In praise of my childminder
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Version 0 of 1. It seems to be happening a lot at the moment; taking a phone call, expecting a brief, happy chat and then being floored by news of someone's untimely death. It was a warm day when I received one such call from a friend who never fails to lift my spirits, but by the time we'd finished talking, they'd sunk pretty low. It shouldn't have been such a shock, the news of the death of my friend, Jan Hutchin. I knew she'd been ill for some time, and the one thing life doesn't do is last for ever. But I wasn't ready to hear that Jan was dead. And then it was my turn to call another mutual friend, who now lives in New Zealand, who was as shocked and upset as I had been. All three of us were connected to Jan because she had been childminder to our children. I plucked her name from a list the local authority provided because she lived nearby. I struck gold. Jan was so much more than a childminder. My friend in New Zealand put what I felt into words. "I think more than anyone, Jan taught me how to be a parent," she said, pinpointing the key to a relationship, which a lot of people may recognise. In the past it would have been your own parents, in-laws, aunts or siblings, who'd already had children, who were there to show you what to do. But nowadays not many of us have easy and instant access to other people with children when we first become parents. We often live miles from our own parents and have been working too hard to spend time with people where we live. Cue an array of books and parenting courses, often taught by people without children and almost guaranteed to make you feel a failure. Of course, there's a value to online communities but you can't beat an actual person, a proverbial wise woman, on your doorstep who instinctively knows what kids need. On the face of it, Jan and I had a contractual relationship. I dropped my children off in the morning, went to work and picked them up later. As with so many things in life, it's what's not said that speaks louder than what is said. So maybe Jan didn't have as many books that represented children from ethnic minorities, as one Ofsted inspector would have liked, but where were Ofsted's boxes for love, happiness and boisterous fun for the children because she was actually someone who cared? Jan fed, cuddled and played with our children while we were at work. We knew they were in safe hands, but who was she really looking after? Her husband, David, used to affectionately refer to her as Mary Poppins, so it's apt that a line from the film Saving Mr Banks perfectly answers the question. In the film – which is about the Disney adaptation of PL Travers' book – Disney says something glib about Mary Poppins flying in "to save the children". To which Mrs Travers replies: "You think Mary Poppins has come to save the children? Oh, dear." The title of the film gives away who she's really come to save – not the children but their father. And that's what Jan did, without realising, for so many of the parents whose children she looked after. She was a saving grace from the anxiety that comes with simply being a parent and struggling in a world of parents, which is unfamiliar and daunting. For a new parent, there are so many things to get wrong. You can look it all up and worry a bit more about whether you're failing in some way. So there's nothing quite like a sentient, sane human being, whose seen this all before, saying "you're doing fine" to put your mind at rest. Or looking around at the rough and tumble, joyous nature of a household filled with children and young adults to make you realise that, in the end, none of the things you worry about really matter and that bringing up children is easiest when it is a shared, convivial affair. When my children were very young, my husband travelled a lot for work. He was away for six months when our son, the youngest of three, was less than a year old. And, however much mothers like to moan that their other halves don't do enough, when you're on your own you begin to appreciate that simply having someone there to say "poor you" when you've been up all night or simply "did he?" when you announce that your son ate a whole meal can make all the difference. On a day-to-day basis, it was Jan who filled that partner void; showing interest at the appearance of a tooth, delight at the mispronunciation of a new word, concern at a high temperature – all the things you just want someone there to share. When I worried that my son seemed to cry much more than the others had, she was there with a reassuring "so and so used to cry all the time" and a nod towards one of her children, clearly now happy and contented. It was those little things, the brief exchanges at the start and finish of each day that made all the difference, the unspoken acknowledgment between us that Jan really knew almost all there was about being a parent. She'd done it five times and had as many lovely grownup kids to show for it. Of course, she had practical advice but it was more the casual repetitions of her own experiences of child-rearing that taught me how to steer a path through the guilt and anxiety, and accept that, while I was not getting everything right, I was doing OK. She was only 58 when she died, the day after her youngest daughter's wedding. She had lived just long enough to witness the ceremony via video link from her hospital bed but would never know if this daughter would have children or see the many grandchildren she already had reach adulthood. There was so much sadness at her death but the fact she had not lived long enough to pass on some of the wisdom she had shared with others to her own daughter seemed particularly poignant. Sitting at the back of the chapel, straining to see her daughter give a moving and heartfelt eulogy, I appreciated perhaps more fully than I had at the time just how much Jan had given me as a parent. • Lizzie Enfield's novel Living With It is published in June by Myriad Editions, £7.99. |