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When I was pregnant, there was a whole raft of books, magazines and even telly programmes dedicated to informing me about what to expect at every step of the gestation journey.
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Then when my baby was born, expert "advice" was freely available at the end of the telephone, at the mother and baby group, at the health-visitor's clinic or even from any stranger that leaned into the pram for a look.
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As we entered the feeding him solids stage, there was a library's worth of books telling us how to sneak "green" food into his mashed potatoes.
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(Sadly none of the books went on to explain what to do when he then spent half an hour at the dinner table picking out every sub-atomic particle of green from his mashed-potato causing it to go cold and congeal, giving him the perfect excuse to not eat the sodding mashed-potato either)
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Then when my toddler started at pre-school, we were given plenty of support on his first days, able to stay out of sight in case he found the whole deal of being left on his own too traumatic (he didn't, barely giving me a backwards glance.)
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And now my child is seven and it's caught me off-guard.
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I've been lulled into a false sense of security for the past 7 years.
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Sleepless nights? Piece of cake.
Teething trauma? Absolute doddle.
Terrible two's? I'd do it again tomorrow.
Toilet training? I'll let you know when it's over ...
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There's a conspiracy going on somewhere.
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He has an answer for pretty much everything and is caught between wanting to challenge the world and it's wife, and having nightmares which means he doesn't need his "mum" but needs his mummy and a cuddle.
(Be still my beating heart, he called me mummy again!)
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Someone told me the other day that being seven is a trial run for being a teenager ... a "mini-puberty" if you will.
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Great.
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I'm so glad we're getting a practice run at it.
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And I take no comfort in the knowldege that the next time he goes through puberty, I will no doubt be in the throes of my own menopausal, hormonal turmoil.
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Perhaps Mr Jelly should just remove the doors from their hinges now.
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So I'd like to offer my own advice on what you will need when your own "scrummy-little-munchkin" turns into a seething mass of seven-ness.
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1) Bleach. And plenty of it. Or maybe this is just because I own a male version of the species?
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2) Several toilet brushes. (See point 1 above)
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3) The understanding that even though you have been on this planet for x number of years, you know absolutely nothing. About anything. And anything you do know will be about the most boring stuff ever.
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4) You will have to learn to look past the rolling-eyes your child will frequently give you. After all, it's only a step away from being called "Oh, Mother"
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. Boy*Jelly demonstrating the preferred look of your average seven-year old.
5) Try to put a positive spin on the word "whatever". Pretend it is child-speak for "you're great and you're the best role model I could ever have". Because you're going to hear it. A lot.
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6) Stock up on lots of different types of breakfast cereals. This can sometimes alleviate the agony at breakfast time when your child is asked "what do you want for breakfast?" However, it can also work against you, in as much as your child now has too much choice. (Also see point 7)
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7) Mornings can be a tricky time of the day and are best dealt with in a brisk manner, lest the indecision of what cereal to have ("but I want toast!") and the sigh-inducing task of putting on school clothes drags on for ages resulting in the child burying their head under the sofa cushion in a fit of pique. On really bad mornings, when you are running especially late for school, it might be worth you joining your child in the cushion-burying activity. However, it's worth having a proper grown-up on standby to take over.
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8) Accept that you will never be able to watch your favourite telly programme in one sitting again. You might as well accept that any programme/activity you have been looking forward all day to doing in the evening when your child has gone to bed will be interrupted with demands along the lines of "I need to go to the toilet but the big light isn't on" or "my duvet is too hot" or, (and this is my personal favourite) "Can I have a drink of water just the way you make it"
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There's no point Sky Plus-ing your programme either, because it's the law that any programme you want to watch has to be interrupted.
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9) Never try to understand the latest craze sweeping the playground. There's no point trying to fathom what Go-Go's or plastic bracelets are for. It makes no sense to anyone over the age of 20 and you'd be better off trying to understand how electricity comes out of the wall.
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10) And finally ... take no notice of any advice given to you and just muddle along in the best way you can!
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My Little Squirt.
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