31 Jul 2024
I did a 3.5-hour train journey with my toddler, and it restored my faith in strangers
I have this belief that most people are fundamentally nice, but sometimes, world events can seriously test this belief. It’s so easy to look at the news and think ‘this is a shitshow’. But I had to do a 3-and-a-half-hour train journey alone with my toddler recently, which included multiple trains, and honestly, it restored my faith in humans.
The basics: we were going on holiday to Devon, with an overnight stopover in Bath. Then my husband had to go away for work the day before we were supposed to be travelling and so we found ourselves in a situation where Alfie and I needed to get to Bath via train. I was not exactly thrilled about this. A 1hr15 train into London, the tube to Paddington, and then a 1hr40 train to Bristol. On my own. With an incredibly active toddler. Er, no, I’m good thanks. But I had to get my big girl pants on because there wasn’t really another option, and I did want to go on holiday.
My biggest concern in these scenarios is that you’re in a confined space surrounded by other people who most likely do not want to be disturbed by a small child. If I was on an empty train I wouldn’t be fussed, it’s keeping them quiet and entertained and, most challenging, restrained to a seat that’s the problem. I was dreading it. But honestly, I just ended up having a series of nice encounters with strangers and it warmed the cockles.
Let's go
So, all our luggage is with Gary and I need to be able to fold down the buggy at a moment’s notice so I have had to contain everything I need to a small rucksack and cross body bag (god bless the Mary Poppins-style Uniqlo bags. If you know, you know. And if you don’t, get in the know. They’re fifteen quid and game changing.) It keeps me hands free. Alfie is in the buggy but if I need to put the buggy down, I can fold it up and have it on a strap on one shoulder and Alfie on the opposite hip.
The journey starts well because my parents are going into Cambridge, so they join us for the first 15 minutes, and the carriage is pretty empty so I don’t even need to fold up the buggy, I just tuck it into the bike/wheelchair section and keep an eye out in case anyone needs the area. Alfie is so excited to be on a ‘choo choo’ and to keep seeing ‘choo choos’ out the window that he doesn’t seem that bothered when his grandparents get off, nor when a lot more people get on at Cambridge. He does keep exclaiming ‘choo choo’ quite loudly but the older woman across the aisle smiles at him every time he does so, and the commuter who sits at the table opposite us in his suit seems to take an immediate liking to Alfie. “Oooo how exciting, so many trains. And when you get into London there will be buses and cars, you’re going to have a great time!” I could hug him. I don’t, obviously, but he was so what we needed.
I do have to endure Alfie standing on my lap and draping himself across my face so he can intently examine every other person in the carriage over the back of my seat (whether they want him to or not) but to my delight, being on a train and people watching is essentially enough to pass the first train journey. Just as the novelty is wearing off, I whip out some snacks and he munches on them whilst making uncomfortable eye contact with a girl sat across the aisle. “There’s a model train set in Kings Cross station,” our friend at the table tells me, and gives me specific instructions on where to find it. I know we won’t have time to go see it which breaks my heart a bit cos he is being so damn nice, but I make a mental note for the future. And then just as we are pulling into London, he asks if I want him to take a picture of Alfie and I on my phone. Honestly, what a babe.
I carry the buggy with Alfie in it off the train at Kings Cross, ask a member of staff where the nearest lift to the tube is which turns out to be right next to the platform and I suddenly have a feeling like this might all go quite well. London’s underground system is not step-free friendly, but I can’t fault the directions to the lifts at Kings Cross (you need different lifts for different tube lines) and we are down on the right platform after two lift rides and a bit of walking with no trouble. I get on the tube with the buggy still up because it is only going down if absolutely necessary as far as I’m concerned, and the tube isn’t busy enough to warrant it. I’m standing obviously, but Alfie is getting a little nervous and wants to hold my hand. Immediately the guy on the end seat jumps up and insists I take it so I can be on the same level as Alfie. Another guy opposite grins every time Alfie says ‘choo choo’ or asks if it’s our stop.
We get to Paddington and there’s a paper sign taped to the lift door saying it’s out of order, and so I’m left facing a not insignificant number of stairs. Ah. It was going so well.
“I can come back down and help you?” a woman asks me. She’s wearing airline clothes, has two suitcases of her own and is wearing heels that I’d break my ankle in.
“Are you sure?”
“Let me just take my cases up.”
She gets halfway up the stairs and then another woman realises what she’s doing and offers to stand with her luggage whilst she helps. By this point, a dad with a buggy has appeared next to me and asks if I want to do one buggy at a time between us. But airline lady is back down and says she’ll come back for him as well. Well, this is wholesome. I thank her about a hundred times when we get to the top of the stairs. And then Alfie and I are in the middle of Paddington station which is heaving. But I take the fact that the water refill station is right at the top of the stairs as another good sign, refill our bottles and then make my way to the Millie’s cookies stand. This is a day for treats. I let Alfie pick the cookie he wants which may be an error because that boy ain’t gonna forget if someone mentions chocolate. Getting onto the platform is entertaining because it is so busy, but I hold my nerve and don’t actually put the buggy down until we’re outside our train carriage. Something that will surprise no one – train aisles are not big enough to walk down with a buggy on your shoulder and a toddler on your hip so that’s fun, and then I have to kick a guy out of our reserved seats which he does not look impressed by. Kids under 4 travel for free on trains but if you want to actually have a seat for them, you have to buy a ticket, so I was having those seats. He sits opposite us instead and frowns at his laptop and I have to resist the urge to tell him he might just wanna move away from us altogether because I really don’t think we’re going to be his vibe.
Watching the trains outside only kills about 10 minutes this time but this is the moment for the contents of my bag. We do some colouring, but Alfie’s restless so I deem it’s time to crack open lunch and iPad. To my surprise, he sits quite happily with his Tupperware of pasta pesto and Zog on the iPad (very quietly). Okay he does roar at the top of his voice when the dragons roar (if you’re not a parent, this probably means very little to you – he was shouting ROAAAARRRR in the middle of a quiet train carriage is all you need to know) but hey, could have been worse. Laptop guy understandably does not look thrilled by dragon impressions.
I chance my luck and put on Stick Man after Zog has finished and offer him his cookie. ‘HOCOLATE!’ Alfie shouts with glee, and I notice laptop guy smile despite himself. Ha. Knew we’d crack him.
More colouring, a Thomas the Tank Engine magazine and some books pass more time once the cookie has been demolished and we’ve established there isn’t anymore (a hairy moment). But then with about half an hour to go, he gets really restless and I can’t really blame him. He starts jumping up and down in his chair in a way that is guaranteed to annoy everyone around him. But I manage to get him to sit on my lap by letting him watch videos on my phone. Of himself. He gets a lot of joy watching himself dance at my sister’s wedding, but the winner is a video of him helping his dad scrub our dirty picnic blanket. “WET” he proudly proclaims as he watches himself scrub some mud, and we watch it several more times. Whatever works for you kid.
As we’re pulling into Bristol, a guy asks if he can carry something for me. I say I think I’ll be fine and then realise I’m being daft, and he carries the buggy off for me whilst I carry Alfie. All the lifts at Bristol are working, two people smile at Alfie and ask if he’s having fun, one in a broad Bristol accent, the other in a broad Welsh accent.
And then we’ve arrived! We’ve stayed on to Bristol so we can catch up with one of my oldest friends who is waiting for us on the other side of the ticket barrier. We walk to one of Bristol’s city farms; I’d hoped Alfie might nap but Bristol has far too many buses to miss so I give up on that idea. Bristol city farm is so good and free. There’s a café, big sand pit full of tractors and diggers and loads of animals to look at. We see goats, pigs, sheep, cows, rabbits and ducks. Alfie had a great time.
(Side note, my step-dad thought it would be funny to teach Alfie that rabbits roar. You know, like the dragons. So, if you ever see a small child roaring at bunny rabbits, he’s mine.)
My friend Dan is great with kids and manages to make walking back and forth along the same wall around the duck pond somehow hilarious. There is a tantrum when I have to change Alfie’s nappy but I’m so damn relieved he didn’t do a poo on the train journey that I don’t even care. After a very nice few hours, we are back at Bristol station for the final train journey. Of course, Alfie fell asleep on the walk back. The train is a small, local one and is busy and I really should put the buggy down but waking up a toddler who has only been asleep for ten minutes would be horrific for everyone in the vicinity, so I squeeze on with the buggy. I manage to get on at the same spot as a guy with a bike, so we block the whole area and it is not ideal. A man gets on behind me and I say sorry.
“Don’t you apologise,” he says, smiling at a sleeping Alfie.
It’s only 15 minutes back to Bath and when we pull in, the same man offers to help carry the buggy off the train.
“Don’t want to wake him up do we?” he says, cheerfully and I have to resist the urge to hug him as well because I am very tired by this point, and he really is the cherry on top of all these nice people.
24 Jul 2024
Musings On 2.5 Years Of Motherhood
The end of June saw Alfie turn 2 and half years old. Mad to think we will have a 3-year-old come Christmas. I started jotting down a few random thoughts on things I have learned in the last two and a half years in the notes app on my phone, not with any intention of sharing. But then it grew and spilled out and I thought, ah sod it, let’s share.
Stay-at-home parenting (which is done predominantly by mums) should be recognised as work. Unpaid work admittedly but that, in my opinion, is all the more reason to recognise it. Full time stay-at-home parents are friggin’ superheroes. I am a stay-at-home mum two days a week and it is by far the hardest job I have ever had. All jobs are different, I fully recognise that, but my working days are a peaceful delight in comparison to my solo parenting days. I get a lunch break, don’t have to concentrate on keeping someone alive and my boss doesn’t insist on coming to the bathroom with me and handing me toilet paper whilst shouting “BYE WEE!”.
Plenty of people warned me that I may struggle with a different body shape post-birth. Absolutely no one warned me how, 2.5 years after giving birth, I’d look in the mirror and see stupid tufts of hair sticking out the top of my head and want to scream. Post-partum hair regrowth is SO ANNOYING.
I have never felt as low and empty as I did when in the depths of sleep deprivation. It is no joke. That hollow-eyed, milk-soaked time was a wild ride.
Emotional parenting advice is always relevant no matter when someone had their baby. Practical parenting advice from someone who had their children more than five years ago is probably going to be outdated.
Parenting is hard but people will find different stages hard. I know plenty of people who thought the baby stage was great and then wondered what the hell happened when a toddler delinquent was unleased on their household. I personally would take a toddler any day of the week. I get more sleep, don’t have him hanging off my boobs and can leave him with other people. I mean, sure, he is a dictator. But a very funny one. Essentially, no experience is the same. You cannot judge what someone struggles with and what someone doesn’t because your experiences are so different. Babies are the same in that they are babies. Otherwise, their personalities, sleep habits and eating preferences vary just as much as adults.
Solidarity to the other parents whose child will only nap in their buggy. I see you walking up and down the streets, praying they’ll drop off soon so you can leg it home and collapse on the sofa for just a moment.
A supportive, kind NCT group is worth their weight in gold. There is no way I would have survived the first year if I hadn’t been able to go for coffee with a lovely bunch of women who never judged.
I loathe to lean into stereotypes, but in my experience, parents of boys spend a lot more time running. And their house décor is now vehicle-toy-chic. Please encourage them to sit down and do not bring round another sodding toy tractor for the love of god.
The powers that be only putting baby changing facilities in women’s toilets is so irritating and says everything we need to know about where they think the responsibility of parenting lies.
Friendships do change when you have a child and it can be hard to get your head round. You have so much less time, have to balance so much to make it work and your daily lives are dictated by meals, naps and bedtimes. You’re also bloody knackered by 8pm. If friends don’t live nearby, the level of planning involved can feel on the same level as invading another country. All of which can be further complicated by the fact that your life just suddenly feels so different to those of your childfree friends and trying to explain why suggested plans won’t work around the ridiculous palaver that is having a young child can make you feel like you’re being a royal pain in the arse. It’s not impossible to maintain friendships but it’s bloody hard work and not being able to see my friends on the regular is my least favourite thing about parenting.
It is almost guaranteed that at some point, an old lady will tell you to appreciate every moment. Usually in a supermarket. Usually when you are in no mood to be told to appreciate every moment.
If you see a parent in the street shouting/looking at their phone/looking incredibly fed up or just generally not being this 100%-perfect-100%-of-the-time parent we are all expected to be, please, PLEASE challenge your own automatic judgements. You are witnessing a split second in that person’s 24-hour day. You have no idea what that day is looking like, no idea what they are trying to juggle, no idea what pressure they are under. You have no right to judge them. Also, if they’re parenting a toddler, they are probably a great parent and their child is probably being an unreasonable arsehole.
There is a trend online right now that aims to shame parents who don’t have their child’s car seat facing backwards until the child is about 6. I cannot emphasise enough how much this trend infuriates me. I don’t care what anyone’s choice is, but I cannot stand the act of shaming other parents and I am willing to bet a significant amount of money that these smug people have never experienced their toddler screaming in distress for three hours straight or vomiting everywhere due to travel sickness. And to suggest that the parents who have experienced this and made the decision to face their child forward after the legal requirement has ended, care less about their child’s safety than other parents is just not okay.
Everyone is a perfect parent before they actually have children. We would all do well to remember that.
Toddlers are the funniest, most unreasonable, wholesome, infuriating creatures I have ever come across.
Sometimes you have to accept where your thresholds are, even if they are different to how you imagined they’d be. I really thought we would travel so much more with Alfie but 2.5 years in, the idea of locking ourselves in a metal tube in the sky with him still feels about as tempting as sleeping with one of his dirty nappies under my pillow.
If you want a good relationship with someone’s child, be it a friend or family member (I don’t suggest approaching random children in the street and trying to be friends), you have to make the effort. It is highly unlikely that a parent is going to turn you down if you ask to come spend time with their child. But it is not their job to make it happen and they likely won’t want to feel like they are pushing their child upon you. Don’t be overly hesitant, you’re not intruding.
Another online trend I’ve noticed recently – posting a list of ‘parenting non-negotiables’. I recently saw one that included a ‘non-negotiable’ that their child is asleep by 7pm so they have an evening. Same mate, same. Trouble is, my toddler’s ‘non-negotiable’ is that that he goes to sleep at 9pm. No prizes for guessing who is currently winning that argument. If my child has taught me one thing it is that assuming you have control over their sleep patterns is a guaranteed path into madness. A baby or toddler does not understand nor has nature programmed them to sleep through the night or go to bed at a time that suits you. Just because someone else’s child does, does not mean you are doing something wrong. You. Are. Not. Doing. Anything. Wrong. This is the hill I am very much prepared to die on.
It does not matter if you aren’t good at crafts, curdle inside when they start singing at parent groups, don’t make courgette muffins for your child or want to scream when you enter the playground for the eighteenth time that week. This has no reflection on whether you are raising your child well or not.
There are just some things you can’t truly understand until you have experienced it, until you have been knee-deep in the mustard-coloured-poo-covered trenches. And that’s okay.
It is impossible to have a tidy house if you have kids and I refuse to believe otherwise.
It can feel counter-intuitive and society will make you feel like a bad parent, but in order to be good parents, it is VITAL that you have time to yourself and time together as a couple (if you have the means, which I recognise some do not). It is cliché, but you really cannot pour from an empty cup. Your child needs happy, loving parents. You cannot be that if you don’t have some time to yourself or invest any time into your relationship. Take that time, schedule that time; do both unapologetically.
There is no better sound than a small human proper belly laughing.
My child refuses to eat fruit and vegetables. Just in case you need reassurance that it’s not just you.
Having old friends who just happen to have a baby at the same time as you has absolutely no downsides. I’m not saying try and time your pregnancies together but it is so great to know that someone you have been friends with for yonks is right there in it with you.
Dads will be praised for taking care of their child’s basic needs like they have just run a marathon. It is not an achievement for a man to look after his own child and it would be nice if we could up our standards of men.
Young children love repetition and the joy of the small. They really are just as happy running around the park or watching aeroplanes in the sky as they would be on an expensive day out/holiday. Don’t put unnecessary pressure on yourself for the sake of ‘making memories’.
If you have a spare second at any point in your day, write down a nice moment that happened, or something funny your child said, or a memory that you don’t want to forget. You’ll be surprised how each day has at least one special moment. And you will forget them amongst the chaos. All the hard work and tantrums and exhaustion are much easier to remember. You don’t wanna forget how long and perfect their eyelashes were or when they came up you and gave you a toothy, slobbery kiss completely unprompted.
It’s just a phase, it’s just a phase, it’s just a phase.
Wise words from my mum: if you are good parent 80% of the time and a shit parent 20% of the time, you are a good parent. No one is perfect. Chances are you’re a good parent 95% of the time and shit parent 5% of the time. Cut yourself some slack.
The days are long, but the years are short has never been a truer sentence.
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