Smacking.

The whole debate over the Coronation Street brings me nicely onto the issue I had last summer.

I don’t actually watch Coronation Street – or any soaps for that matter – I hate that my parents were right about that. I did grow out of them. Dammit. But everyone is talking about it and I wanted to blog this – so deep breath – get a cuppa. It’s a long one and probably going to be more than one installment.

Last year – I was around halfway through my pregnancy with Nina – it was coming up to the end of June and Kit was a very draining and demanding 11 month old. BN was full time at work – as was I. Kit was going through a very difficult phase – waking very early every morning and never going back to sleep. It had been going on for about 3 weeks. That in itself would have been OK but for months at that point, each and every morning the first thing he would do is wake up, stand up…. and cry. And if you didn’t get him – like – IMMEDIATELY he would scream. Scream, cry, tears, snot, dribble – scream screaaaaam.

We tried sleep training – we tried pick up put down – we tried cuddling back to sleep and then placing him down fast asleep (cue wake up and scream), pacing the floor, Calpol (teething?) extra blankets, a drink of water, milk. I tried everything. Everything in my repertoire – all I had and he was just impossible. So every day started at 4.30am – with screaming and crying – and I must admit it was tough. Really tough.

The days themselves weren’t like this at all - he got himself to sleep every night in his own bed – always cute, funny, great sense of humour – really cheeky and really, really good fun to be honest. Never a dull moment and hardly ever a scream or a cry in the day. He was just learning to walk – taking a few stumbles every other day and eating fine – drinking plenty. Trust me – I really thought of everything.

So eventually - we just stopped trying to work out what was wrong and we just got on with it. Every day started like that – we just had to buckle up and suck it up basically. It was awful - truth be known - every day between 4.30 and 6.30 I didn’t want to be with my boy. But mainly because I wanted to be asleep!!!

The girls were great – mostly they knew we were having a tough time in the mornings and they were ace at getting up and getting themselves ready (with occasional reminders of stop watching TV with one leg in your trousers and continue getting dressed)  :) and basically being just fab. Love them.

Ella was struggling with the new baby thing a little bit – not in very obvious ways and definitely not all the time. But every now and then Kit was just ‘in her way’…  in her way of me – of cuddles – in her way of daddy – of anything she wanted at that minute. Those minutes were few and far between by the time he was a year old and considering she was only just 4 shortly after he was born and I think she did pretty well. A tough age to be usurped.

Anyway – on a particular day – she wasn’t being great. Kit had been up since 4.30 crying and screaming. Don’t forget the screaming. I was tired – not at the edge but just tired and you know – wishing it was Friday and not Thursday. She has a very particular way of being cheeky in an amazing way when she’s in a good mood and a very expert way of being cheeky in a very aggravating way when she’s trying to get under your skin.

She was not happy – she was pushing buttons – I had already heard BN telling her off whilst I was getting washed upstairs – it’s never anything serious apart from answering back or having a moan about something she hasn’t been able to do – the usual I’m4andangryattheworldsometimes sort of behaviour.

BN was on an earlier shift that day and he left about 7.30 and I had about 20 minutes before we had to leave. Rowan was disappointed because he had inadvertantly spent longer cuddling Ella when he left and so I pulled her on to one knee and Kit onto the other and called Ella in for a group hug. I’d been snappy and a little grumpy that morning and I always like to make sure that when they leave for school they are happy and smiling and feeling loved. I can’t have it any other way.

Ella took part in the group cuddle which I had to cut short because Kit had started to squirm on my lap and instantly she whined. Why have you put me down, why did Rowan get a longer cuddle, it’s not fair kind of whine. I explained that she’d had a longer cuddle with Daddy and I was trying to make sure that Rowan had got a good cuddle too. I said she had also been part of that cuddle and that (in a firm way) I didn’t want her to whinge and complain because she wasn’t being fair. It’s fair to say I was on the cusp of exasperated. I tried to get everyone feeling happy and settled and it had got spoiled by her moaning – so they were harsh words I suppose.

She flipped – Ella has like a Jekyll and Hyde switch somewhere sometimes and immediately she stamped and clenched her fists and growled at me and gave a response of some kind – I can’t actually remember but it was something stroppy and she went to stomp out of the room.

I picked her up, plonked her on the sofa and told her off. I took her left hand with my right hand by the wrist and slapped the back of her hand with my left hand. I am right-handed. It wasn’t hard. I didn’t leave a mark or hit her hard AT ALL but a few minutes later when all the kids were already absorbed in morning Milkshake TV again, Ella said that her finger was hurting. Her little finger on her left hand – I took her on my knee – it felt slightly warm and looked a bit pink and puffed up – not exactly swollen but puffy. I asked her if it had happened when I smacked her hand and she said yes … my heart absolutely sunk and I just made an instant decision to take her to hospital.

I dropped Rowan off at my childminder - told her what had happened – Rowan being Rowan was distraught that Ella was going to hospital and cried when I left her – I explained that this was just about checking she was OK and that I didn’t think anything was really wrong. I dropped Kit at nursery and took Ella to A&E.

We were seen immediately by a triage nurse who looked at her finger and assessed that there was no serious damage. I broke down on her as well. I felt such awful guilt and I remember she leant over and touched my face and said look – this happens – it was an accident and she’s fine - she even said you can see a Dr if you want – there wasn’t a long wait that morning but that she didn’t think it was desperately urgent to see one if I didn’t want to. I made a choice to stay – around 40 minutes later (after Ella had jumped all over the children’s soft play area) – we were seen by a Dr who said that he didn’t think there was any damage. He said maybe maybe a soft tissue damage or a pulled ligament under the finger but he wasn’t sure if it was even that. I think he said a mild sprain. My only thought that was perhaps when I had taken her hand in mine or when I had put my hand forward to smack her my hand had somehow caught her finger at an awkward angle. The Dr agreed and reassured me that he didn’t think it would have been possible to cause her injury by the smack itself. I agreed. How can smacking a child’s hand on top cause a pulled ligament or soft tissue damage underneath…? She was offered calpol and she declined it saying it didn’t hurt. It was slightly more puffy and pink than it had been an hour before and it was warm but she insisted she was fine and wanted to go to school.

I took her to school around 10am – took her to her classroom and spoke to the teaching assistant as the actual form teacher was with other children in a computer suite and told her exactly what had happened. She again – knowning me from Rowan’s class the year before – reassured me – said accidents happen, she seems fine. I told her the Dr had recommended no aggressive play for the day and to try to keep the hand rested on the desk rather than letting it hang down – only to reduce any potential swelling. I asked her to take Ella to see Rowan to reassure her that all was well and that Ella was back from the Dr and not dying anywhere. Rowan has a tendency to the dramatic

Ella and I kissed and cuddled, I left and she was all smiles.

I got to work, told my colleagues, cried briefly on another couple of managers at my branch that day and when I say cried I mean not sobbing. Not out of control crying. Just a bit teary that I felt I had hurt my own child and that I didn’t really know how it had happened. I felt bad.

My childminder asked me via text in the day if the hospital were reporting it and I text her back saying she was mean with a I said I felt bad enough without her taking the piss - she text me back and said she wasn’t she just genuinely wondered if the A&E dept. were going to report the case. The thought had never crossed my mind. AT ALL.

Smacking is a last resort in our house. We do warnings, we do time out – we do talking, debate and discuss making choices about our behaviour. If they are riling me I generally ask them to tell me about the change in my tone of voice – how does my voice sound? – what is going to happen next? – they’ll answer – we’re going to get a warning, your voice is getting cross. We’ll have time out etc.

I’m not perfect but neither are they – and to be honest Ella is very different to Rowan. She snaps sometimes and when she’s going to have one of her tears and sobbing episodes you very often struggle to get much sense out of her for a good fifteen minutes. She is willful and stubborn and all these things I love about her – but none of them are useful 10 minutes before you have to leave the house in the morning when you still have 5 things to do including finishing to get an 11 month old baby dressed in a coat, shoes and so on.

With Ella? A little smack on the back of the hand works. She focused. I was able to talk to her. I told  her off – she got her words from me – we do not scream, stamp our feet or shout at mummy and so on and it worked. Within 1 minute we were done and she was watching telly. I can’t even tell you the time before that they – either of them – got a smack.

At 3pm – my mobile rang. It was my childminder - she had been informed that Childrens Services and the Police had been called and that my girls were not being released into her care and that she should leave without them. I’d had no call and no warning whatsoever.

I fell to the floor and cried out and I don’t remember much of the following 15 minutes.

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