On my son's fourth birthday

Five wonderful things #4

In the fourth post in my Five Wonderful Things series here I share with you something I’m grateful for, something I’m finding hard and three things to bring you inspiration and hope.

Something I’m grateful for…

My son, River. Today is his fourth birthday. Today, four years ago, I was coming to the end of labouring for three days to bring him into the world. This morning he bounced around with joy, delighted by his rainbow welly socks, delighted by the cake he’s taking into nursery, telling me which colour candle he’s going to give to each of his friends. We went outside and he noticed the steam our breath made in the cold air. His eyes widened with amazement and delight.

‘Look Mummy - you can blow smoke out your mouth!’

He is just endlessly delighted at being alive. So many things are wondrous to him. So many exquisitely ordinary things.

I wish I could share a picture of you with him. I wish you could see his blonde fluffy hair like a cloud round his head, his beaming smile which is like the sun coming out. What an extraordinary gift it is to be his mother.

I recently wrote about sobriety and motherhood. I am, of course, forever grateful to have been able to quit alcohol before becoming a mother. Grateful for the gift it is for me and for my son.

Something I’m finding hard…

We’ve started looking at schools for River and it’s brought up so much from my past. I have spent so many years unlearning what I learned from school. It’s hard to hear teachers talking about children being given points and other rewards for ‘good’ work and ‘good’ behaviour. At one school the headteacher referred to Year 6 children as ‘the finished product’ and stressed the importance of children learning ‘professionalism’ and ‘employability’.

I want my son to remain curious. To experiment and love playing and learning for its own sake and for his own joy - not through the eyes of an adult who decides whether it’s good or bad, or how much effort he put in. I want his joyful, bright little spirit and wonder at the world to always be there. I don’t want him to be pressed into a seat behind a desk, into a box.

At another school, I asked about the policy on homework and the headteacher said: ‘the children receive more homework as they progress through the school, and we expect them to do it.’ Instantly I felt my body tense and my heart speed up. I crossed my arms across my chest. My inner teenager took over and I found it hard to be open-minded for the rest of the school tour.

I went to high-achieving, selective, all-girls schools from age five and was constantly overwhelmed with how much homework I was given. I would frequently get yelled at in front of the class for not doing my homework. I tried so hard - often working late into the night to try and get it all done - and yet I just couldn’t seem to get on top of it.

At my schools, the focus was always on achieving. Getting top grades seemed to be all that mattered. Even when my mother died, my secondary school barely acknowledged it had happened. I was expected to continue to excel in my schoolwork and carry on as normal.

The only time the headmistress ever spoke to me was when, aged seventeen, I was walking to assembly on a hot summer’s day. I felt a hand grip my shoulder. I turned round to see a face contorted with fury.

‘What do you think you are wearing?’ she shrieked.

The other girls filing into the hall stared at me. My heart pounded. I stammered but couldn’t reply. I was wearing a black top with wide straps and a long skirt.

‘Go back to your classroom and put a cardigan on this instant.’

My face burning, I slowly walked past the wide-eyed faces of the other girls. When I got to the empty classroom room I picked up my cardigan from the back of my chair. Out the window, I could see the school gates, wide open.

A few years earlier I had sat next to my mother in the hall as the headmistress stood on stage.

‘We’re a big school,’ she’d said, clasping her hands together. ‘But we treat every student here as an individual.’

When my mother died the headmistress didn’t speak to me, or even write me a letter. That morning was the first time she had even acknowledged my presence. But years of schooling had taught me to be obedient. To be a good girl. To do as a I was told. So I didn’t walk out of those open gates. I pulled on my cardigan, walked out of the classroom into the heat of the day, and back to the school assembly. To sit and listen to another lecture on how badly behaved we were all being at the train station and to remember that, even when we weren’t on school premises, we were always representing the school.

I’m aware of the importance of not projecting my past experience onto the present, and onto River. I’m also aware that my own experience is all I have. And that if I hadn’t started questioning everything I had been taught at school about where my worth lay, I may never have been able to quit drinking.

The most valuable thing we can learn is that we are whole and perfect, just as we are. Whether we are productive or not. Whether we are achieving ‘A’ grades or not. Whether we are trying or not. Whether we are lazy or not. However we behave. Whatever we do. There is nothing we need to do or not do to be worthy of love, acceptance and belonging.

This is not so much a learning as a remembering of what was true the day we were born. Just like the day I held my son in my shaking arms for the first time. The first words he heard me say were ‘you are so loved.’ I wanted him to know he was loved not just by me, but by the world. That he was born into love. May we all remember this.

Three things I love

• This conversation between Tara Brach and Kristen Neff offers hope and compassion in the wake of the US election and the deep suffering in the world.

• I love Beth Forrester’s Dreaming Earth podcast about dreams and messages from the natural world. She records them outside so her soothing voice is accompanied by the sounds of nature.

• I recently contributed to a post on

  Sober App Substack
  about The Gifts of a Sober Life. Have a read for inspiration from other sober folk:

The Gifts of a Sober Life

If you’re new here - welcome. I’m so grateful to you for reading my words. I’m Ellie: a sober coach, mentor, mother and writer living in Lewes, East Sussex, UK. I support courageous women to break free from alcohol for good and step into the life they were always meant to live.

A Little Fantastic contains personal stories, supportive practices and information on what alcohol actually does to our precious bodies. My journey to quitting alcohol was one of unravelling so many beliefs I had about alcohol, and myself.

If you would like support on your own journey you can take a look at my website.