daughters who have healthy relationships with their fathers ‘tend to be more self-reliant, self-confident […] and less likely to develop eating disorders’. One advantage of having mothers in the workplace is that fathers are spending more one-on-one time with their children. Tartakovsky recommends that fathers use this time to play with their young children, thus boosting their self-esteem, as well as teaching them to question the unrealistic body images presented to them by the media.

As a mother, my priority is to raise a daughter who is rounded, and who learns to love herself as a person, not just in terms of her appearance.  Sadly, not every mother shares my view. ‘Toddlers and Tiaras’ is a toddler beauty pageant show in the US, in which pushy mothers shamelessly dress up their daughters in over-the-top costumes, apply makeup and fake tan and train them to compete with other toddlers for a prize. Psychologist  Dr Allan Schwartz has criticised the show, saying that such shows ‘reinforce negative female body issues that result in eating disorders such as anorexia and bulimia [among children].’ In addition, these pageants serve to sexualise our toddlers, which is unacceptable, argues Schwartz.

Thankfully, it seems that Ireland is not ready for toddler beauty pageants. Voicing her opinion in response to the cancellation of toddler beauty pageants in Belfast and Cork earlier this year, Minister for Children, Frances Fitzgerald agrees that the sanctity of childhood needs to be protected by the State. In March 2014, the Seanad unanimously passed a motion to ban all child beauty pageants in Ireland. Included in this motion was an appreciation of ‘the difficulties and pressures faced by children and parents as the distinct space between childhood and adulthood becomes increasingly blurred through media, advertising and popular culture’ as well as a belief ‘that every effort must be made to protect children and childhood against sexualisation’. While Ireland may not be ready to embrace the absurdity that is the toddler beauty pageant, it cannot be denied that we have become a society obsessed by external beauty, and if we fail to challenge this,  we run the risk of our children developing eating disorders in later life.

Ultimately, our children are not princes and princesses. They are unique individuals, who need to be allowed to explore who they are, both inside and out. Here’s how we as parents can promote the development of a positive body image, according to Margarita Tartakovsky and Elizabeth Ward, who is a dietician in the US:

  • Be a good role model: refrain from saying things such as ‘I need to lose weight’ in front of your toddlers, and do not openly obsess about your toddler’s weight
  • Encourage a healthy diet;
  • Limit the amount of screen time. Discuss advertisements’ and programmes’ treatment of body image openly and honestly, and point out unrealistic portrayals of body image;
  • Teach your child that everyone is unique, including in their appearance;
  • Spend time playing with your child, which will boost their self-esteem. Exercise releases endorphins which promotes happiness.
  • Focus on other attributes and talents other than appearance.

National Eating Disorders Awareness Week runs from 23 February – 1 March 2015. For more information on eating disorders in children, visit www.bodywhys.ie.

Happy birthday, dear Ali!

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My daughter and my proudest achievement, Alison, turned three years old at 11.52am today. It feels weird to be typing that sentence for several reasons. Firstly because up until I had Alison, I was on a mission to prove that I  was severely allergic to small children. I mean, they were cute and all, but I would have bawked at the idea of changing nappies or mopping up vomit. I can’t face cleaning my own. Secondly, because three years of my daughter’s life have passed by so quickly, and although I am delighted to be rid of the nightmares that were colic and reflux (aka, the Spawn of the Exorcist), I know that all I have now are memories, good and bad. Thirdly, because I want to freeze her time right now. I want to always remember her as she is, right now.

Alison Mary is now three. We named her Alison after one of mum’s favourite singers, Alison Krauss, because mum had died in 2009 and I didn’t particularly want to call her Una, plus we liked the name. Depending on what mood we’re in, we call her Alison or Ali. Alison is freakishly tall, and there’s no doubt that she will be taller than me by the time she’s nine. Her hair is grand when it’s washed but turns into a  mat of knots within 48 hours. Cue detangler spray and a lot of cursing from whichever parent has pulled the short straw  to comb out said mat.

Ali is intelligent. Well, I think so, so it must be true. She said ‘hi’ at eight weeks, and could count to five at sixteen months. She knows most nursery rhymes, and she also knows that she can get around daddy easier than mummy. She can count to ten in Irish now, thanks to playschool. She can spell ‘Tesco’, and knows daddy works there. I don’t know much about kids but I do think this is amazing.

Alison is currently a ‘Frozen’ fanatic, and her note-perfect rendition of ‘Let it Go’, complete with actions is highly entertaining. She loves singing and dancing, although I find the bum-wiggling a little disturbing. She also loves costumes (we have a future actress on our hands, perhaps?) , and would be equally happy dressing up as Elsa or Bob the Builder. Ever the diva, Alison loves being rescued from burning buildings (aka overturned toy boxes); the trouble is once you rescue her once, you have to rescue her ten thousand times.  Sigh.

I could describe what it is about Ali that I love so much until I’ve bored myself, but instead I’ll let the following anecdotes give you a better insight into her world.

1. Ali accidently walked in on her daddy while he was using the loo the other day. Next time she went to the toilet, she pulled down her pants and stood beside the toilet.

2. Ali loves sucking her thumb. And the more you tell her not to, the more she does it.

3. Ali doesn’t go to sleep at night until she prays for every single person she knows. Including someone called cucumber. We have no sodding idea who that is. When we ask her, she just smiles. I’m always a little nervous at this point, waiting for somebody to hop out of the wardrobe.

  1. Ali loves teddy bear picnics, at which she is always the guest of honour. She probably sees a picnic fit for a queen; what I see is a pile of toys. ‘Surprise!’ she yells, delighted with herself.
  2. Ali is fascinated with eyebrows and their texture. She loves rubbing eyebrows, and if she rubs your eyebrows, it means she likes you!

I could go on, but don’t worry, I won’t. What I’m trying to illustrate here is that Ali is very much her own person, and each day I fall more helplessly in love with her. I am so grateful to have the opportunity to be her mum. She is so loving, patient (of me), understanding and kind that I sometimes wonder who is the mummy, her or me? Honestly, I think I need her more than she needs me.

So, happy birthday to a truly remarkable child and the best daughter any mother could possibly dream of. I promise to love you and be thankful for you every day, because

Baby, now that I’ve found you, I won’t let you go,

I’ve built my word around you, I need you so,

Baby even though,

You don’t need me, you don’t need me, oh no. (Alison Krauss)

Thank you for bringing so much happiness into all of our lives xxxx

Mama Mia!

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Since writing my last blog post, I feel somewhat lighter, happier, as if I have been freed from a horrible prison. And now I have the confidence to say that there are days when I, an amateur mummy, worry that I’m doing the wrong thing. Have I allowed Ali to eat too much chocolate today? Is that glue toxic? Where did she pick up  on that phrase?  and so on.

I was never under the illusion that motherhood was easy. In fact, I imagined it to be so much worse than it is. Until I had Ali, I didn’t ‘do’ kids. They were dirty, nosey, smelly creatures who pervaded every area of your life. However, no words could describe the love I felt when the nurse placed her in my arms. Suddenly, it felt as if I had changed. I was not Sarah any more, I was Alison’s mummy. And my own mummy was not there to tell me what to do or how to cope with this shift in identity.

It’s almost obligatory at Christmas to think of loved ones who have passed away. In my case, the feeling of loss is intensified by the fact that Mum’s birthday is this Monday 15th December. She would’ve been 57, only a ‘young wan’. It doesn’t help that her favourite Christmas song is ‘Fairytale of New York’ which so happens to be played everywhere about fifty times a day in the run up to Christmas. People look at me in shock when I don’t squeal in delight when it starts. Well, now you know why.

Becoming a mummy myself has been the greatest privilege of my life, but constantly wondering if I’m doing the right thing can sometimes be draining and isolating. Torturing myself by saying ‘I can’t even ask my mum’ doesn’t really help, all that does is send me into a self-pity fest. I find myself wondering how she did it with four; when sometimes I struggle with one, bearing in mind that I have Cerebral Palsy and wasn’t always the self-sufficient being I am now.

There was many a time when I truly resented my mum. Like all the times she made me attend physiotherapy and speech therapy after school when I really wanted to be at home writing poetry. Like the times she made me type out my homework on an old Sirius computer with an eerie green and black screen, when I wanted to write in my copybook like my classmates (to me it’s all the better if the teachers can’t read it). The final straw was when she sent me to the National Rehabilitation Hospital when I was sixteen, for intensive physio, speech and occupational therapy. I was livid because I was missing school, and the auditions for the class play (which I had written). Surely I, living with the disability day in, day out, know best what I need? Mum didn’t seem to see it this way.

Mum pushed me hard, often to the disgust of other parents. ‘Keep that foot straight’, ‘Speak slower’, ‘Look at what you’re doing’, she would bark at me. I would give her the doe-eyed look, the one that said, ‘You heartless bitch’. She seemed to find this hilarious. She revelled in this bitchiness. Often she and I would be about town and somebody would come up to her and say something like, ‘I feel sorry for the poor creatur.’ To which mum would respond, something along the  lines of, ‘You feel sorry for her? What about me, I have to put up with her all the time!’ or ‘My daughter doesn’t need your pity. She has more brains than the two of us put together!’

My mum was not just a mother. She was Una, a sister, a friend and a nurse to half of Tullamore at some stage. When I was pregnant, all of the nurses in the outpatients department had stories to tell about her, which usually ended in ‘well, I will never forget how your mother helped that man/woman that day.’ Mum used to tell me that nursing broke her heart. She listened to so many stories and carried them with her to the grave; to this day I couldn’t tell you any of them, but I know that some of them affected her deeply because she told me so.

Mum was elegant, witty and caring; she could also be forgetful and embarrassingly inappropriate. She spoke her mind at all times, which often had hilarious consequences. She wasn’t perfect by any means, but I couldn’t have asked for a better mother. She is the reason I am who I am today, and if I can do half a good a job with Ali as she did with me, then I would be a very happy camper.

So happy Christmas, I love ya baby, I can think of a better time, when all our dreams come true.

Happy birthday Mum. You may not be twenty-nine and a bit, but you will never have to use the purple rinse either. Thank God for small mercies.

Facing my demons

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It’s amazing what we as human beings are prepared to do to ourselves in order to avoid facing our feelings. It may be throwing ourselves into our work, in order to make every minute so busy with activity that we haven’t a moment to contemplate anything else, or it could be self-medication with whatever drink, drugs or substance we can lay our hands on. However, there comes a point where we can no longer do this and the only way to eradicate the demons that mercilessly control our lives is to face them and disempower them. And this is exactly what I am about to do.

Almost a year ago, my husband and I took part in a documentary ‘Somebody to Love’, which explored the challenges facing people with disabilities in finding love and forming romantic and sexual relationships. Partaking in that documentary was one of the most difficult things I have done in my life. The intimate nature of the recording and production meant that there was nowhere to hide from our feelings. We were in our own home,  our own environment, laying our private lives bare for Irish viewers to dissect.

Watching the documentary back, I can see myself trying to stifle my husband’s words, trying to stop him from saying something ‘stupid’ or ‘dangerous’. By ‘stupid’ and ‘dangerous’, I mean the truth or, more specifically, our truth. Our truth is that we felt frightened and alone. We felt that we constantly had to prove ourselves, that we  knew what we were doing, when in fact we did not have a clue. We’d never cared for a newborn before, and we were terrified, but we couldn’t let it show. In short, we were denied the right to be first time  parents: to cremate the bottle, to hold the baby upside down, to make mistakes.(By the way, I am neither condoning nor encouraging this behaviour. Please read the instruction manual that comes with your child).

One of the worst moments of my life was the day my husband and I were supposed to take Alison from the hospital, It was a Monday, and I was recovering marvellously from my section. I was feeding Alison well, and she was thriving. I was even walking a little using a walker, having had to use a wheelchair for the last three weeks of the pregnancy. However, I felt emotional and like shit; my section scar was sore, I was missing my own mother like crazy, and it felt like fluid was leaking from every bodily orifice. And this was the moment that the  head midwife, ward manager or whoever she was told me that they had ‘concerns’ about my ability to take care of my daughter. My heart broke. In that moment, it felt like Alison had died. I rang my husband and told him to take  Ali with him and leave me behind, because it was me, not him, that they had the problem with. Reading it now, it seems like the rants of a crazy person, but in that moment, it made sense. After numerous phone calls to social workers, public health nurses and Offaly CIL, we were allowed home, on the condition that a Public Health Nurse could come to our home every day and monitor our ‘progress’.

Nearly three years have passed , and now one of my best friends, who also has Cerebral Palsy, is excited about welcoming her new arrival in January. But after witnessing what  we contended with, she is starting to worry about how she will be perceived after the birth of her c child.. She will be a mother, not just an object of care, and it’s vital that she is enabled, without fear of judgement, to care for her child, It makes me furious to think that she, that we, have to think this way about the most precious event in any mother’s life, when children are being neglected by their parents every day.

and so I would urge her: If you by gross misfortune have to contend with these obstacles and attitudes, please have the courage to speak out.  This is only the second time I have done so, but I feel so much better. Only through our honesty can we truly help others and deconstruct the negative attitudes that have the power to destroy us.

A Scary Story

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It is three weeks to Halloween. You can tell this by the smell of turf lingering in the air at four o’clock in the evenings, by the sudden chill that envelopes you in the mornings, and by the faint sound of bangers being let off by the local ruffians.
Halloween seems to be the only time of year when it’s okay to be a freak; in fact, the gorier your costume and makeup, the better. You can even add fake blood, squelchy eyeballs and severed fingers to the mix for a truly horrifying effect.

What most people are trying to achieve is to look as unhuman and frightening as possible. I’ve been opening the door to excited trick-or-treaters for six years now, who stand there waiting for me to express my terror (and to hand over the goodies).

More often than not, it is they who end up full of terror.

What they see is a misshapen young lady, with sudden and uncontrolled movements, saliva flowing freely as she reaches her hand into the oversized tub of sweets, her speech slurred as she compliments their shop-bought costumes (I haven’t seen homemade ones for years). I can’t imagine what it’s like to be that young child on my doorstep, but it’s clear to me that my disfigured body and unusual movements are scarier than any costume they will ever see.

For somebody who doesn’t have one, having a disability can be a frightening prospect. I’m sure I’m not the only one that’s been told ‘I don’t know how you do it. If I had what you had, I’d die.’ My disability has often been referred to as a ‘handicap’, ‘illness’, ‘that’ disease (which is my favourite so far) and of course, like many others, I’ve been called retard, rehab, spastic (actually correct in a way, but not when there’s an ‘a’ in front of it), and other uncomplimentary things.

The truth is that people are afraid of disability, because being born without one does not grant you immunity from the possibility that you may acquire one by being in an accident, or even develop one, such as Parkinson’s or MS. Recently there has been speculation over whether being diagnosed with Parkinson’s led to Robin Williams’ suicide. We can never know for certain, but this sort of hearsay only reinforces preconceptions that disability is something to be dreaded, often a fate worse than death.

And in spite of the outrage that followed Hitler’s T4 Project during World War II (i.e. the mass murder of millions of people with disabilities across Europe, inspired by the concepts of racial cleansing and ‘survival of the fittest’), people are still afraid of disability. Some of the implications of this for people with disabilities are obvious, such as being stared at, and imitated by, strangers; being ridiculed for the way one walks and talks; being asked ‘is there somebody with you?’ as you mind your own business and wish that others would too.

However, lack of awareness and empathy surrounding disability issues have more devastating consequences than having to endure idiotic questions from Mr. Joe Soap. There was a conference held on the 25th September last in Kilmainham which addressed the financial and social costs of disability. Unfortunately I could not attend, but it seems like the biggest cost of disability is the loss of dign¬ity. A high proportion of people with disabilities live in poverty, unable to gain profitable employment. Many have lost their Household Benefit packages and their medical cards, and people with disabilities tend to face higher food and heating bills owing to their impairments.

Every so often, experienced disability activists stage well-publicised protests against cutbacks outside the Dail. These are the people who campaigned for equal rights and deinstitutionalisation for people with disabilities, nearly twenty-five years ago. How depressing that, nearly twenty-five years later, we are still campaigning for the same things.

And believe me, these things are fundamental to people with disabilities. All we want is equality. A lot of us need assistance to contribute to our economy, be this Personal Assistance or technological assistance. We need to be given access to goods and services through the provision of accessible transport and accessible business premises. Most significantly of all, we need to promote inclusion and integration in our communities by deconstructing the preconceptions surrounding disability and promoting the ability and strengths of each individual. If we don’t, things will never change and people with disabilities will be stuck in an endless time warp.

Which would be much more frightening than all the ghost stories on the planet.

Toddler TV Addict

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Ugh. Today did not go quite as planned. What I had planned was to spend the day writing brilliant masterpieces while Alison was at playschool. Unfortunately I realised that this wasn’t going to happen as I sat looking at the blinking cursor, two hours later. If I didn’t know better, I would swear it was mocking me.

My evening proved slightly more productive as I played with Ali in the garden, then it was off to the playroom for a game of princesses and puppies. However, I must confess that there are some evenings where I just slump on the couch and turn on Disney Junior. Even though I sit and watch the programmes with Ali, I still feel that I’m letting her down by not being a ‘hands-on, 24/7’ mammy. Yesterday was one such evening, and after I’d put her to bed, I could still hear the theme tune of ‘Sheriff Callie’s Wild West’ (Ali’s current favourite cartoon) coming from the sitting room.

When Ali was small, I was determined to make sure that she would rarely watch TV, particularly cartoons. I read to her, I did puppet shows, we always had books and toys strewn across the living room floor. My husband was amused by my mistrust of cartoons. I’m not a big telly fan, and I detested the notion of Ali being glued to the screen all day, when she could be learning through play.

And then the inevitable happened – my body went on strike. I was waking up every morning in extreme pain, every inch of me aching from the effort of getting on and off the floor, spending hours crawling around playing with Ali. One particular morning, I was in so much pain that I just plonked Ali in front of Peppa for a whole hour. She loved it but I felt like the worst mother in the world.

At just over two-and-a-half, Ali has outgrown Peppa Pig and now her favourite cartoons are Sofia the First, Doc McStuffins and Sheriff Callie’s Wild West. Many parents note that their children’s behaviour is worsened by watching television, but I’ve noticed the opposite with Ali. For example, Sofia the First, who becomes a Princess when her mother marries King Roland, is constantly learning that being a true princess is all about how you treat other people. Sofia’s kindness and compassion towards others is often contrasted with her stepsister Amber’s selfishness and superficiality. In one particular episode, she risks missing ‘The Princess Test’ to help old librarian Mrs Higgins home with her books. As it transpires, Mrs Higgins is Fauna the Fairy in disguise, who tested all the princesses’ generosity. Sofia also learns that it’s important to be loyal to your friends and to consider the feelings of others.

When Ali’s not twirling around like a lunatic, pretending to be a princess, she’s a Doctor just like her other idol, Doc McStuffins (doctor for stuffed animals and toys). Doc has a magic stethoscope that enables her to talk to her toys, which in turn helps her to diagnose her toys with illness such as ‘stickiosis’ ‘mysterypox’ and ‘novrooma-tosis’. Doc teaches us invaluable lessons (often through song), such as the importance of staying hydrated, washing our hands, brushing our teeth and staying safe in the sun. And the most important lesson of all – everyone gets hurt sometimes!

Ali’s favourite at the moment is definitely ‘Sheriff Callie’s Wild West’. Through Sheriff Callie and her companions, toddlers learn how to be nice and friendly (Callie is the Sheriff of ‘Nice and Friendly Corners’), that telling the truth is better than lying, that it’s okay to ask for help and that there is no need to be jealous of others, because each and every one of us is special and talented… in our own way. Deputy Sheriff Peck and his best friend Toby often need guidance from Callie; for example, Toby learns that pretending to be sick is not the best way to get attention in ‘Toby’s Untrue Achoo’ and Peck learns that appearances can be deceiving when Dr Wolf comes to visit him in ‘Peck’s Bent Beak’. Ultimately, the message is to be fair to others and to treat them as you would like to be treated.

I fear that this article illustrates that both my daughter and I are shameless telly addicts, and that indeed may be the truth. Yet I have to say that I really enjoy cuddling up on the couch with Ali, laughing with her and commenting on each programme. And every night, before Ali goes to bed, I sing her this little song, as sung to a teddy bear called Pickles by Doc McStuffins:

‘It doesn’t matter what you say or do,
It doesn’t matter if your eyes are brown or blue,
I’m gonna love you, because you’re you.’

I’m off to watch a little adult TV now, at last.
How boring.

Making my own identity

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There are many things in life that shape our identity. These can be ordinary things, such as where we grow up, the education we receive and the careers we choose, or extraordinary events beyond our control, such as having a disability or illness. All of these things may define who we are, but they should not determine what we are capable of.

I have a disability which in Ireland, seems to mean that I am perceived to be an object of care. Living with Cerebral Palsy has meant that over the years, I have had to allow many medical experts into my personal space, patiently enduring their prodding and poking, their testing my muscle tones in their relentless quest to determine my abilities and disabilities.

Never in a million years did these so-called ‘experts’ expect to be lost for words when I announced that I was pregnant in June 2011. Firstly, they were intrigued and made it clear that they intended to use my pregnancy and Caesarean section as some sort of case study. Secondly, they were baffled (there are seemingly few parents with disabilities in Ireland) at how somebody, who would be traditionally perceived to be an object of care, could in turn fulfil the physical and emotional demands of a small baby.

I am a stubborn and single-minded woman, and throughout my pregnancy I arranged meetings with Primary Care Support Workers, physio- and Occupational Therapists, and even the Public Health Nurse, whose initial expectations of our parenting abilities were depressingly low. However, by the time the big day arrived on the 9th February 2012, I was confident that at least these professionals were on our side.

After my daughter Alison was born, however, it did not feel as if we were all working together. Instead, it felt like the time my husband and I had spent appeasing the ‘professionals’ had been wasted. There was concerns that I would pose a safety risk to my daughter, without substantial grounds for this. On the day that my beautiful daughter and I were meant to be discharged from hospital, I was told that the hospital would need to be satisfied that there was enough practical support at home to help me with Alison, and insinuated that I would not be allowed home until they were satisfied. They recommended the use of a wheelchair and a cloth sling for transporting Alison around the house, and I had to buy this sling before they would discharge me from hospital. Incidentally, I have never used the sling, choosing instead to push Alison around the house in a sturdy buggy. I have never let her fall.

If someone were to ask me how I define myself, I would answer an aspiring journalist, a devoted wife and a dedicated mother. However, having Alison in m y life has transformed how I perceive myself as a person. Watching her grow into a beautiful, intelligent and opinionated young lady has made me realise that a person’s identity cannot truly be defined by her appearance or by her disabilities, but instead by a willingness to continuously challenge the stereotypes forced upon them by society and to live one’s life in spite of the perceptions of others.