My family makes me who I am

P eople in politics have different approaches to the personal side of their lives. As readers of this column know, I am not shy about talking about my family.

Some MPs try to keep their family out of politics. I understand this. After some of the abuse I’ve seen from Labour activists on social media, I don’t blame them, writes Peterborough MP Paul Bristow.

But I can’t help it – my family makes me who I am.

As the MP for Peterborough, I get to meet Ministers to make the case for our City for investment in public services. I get to speak in the House of Commons. I get to help constituents with complex benefit, housing and immigration cases.

Yet my most difficult task happens every morning, getting my 5-year-old daughter ready for school. Leaving the house with everything she needs is a challenge. Often a failed challenge.

Book bags, water bottles, sun hats, each item of school uniform – she has more stuff than me. And all this ‘remembering’ takes place while navigating breakfast, changing my 7-month daughter, ironing a shirt and finding there are no clean school socks.

Negotiations on her choice of breakfast cereal, hair clip and, indeed, hair style, take place in an atmosphere akin to the UK-EU Brexit talks. Had Becky Bristow been in charge, I suspect we would have left with the perfect deal many years ago.

As for my baby daughter, my wife and I are just happy to muddle through without her scratching our faces, regurgitating food or waking up five times in the night.

Like many families, we got to know other new parents through National Childbirth Trust (NCT) classes and many of my friends have had children. I hear the proud tales about how Child A is already a candidate for MENSA and Child B is showing their musical side.

For me, the surprises of parenthood are slightly different. The other week, when I about to speak in Parliament about parity of esteem for social care workers, I discovered the milk stain on my suit.

My speech was delivered while cunningly hiding the stain from the TV cameras with my order paper.

Fortunately, my wife normally intervenes to prevent these embarrassments. I wouldn’t survive without her. She even puts up with me getting back from Westminster only to go out again in Peterborough, visiting schools, going on litter picks, and doing all the other things that being a local MP is about.

Occasionally, however, my wife’s patience falters. In January, my inbox was brightened by an invitation to drinks with the All Party Parliamentary Group on Beer. I explained that I would be late home that night due to important parliamentary duties. The reply was firm: ‘Get your backside home, Bristow!’

Finally, comes my rock of a mother. Since the restrictions changed, she is spending a lot of time with us helping with the children.

It’s great to have her around. Yet every superwoman has her kryptonite and my mother’s is technology, particularly phones. One current task is buying her a new mobile, after hers was somehow dropped in the toilet by Becky, while facetiming other members of the family.

A typical week in the Bristow household. I wouldn’t have it any another way, but it’s nice to arrive in Westminster for a kind of rest!