Category Archives: Parenting

November 28, 2011 · 10:10 am

Come on Baggers, stop making working mothers look bad

ANOTHER week, another story about Corby’s shy and retiring Tory MP Louise Mensch, or Baggers, as she’s still known around here.

This time it’s about how she announced to the select committee questioning James Murdoch that she’d be leaving 45 minutes before the end of the meeting to pick up her kids from school.

Much praise and sympathy for Ms Mensch mostly via her Twitter followers, for showing the difficulties for working mothers in putting their children first.

Er, was I the only one to think that it was a bit a joke, and that a man in the same position would never have got away with it?

I’m all for feminism, and flexible working hours for families, but hey, it was LUNCHTIME. She is an MP. She was in an important meeting that she knew was only actually due to run for another 45 minutes after she left. And the trains to Corby run on the hour and take 70 minutes.

It wasn’t an emergency and oh yes, she had her nanny in place in case she missed her train.

I don’t want to bash other working women, far from it. But I do believe in equality. Was she treated equally alongside her fellow committee members? Is Tom Watson leaving early this week to take his children for their pre-school injections? “We have children the same age I think,” she giggled at Murdoch. Who cares? Does that make you friends? Argh!

If I know I’ve got an important day of work diaried, then I try and sort extra childcare or make sure Bloke isn’t away with his own job.

It doesn’t always work. Sometimes in an emergency I’ve had to call very wonderful friends to collect my offspring for me, or had to apologise and dash off early. I’ve even had to have one at work with me.

And you can usually guarantee the more essential your presence is to the meeting, the more likely it is your child will fall ill, or have forgotten their swimming kit. But I’m pretty sure I haven’t ever announced on live TV that I’m leaving work, mid-meeting, at lunchtime, simply to pick up the kids from school.

You want people to take you seriously as a working parent? Then at least try and be as professional as everyone else has to be. It’s true that like many jobs, the working day of an MP can very long and inflexible and probably needs reviewing. But this was certainly not the platform on which to do it.

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November 13, 2011 · 6:35 pm

Set your alarm for night-time toilet trips

I’M SURE she’ll be furious when she’s older for telling you, but Bonnie is finally dry at night.

I suspect the lateness of the developmental stage (she’s almost four) is down to me. I forgot when you’re supposed to start taking them out of night-nappies.

Everyone always tells you that girls potty train earlier than boys. But I think all of my lot were day-time toilet trained at around two.

However, the night-dryness comes later, and you have to make a decision to stop putting them in nappies at night and waking them to go to the loo instead.

I kept waiting for Bonnie to be dry by herself, while she simply stayed deeply asleep.

It’s really easy to misjudge, what with today’s high-tech pull-up disposables, which barely feel wet even when you’ve poured half a jug of Robinson’s No Added Sugar into them via the funnel of your child.

But eventually I had to wake up to the fact that she needed us to ‘night-train’ her – even if she stays fast asleep.

She’s a deep sleeper and complains when she’s woken, but after several months and less than a handful of accidents, she’s started getting up automatically when I come in at around 11.30pm, and even puts herself on a potty in her room.

While doctors don’t consider a child to have a medical bed-wetting problem unless they are over six, if you have a three-year old who has been day-time dry for a while, then take the plunge. Fit waterproof sheets, layer with an old towel, be prepared for accidents, and leave the nappy off.

You might find yourself having to sponge down an irritable child and change wet pajamas and bedding a few times at first. But they quickly adjust to the routine , and it’s better to get them in the habit sooner rather than later.

You’ll need to make sure they go before bed, and lift them to the loo or potty every night around the same time.

It’s preferably to make them walk to the loo themselves to imprint a habit, but even when being ‘walked’ Bonnie often seems asleep.

Of course, it’s not plain sailing. Even after weeks of being dry, we have the odd accident.

Eventually, controlling their bladder at night becomes easier, and you’ll find you’re saving a fortune in nappies too.

If accidents are happening every night for more than a fortnight, it’s best to pop them back into pull-ups for a month or two and try again later. Stay positive, laid-back and supportive, because getting cross will only make matters worse.

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November 9, 2011 · 8:23 am

Fun in the dark with fireworks, mud and toffee

“I DON’T like fireworks, we should go home now,” announced our three-year old daughter, ten minutes before the actual pyrotechnics even started.

By that stage we were already standing in a field, in the dark, having persuaded our youngest two off spring to stay close to us with various sweets, candyfloss and toffee-apple bribes.

The elder two and a friend had disappeared into the night, shouting promises to behave and clutching all our remaining cash.

“We can’t go, it hasn’t even started yet,” said Bloke. “Anyway, I thought you were excited?”

Indeed, for the previous five hours, after finding out we were planning a trip out to watch fireworks, Bonnie had punctuated every conversation with “I’m soooo excited!”

She’d bounced around the house getting her warm coat and wellies on. She’d chattered uncontrollably in the car on the way, and had oooed and ahhed over the raging bonfire that greeted her across the fields on arrival.  

Bloke and I were discussing how much easier it was to be enthusiastic about Bonfire Night when it wasn’t pouring with rain and freezing cold.

Then Bonnie switched from Being Excited to Being Whingey.

“Pick me up Daddy. I don’t like fireworks Daddy. I don’t like being here Daddy, I want to go home Daddy.” (I stayed out of it. I’d done Bonfire night on my own the previous year, with a pram, in mud, in the freezing rain).

What do you do when your toddler shows expresses fear? Do you cut your losses and head home?

Or do you stick it out, running the risk of giving them a firework phobia for the rest of their days?

Bah, you tell them not to be daft, explain what the fireworks will look and sound like, and stick it out, of course.

Bloke picked her up, and told her he’d cover her ears if the fireworks were too loud. After an initial burying of her face into his shoulder, she was persuaded to turn around and watch the pretty fireworks along with everyone else.

She soon got used to the noise, and by the time the initial few rockets had gone up, she forgot that she didn’t like fireworks. She was whooping and ‘ahh-ing’ away, while simultaneously smearing her face and coat with the reddest, stickiest toffee apple ever purchased.

Meanwhile Bloke’s back was aching from having to hold her at an angle so they could both look skywards, while unwittingly having red toffee rubbed into his jacket.

We rounded up the rest of the kids, who appeared out of the darkness, muddy from head to foot. They patiently explained that as the display was at Casuals Rugby Club, they’d felt obliged to play some rugby. . .

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November 8, 2011 · 8:40 am

We shouldn’t give first-time Mums elective Caesareans – we should give them more midwives and tell them to ‘man-up’

THERE’S new guidance about to be issued to the NHS which will allow all pregnant women to request a caesarean – even if they don’t ‘need’ one.

It appears that a growing number of first-time mothers think that having an elective ‘pre-booked’ caesarean – rather than having to have one on medical grounds – will help avoid the pain of natural childbirth and keep their figure.

I’ve been lucky enough not to need a caesarean having any of my babies (if I knew then what I know now, they’d ALL have been home-births).

Therefore maybe I’m not best placed to try to deter any new mums-to-be from thinking elective c-section is easier and safer. (But you know me, I’ll have a go).

Everyone I’ve known who has had to have a caesarean has said how frightening it was. After all, it’s a major operation.

You have to sign a consent form, and there are several people in the operating theatre, including surgeons, an anaesthetist, theatre staff, midwives and a paediatrician.

You’ll probably need a spinal injection; an epidural, and have your pubic area shaved for the incision. After experiencing the strange sensation of having someone rummaging around in your insides, you get to meet your baby.

More rummaging occurs as the placenta is removed and then your stomach has to be sewn up again, which, because it involves layers of muscle, fat and skin, can take around 40 minutes. The final layer is either stapled or stitched.

Either way, it’s a major, painful wound that will take several weeks to heal. For this reason most mums who have had to have a caesarean are kept in hospital longer than those who don’t. You will find it difficult to bend and lift, and will have to take painkillers for the first few weeks at least. You’ll still get the agonising ‘afterpains’ that come after all births as the uterus contracts and have to wear pads for bleeding. Did I mention that internal surgery also gives really bad wind?

You aren’t allowed to drive for six weeks after the operation, and if you do, your car insurance is likely to be invalid.

The World Health Organisation estimates that only ten per cent of women should be having c-sections yet in some areas of the UK it’s up to 30 per cent, notably in the ‘wealthier’ South East.

There’s a distinct difference between ‘too-posh-to-push’ and mothers who have experienced a very traumatic labour and have had to have an emergency c-section. These mums have some insight into whether a caesarean would be a better option, in consultation with their midwife, for any further births.

So why are so many first-timers so taken with the idea of caesareans? Is it really the image touted by the celebrity media?

Are we really now a generation refusing to even contemplate any pain, any inconvenience to our schedules, any changes to our body-shape by life experience?

How come women are so willing to undergo the surgeon’s knife and the associated pain and scarring of plastic surgery for their looks, yet not even contemplate at least trying give birth the way nature intended?

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November 7, 2011 · 8:44 am

Why has Halloween become the acceptable face of begging?

YOU’LL probably think me a party pooper, but I can’t stand Halloween.

Really, it’s not a ‘holiday.’ It’s an excuse to bleed for cash out of parents. You don’t even get a Bank Holiday out of it. It’s basically a celebration of expensive but cheap dressing-up outfits and even cheaper sweets.

But of course, the kids love it. They’ve seen the American films and TV shows that show Halloween as a great big sweetie filled night of pure joy, where their parents don’t just let them join in, they join in themselves. Bah. Maybe in America, but not in my universe.

Yes, yes, I know there are all sorts of ‘proper’ UK traditions involving October 31. It should relate to harvest and the changing of the seasons, and in Scotland and Ireland they make you dance a little jig or recite a poem to earn your fist-full of Haribo, but still . . . bah!

Our Boys will testify, I’m a completely stubborn misery guts over Halloween.

Over the years they’ve all tried to persuade me that Trick-or-Treating is normal, and that I should let them wander the streets of Semilong begging for confectionery or threatening householders. It doesn’t work.

The few times we have ever foolishly opened our door, all we’ve been faced with is a couple of pubescent boys with their hoods up and the usual pallid complexion of someone who spent the entire summer in a darkened room on the Xbox.

But what the hell has happened this year?

Not only did we accidentally end up at Alton Towers over half term during ‘Scarefest’ (most of the screaming came from Bloke on a tiny rollercoaster), but Bonnie was given a witch’s costume, Billy became a Vampire, and the kids were invited to three Halloween parties in as many days. Argh!

There’s one concession I do make for Halloween, and that’s growing pumpkins. But as they take five months to grow, you do have to remember to plant the seeds back in sunny May or June to get them to a decent size.

I don’t grow them to eat – there’s a reason the American’s add a tonne of sugar and fat to make pumpkin pie – I grow them so the offspring can watch while I unskilfully butcher a face into them. Then they can light them in the kitchen until the smell of singed vegetables becomes too much to bear. (Putting them in sight of your front door only encourages the door-steppers).

Nope. I’m still not swayed to embrace my inner ghoul and pester the neighbours.

By the time you read this Halloween will be all over for another year. And I can start being a miserable witch about standing in the cold and rain at Bonfire Night celebrations instead. . .

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November 1, 2011 · 8:40 am

New specs channel Billy’s inner Caine

OUR bespectacled third son had his annual opticians check last week, and decided on his new ‘look’ for the next 12 months.

Billy is remarkably stoical about having to wear specs, and is much better at it than I was at his age.

I feel guilty that so far he’s the only one to have inherited my rugby-ball shaped eyeballs – or double astigmatism, to give it the proper terminology.

It doesn’t help that his dad is just as squinty. Bloke appears to be ignoring the fact his eyes are getting worse with age, as he has now perfected the middle-aged man trick of peering under or over his glasses to look at things close up, refusing to just admit defeat and get bifocals.

Meanwhile Billy looks forward to seeing the nice Eye Doctor Lady, because he gets to wear the freaky glasses with the different lenses and compete to read as many letters as possible.

On odd occasions, Billy has expressed a certain sorrow at having to wear glasses, but it’s not because he gets teased, it’s because they annoy him. Sometimes they pinch his nose, and rub, and he has to takes them off for sport.

When it comes to choosing frames though, he’s bold (once he knows trying to get me to agree to Star Wars frames is futile). As much as I tried to steer him towards something light, he wants the heaviest-looking 1960s Michael Caine frames he can find.

So here he is trying on his new NHS specs. And yes, I’ll admit it, I’ve relented, and ordered him some very cool prescription sunglasses with a Star Wars frame too.

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October 31, 2011 · 8:25 am

Is it a big deal if dad misses the birth?

SO, SARKOZY missed the birth of his only daughter, his fourth child. That’s a good start eh?

I’m sure we’ll be assured that the French President’s decision to be away, talking about the Euro crisis with the Germans, while third wife Carla was giving birth to their daughter, was all pre-arranged.

After all, while it is estimated that over 89 per cent of fathers attend the birth of their children, clearly many don’t.

This may be due to a number of factors, like them being panicking imbeciles who make the birth even more stressful for the mother, or fainty wusses who don’t like the sight of blood and can’t ‘Man-up’ enough for the sake of their partner and child.

Or maybe they are just prats like Gordon Ramsay, who famously ‘quipped’ that he missed the births of all four of his children because he feared his sex life “would be damaged by images like something out of a sci-fi movie.”

Ah, perhaps I’m being too harsh. I’m sure there are couples out there who decided it would be mutually beneficial for the bloke to scarper at the point of no return.

After all, it’s a relatively modern phenomenon that the husband is expected to be involved at all. A generation ago it was perfectly acceptable for the new father to avoid any of the gory stuff, then get drunk with his mates, then discharge himself of any involvement in his children’s upbringing other than to occasionally pat them on the head while smoking a pipe and reading the paper.

Bloke was there for the births of all four of our babies. He’d tell you that it was stressful, because of the feeling of being utterly powerless to do anything to help. And because of the genuine worry that things might go wrong for both me and the baby. And because he had to listen to me moo like a cow in the moments I wasn’t swearing at him.

He says he’d never have wanted to miss any of them though, because ultimately it was his children arriving in the world to meet their parents. He formed an instant bond with each of them he will never forget nor want to have missed.

This is not to say that those who haven’t been able to be at the business end of birth don’t have a loving and wonderful relationship with their children. Sportsmen have to be in competitions halfway around the world and teleportation still hasn’t been perfected yet (I wait and hope).

However, I can’t quite believe that Carla would have been totally cool with Emperor Sarko slopping off to meet Angela Merkel as she went into labour (or perhaps it was an elective Caesarian, still a major operation).

I like to think the conversation would have gone something like this: *imagine it with a French accent*

Carla: “Oh Nicky, the contractions are getting very painful, I think it might be soon. . .

Sarko: “Oui my sweet, you just keep breathing and let the nice nursey ladies do their thing. . . I just need to, er, pop out for a mo. . .

Carla: “What? Where are you going?

Sarko: “Hush now ma cherie, save your strength, I just remembered we need a pint of milk, I won’t be long, and er, I just need to pop over to Angela’s to sort out the Euro thingy. . .

*Exit Sarkozy, who returns for just half an hour the following day to meet his new daughter*

Sarko: “Hello love, hello petit baby. Sorry to have missed all the fun . . .

Carla: “You’d better have sorted out that Euro crisis mate, ‘cos I don’t see any milk in your hand. . .”

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October 25, 2011 · 8:52 am

Don’t kid yourself, there’s no magic formula to getting into NSB

STAYING on the subject of Northampton School for Boys, I’ve had calls from friends recently, asking me: “How did you get yours in?”

Well, if you’ve followed these ramblings over recent years, you’ll know that I didn’t.

Yes, Jed and Dougie are now both NSB pupils, but I certainly didn’t ‘get them in.’

And if you are helping your Year Six son choose a school for next September, there’s nothing you can do to ‘get them in’ either, other than fill in the forms and hope for the best. So don’t hold your breath.

There’s no ‘points criterion’ like there was in the past. You have to take them to do a ‘banding’ test on a Saturday morning, and might take the technology and music exams which share a handful places among genius kids. Other than that, the school insists its selection is random.

The number of available places – once you’ve taken out those with siblings already there, those with statements of special needs and the aforementioned geniuses – is probably less than 100.

Yet there will be over 700 applicants for those places from across the county and beyond as there’s no catchment area, which may explain the huge amount of pupils who seem to come not from Northampton, but from wealthy villages.

When our first-born Jed applied three years ago, he didn’t get in. We appealed, he still didn’t get in. He went to another school, which he quite enjoyed, but stubbornly stayed on the NSB waiting list, even though we were told it was highly unlikely a place would come up.

A year later, second son Dougie, keen to stay with his friends from primary school, also applied for NSB as his first choice. And he DID get in.

Things were a little awkward at home between brothers, mostly over the vastly differing sporting opportunities at their respective schools.

Then a week before the start of the 2011 summer holidays, we had a letter, saying a place had come up at NSB, and would Jed still like it?

I won’t bore you with further repetition, but he took the place, and started this term in Year 9, two years after his peers.

A note of caution to prospective parents: If your son hates sport, it might not be an ideal first-choice school. (Just ask any pupils about the ‘levels run.’) Discipline is strict, expectations are high, and curiously for a school with no selection, you can really feel like a pauper when you see the rows of Range Rovers and Mercs doing the school run.

There’s no doubt it’s a good school, but try not to let yourself become blinkered – there are other good schools out there too.

 

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October 24, 2011 · 8:41 am

Limit school trips to one a year to stave off bankruptcy

BIG lump in my throat last Monday, as our Dougie left for a school trip to an activity centre somewhere near Swindon.

It was a week away where he was doing abseiling, assault courses, aeroball, archery, canoeing, climbing, fencing, orienteering, raft building, zip wires and general 12-year-old boy stuff.

Meanwhile, I was fretting, quietly, to myself. (Because no one else would listen).

After 14 years being a parent, I shouldn’t be fazed by trips. After all, our elder two have both enjoyed the famous ‘first nights away’ trip to Everdon and the PGL centre at Osmington Bay, Dorset, and braved the windy wilds of both Overstone and Hollowell Cub camps.

But as well as the (concealed) separation anxiety, there’s the cost.

We have to have a rule in our house about school trips: they chose no more than one a year and pay half themselves.

It might sound hard, but we have four children and not a huge income. The kids do have to really decide how much they want to go on a particular trip.

It makes them appreciate how far money has to stretch, although it does you feel cruddy when their wealthier friends are going on several trips a year.

This is nothing new. Back in the health & safety-free 1970s and 80s, neither Bloke or I went on many school trips.

There were always those who seemed to go on cruises and ski-trips regardless of their family’s financial background, while my most exotic destinations were to Butlins in Minehead and a one-night stay in London. I try hard not to repeat that parent mantra “you’ll appreciate it more when you’re older” because as a teen who didn’t get to go, it drove me potty.

Our boys’ school has already organised 2011 trips to Tunisia, Sicily, Turkey, Cornwall and the USA.

We parents were informed about Dougie’s PGL trip way more than a year ago in their first term at secondary school. Not only were we given a huge amount of notice, but also a good number of months over which to pay for it.

The total cost for the week was £300, with instalments due in March, May and July, giving us time to save up.

Meanwhile, the same school didn’t give anything like as much time for a planned trip to China. Yes, China.

Poor Jed, aged 14, came home recently raving about the chance to go on an eight-day tour in February.

The cost? £1,225. First payment of £200 immediately, with the rest in sizable chunks each month until Christmas. There’s no way we could find that kind of cash that quickly.

We had heard about the epic Northampton School for Boys China trip, but hadn’t anticipated it becoming an issue until Year 11 or sixth form. Turns out the school takes them from age 14-18.

Jed begged and pleaded, saying his friends were going, but we simply had to say no.

If he, and we, can save, it’s something he can do in a couple of years. A great opportunity, but not just yet.

So as we packed Dougie off on his UK-based adventure, my fretting started. Would he listen to instructions and not fall off the abseil tower? Would he resist peer pressure? Remember not wear the same pants every day?

Don’t tell him, but I was delighted to get him back on Friday. Even though he did bring back a suitcase full of soaked and stinking clothes because he’s fallen in the river while canoeing. . .

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October 18, 2011 · 8:49 am

After babyhood, prepare yourself for the shock and awe of the teenage years

PLENTY of people warn you about the impact a newborn baby will have on your life, but there’s a second phase of shock and awe to come which is less discussed.

When it comes to coping with teens, the conversation just becomes clichéd.

It’s true that they do, literally overnight, lose the ability to speak without mumbling and leave clothes and towels all over the floor. They do get spots and fill the house with a gagging fog of Lynx body spray (I’m sure if you have daughters it’s something like Impulse).

But who ever tells you how you’ll feel when they’re suddenly as tall as you, or have bigger feet than you?

Or when they start having friends whose Mums you don’t know from the school gates?

Or going to parties that don’t involve a bouncy castle injury and a piece of squashed birthday cake?

In a weird way, watching them grow up gives you delight and sadness.

Somehow the years between the ages of about two and 11 seem strangely simple, if a little manic. Even when I had four of them aged ten and under.

You know – most of the time – where they are, who they’re with, and what they’re up to.

Then suddenly, you don’t.

It’s easy, well, easy-ish, to allow them some independence. That mobile phone you finally relented on when they started secondary school, that might make you feel better because you would always know where they were?

Well, now it’s not only the ever extending leash, it’s the source of all the stuff you don’t know about. The Twitter feed, the faceless friends, the Facebook events, and freedom from family.

I can’t pretend I’m not jittery about seeing my elder boys grow up, grow away. And while I try to be cool, try not to hover, Bloke tells me I need to resist the urge to stop them making their own mistakes. I need to stop throwing up the metaphorical bumpers at the bowling alley.

I can’t help it, I still see my 14-year-old as that wide-eyed smiley baby who wouldn’t sit still for a moment.

Anyway, to revert to the clichés, I can still enjoy being an embarrassing mother. Apparently they are mortified when I get cross in shops, or try to hug them in public. Emptying their three-year-old sister Bonnie’s potty by the kerb when she’s caught short in the car is one of my specialities (needs-must), as well as wolf-whistling loudly in public spaces to get their attention. Strangely, they aren’t particularly bothered about the fact I write about them in these columns.

Slightly bruised by their casual list of my misdemeanours, I ask, “What about Dad, doesn’t he ever embarrass you?”

“Nah, Dad’s pretty cool.”

I give up.

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