Category Archives: Parenting

July 8, 2011 · 10:41 pm

Strike day can end up costing more than you think

WHAT did you do about strike day then? Take a day’s holiday or ring in sick? Go to work as usual and leave the kid/s with relatives? Take a day off unpaid? Go to work and pay £20+ for childcare?

In fact, wasn’t it much like one of many teacher training days, when we have to run around trying to work out where to put everyone?

It was only seven-year-old Billy who found himself with a random day off in our house. Bonnie went to
nursery, and Jed and Dougie’s two secondary schools didn’t close, much to their disgust.

It wasn’t half as dramatic as the school strikes I remember in the 1980s. Back then the strikes were frequent, sometimes three days on the trot, occasionally half-days (which meant a full-day if you lived out in the sticks and had an hour-long bus journey each way) and often random.

For example, I remember not being able to do any sporting competitions or training at a point when I was Sport-Billy-Hilly, because the teachers wouldn’t supervise any extra-curricular activities. Maddening.

The strikes dragged on and the teachers lost a lot of public sympathy, but the Teachers Pay and Conditions Act was passed in 1987, paving the way for a lot of the deals that today’s teachers wouldn’t have otherwise had.

So do strikes work? Yes, maybe, sometimes, but not without a great deal of public discontent, often fuelled by misinformation.

Meanwhile, away from the moaning placard waving educators and whining envy of private sector workers, I took a day off and Bill and I formed a plan for what we would do with our day alone together, a rare event. Any suggestions had to involve leaving the house.

“Go to a toy shop?” he asked, hopefully.
No. It would be better still if you think of something that doesn’t cost any money.

“Erm . . . go to the cinema?”

Eventually, after much negotiation, we ended up at, er, the shops.

I know, I know, but Billy wanted to use his own pocket-money to buy some weird wristband things that he’s seen his older brothers wearing. After his cash ran out I needed a coffee and somehow ended up with milkshakes and cake and a £10 bill from the aptly named Costa. Ouch.

Then we found a huge sale on at Blacks and I bought far too many pairs of shoes for the men and boys of the house (although more than half price). Double ouch.

MacDonalds a ‘treat’? Makes your kids look weird

And with only a short time before Bonnie needed collecting from nursery, we had an emergency stop at MacDonalds.

I should point out here that any time we eat at MacDonalds it is because it’s an emergency (ie, we have run out of time to eat anywhere else).

I have the middle class paranoia that if I feed my offspring MacDonalds I am a Bad Parent. I refuse to call it a ‘treat’ because it’s just not.

I stubbornly boycotted MacDonalds for 12 years, until Bloke and I were stranded on holiday in France and the only place open to feed our squawking toddlers was La Maison de MacDonalds. It pains me to admit it was a delicious breakfast.

From that point on I felt a complete hypocrite. Especially as it was usually my bad parenting which literally drove us back time and again for Happy Meals (and fresh coffee) that you don’t even have to get out of the car for. MacDonalds is Prozac for the disorganised.

Billy and I did have a lovely, materialistic and expensive day together,which he was quite happy ended with wrist-bands, burger and chips and a weird Panda mask.
Next time though, it will be cheaper to pay for the childcare. . .

 

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July 5, 2011 · 12:50 pm

De ja vu repost of Flathampton review as it returns to Derngate

THE innovative and interactive show Flathampton is returning to Royal & Derngate in Northampton from July 15-30. The show is for children of all ages and their families but there are a couple of shows for teens/adults only.

Weekday term-time performances are ideal for early years (under 6s) and their families and along with schools and nurseries (tickets £6 each), while weekend and school holiday performances are suitable for children of all ages with their families (tickets £7 each). To check times and prices or to book, call the Box Office on 01604 624811 or visit http://www.royalandderngate.co.uk.There are also two special evening performances, with a grown up twist, on Thursday 28 and Friday 29 July for teenagers and adults only (tickets £10).

Review, Flathampton, Royal & Derngate to Saturday 17 July, 2010

ROYAL & Derngate should be applauded for its determination to provide innovative, engaging theatre for pre-schoolers. It’s always going to be unpredictable.

This time it’s a huge production, with a larger audience. Flathampton uses the entire Derngate auditorium, with the seats removed. The whole space has become a giant children’s playmat.

Like previous shows, Knit-Wits, Wish-Wash and Where’s the Bear, Flathampton is directed by Northampton’s own Dani Parr and doesn’t involve toddlers sitting wriggling on grown-up laps. Everyone’s part of the ‘show.’

You’re greeted by the bus conductor in the foyer and taken up and down stairs and through to Flathampton, where a story emerges. Everything in Flathampton is flat, until former resident Kate arrives and converts the horizontal set into a vertical, 3D one. It’s like watching dozens of under-sixes make a town from baby-flat-pack.

There are actors in character controlling an area of the town – the children can DJ at the music-store, dress-up at the make-over shop, visit the post-office, get money from the Flathampton Bank to spend at the grocer’s and treat their parents at the hospital.

It’s weird, it’s chaos, but the kids adored it.

Our two-year old and six-year old were baffled at first (too long queuing for the bus) but were soon running around trying everything and talking to the characters. After an hour and a half they had to be prised out of the theatre.

Try and get a ticket if you can, embrace your inner-child, and enjoy a visit to a show that’s anything but flat.

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July 1, 2011 · 8:21 am

Why our family gave up on Glastonbury

HOW many of us watching the annual Glastonbury mudfest were thinking, actually, I’m quite happy seeing it from the sofa, thanks?

That’s quite hard for some of us to admit. Bloke and I were regular Glasto-goers in our pre-parenting years, but have only been once since.

And it’s not one I’d go to again with the kids.

Something about seeing those pictures of muddy, knackered-out little urchins being dragged around by adults either DETERMINED to have a good time, or looking as though they were about to cry, just made me think, take them home, have a bath, watch the rest on TV. Leave them with Grandma next time.

The Glastonbury site is just vast. Nothing you see on telly can actually make you understand how exhausting and confusing it can be if you’re a grown-up and relatively sober, let alone a kid. Even in good weather.
I think the next Glastonbury-goers from our house are more likely to be our elder two boys, and even then I’m thinking “not until you’re 18.” The idea terrifies me, but I guess it won’t be long before I don’t have much of a say.

But in the meantime there are festivals that are great to visit with kids, and for the last few years we’ve attended the likes of Womad and the excellent Camp Bestival with the entire brood.

Bonnie had been to three festivals before her third birthday. 

You must bear in mind that going to a festival with family in tow isn’t like going to one on your own, where the only person you’re responsible for is, er, you.
At a family festival you can still enjoy the live acts, the music, the outdoorsy freedom and even a cider or two, and your children can do the same (minus the cider). You let them stay up later than usual and experience music and art in a way that our generation couldn’t.

But you also have to admit that when it’s dark, muddy, chucking down with rain and blowing a gale, its kinder to everyone if you head back to relative safety and comfort of a tent or camper. It might feel defeatist but you’ll be grateful in the morning. Honest.

There’s plenty of firework finales or headline acts we’ve missed because we’ve just bottled it and stayed dry. That’s the beauty of going to a festival over a conventional music gig. If you miss something, you’ll catch something else that’s good too.

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June 30, 2011 · 10:21 pm

They grow up, they do

IT has been a busy week. As well as sports day, we’ve had two fetes, a cricket tournament, a birthday party invite and a teacher training day.
That’s before we’ve even got to strike day.

Our eldest Jed was off on a day I was covering Cottesbrooke Plant Fair, so much to his disgust, I dragged him along for some work experience.

He, apparently, thought he’d be spending the day ‘planking’ with his mates. Planking is a bizarre fad for getting photographed lying – like a plank – in peculiar locations. Just type it into a computer and you’ll see what I mean.

Jed snaps

I told him planking couldn’t possibly be cool anymore as Gordon Ramsay was seen doing it, so he grumpily accompanied me.

Although he turned out to be a useful photographer, my goodness, he did spend the day grunting. I thought it was a stereotype but bless him, since his voice dropped he has become mumbling monosyllabic in company, and moaned all day about being hungry.

I enjoyed the fact it was just him and me for a rare day, and it reminded me how quickly that little baby in a pram grows up. Even if they still can’t communicate.

Meanwhile, Baby Bonnie has discovered facepaint. I’d managed to avoid it until now but she’s been done twice in a week.

It was easier with the boys. They cottoned on quite quickly that having facepaint means having to have your face scrubbed vigorously with a flannel at the end of the day.

But Bonnie has become fascinated by facepaint, particularly rainbows and butterflies. I’m going to have to make sure all my make-up is well out of her reach.

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June 27, 2011 · 8:57 am

School sports day and fete rolled into one competitive day

BILLY is limbering up for sports day and for once it isn’t going to take up my entire day.

I don’t want to sound uncaring, but this will be the first time in many years that I will only have one child to watch for, pelting up the field as fast as his little legs will carry him.

When all three boys were at the same primary school, sports day could last from 8.45am dropping off to 3.15pm picking up time, as their various events were staggered across the day.

Sports day can often be impossible if you work full-time, logistically challenging if you have pre-school off-spring in tow, and blessedly easy when you are freelance like me (although I did have to cancel a job).

Jed and Doug are now at secondary schools where there doesn’t seem to be sports day, or at least any
that parents are invited to. I can imagine the horror on the faces of our two eldest at the idea of me bowling up to their playing fields shouting ‘encouragement.’

I think they’d disown me without a moment’s hesitation. I’m a classic embarrassing mother. I still try and comb their hair and wipe muck off their faces with spit on a hankie. “Get off Mum. . .”

I’m mostly banned from watching them play rugby, football and cricket due to my inappropriate touchline bellowing. They still want me to provide the never-ending transport to and from venues, but they want the taxi driver to wait in the car.

Primary schools are the last bastion of parental pride for Unusual Sports. No eggs and spoons, but there are usually hula hoops, bean bags, buckets and balancing involved. And somehow, the teaching assistants manage to keep it all together as children have false starts, disappear in all directions and in some cases, refuse to move at all.

Billy Whizz

I’m looking forward to seeing little Bill Whizz, waving frantically as I’m peering across the field trying to pick him out of the hundreds of other green-t-shirted sports-dudes.

And then there’s the parents’ race.

Unless you are actually a PE teacher or a professional sportsman, you are entirely justified in running in the opposite direction to the starting line. I may be competitive but I’m not deluded.

Many schools are also killing two birds with one stone, by having sports day and the summer fete on the same day. Quite canny, when you think about it.

You have the guarantee of a load of parents on-site to watch their little darlings, and they can’t miss the fete if they’re already at it, eh?

If you time it to start before school ends, you can give the parents something to spend their cash on while waiting for their offspring to finish for the day.

Billy’s school’s cake stall is getting better every year, thanks to the re-birth of the humble cup-cake. They usually do a deal – six for £2 say – and by the time you’ve wandered about the playground browsing the other stalls, it seems they’ve all gone and you need to get more to take home.

School fetes are also a great way to have a clear-out. I can usually sneak out a bag or two of books (Bloke is a hoarder) and recycle all the unused Christmas gifts and raffle prizes you won at previous school fêtes. You may hope to get a decent bottle of wine or box of chocolates in the raffle this year, but don’t be surprised if you win your old stuff back again . . .

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June 19, 2011 · 9:18 am

Boys, girls and scenes to make any parent cringe

WE’RE sitting in the car at the traffic lights next to Urban Tiger, which has a poster of a girl in undies outside, when one of my sons says, “What’s that there then?”

“Er, it’s a nightclub for grown-ups,” I say, thinking, didn’t it used to be a church?

He persists: “What’s a lap-dance?”

“Er, it’s when a man pays a woman to dance about in front of him for a bit. Now, who wants to go for an ice-cream. . ?”

At the time this conversation took place, my elder boys were at the age where they viewed girls as an irritation, and the idea of paying for anything but football cards
or sweets to be a total waste of money.

Now hitting puberty, they snigger and nudge each other when passing similar posters of girls in their undies. Occasionally I make them repeat a general mantra that women are not objects and shouldn’t be treated as anything other than equal (and then they carry on sniggering).

Perhaps naively, and with weekend bedtimes extended from the usual school times to 10pm, I let them watch the first episode of a new TV version of Camelot on Channel 4, starting just after 9pm.

About seven minutes in we’re all treated to the sight of bumpkin-but-soon-to-be-king
Arthur’s, well, bum, as he’s doing something decidedly post-watershed. It’s a classic parental cringe moment.

A lot of bad dialogue, dodgy history, bucket loads of shaggery and killing follows. By the end, the boys are doubled up giggling. (For the record, they much prefer boob-flashing Eva Green’s maniac Morgan/a to Tamsin Egerton’s boob-flashing flirty-but-spoken-for blonde Guinevere). They are sent to bed, and ordered not to spend any more time giggling.

In a convoluted and roundabout way I’m getting towards the current (for every
generation) debate about the sexualisation of children, a dodgy phrase in itself. The media and the moral majority have chased their own backsides about this issue every few years for as long as I can remember, and I’m old enough to remember the late Mary Whitehouse.

There have been campaigns to ban everything from inappropriate clothing for girls to sex education videos in primary schools. Sadly, a ban on stupid parents has been deemed too difficult to legislate.

So what makes for an irresponsible parent? My three-year-old daughter painted her lips with a red felt-tipped pen this weekend. One minute she’d been drawing “fish and a house” and the next she looked like she was suffering an extreme allergic reaction.

Am I the stupid parent, to give a three-year-old felt tips instead of the usual crayons, which she’s been known to eat? Or because somehow, I’ve let her think that girls’ lips are there to be painted? After all, I’m the one who paints Bonnie’s tiny toes with my expensive Chanel varnish when I’m doing my own? She just thinks her ‘lady toes’ look pretty. Am I inadvertently pushing her down the slippery slope to pregnant teen
or wannabe footballer’s wife?

Despite, and perhaps because of, having three older brothers and a scruffy mother, Bonnie is rather girly. She’s so determined to wear dresses each day I was surprised to see her come out of her room wearing a pair of pink jogging bottoms she’d found in her cupboard. The fact that she was wearing them back-to-front made me notice the glittery hearts emblazoned on the two rear pockets. Eek! Is that sexy clothing?

My view on the whole ‘inappropriate things marketed at children’ debate has always been simple.
Don’t buy it.

Don’t want your kid looking like she’s ready for a Saturday night on Bridge Street? Don’t take her to a kids ‘makeover’ salon for a spray tan. Don’t want your kid teased
about doing pole dancing classes and people thinking you’re an idiot parent?
Don’t send them to pole dancing classes.

The foxy kids’ clothing/make-up pedlars/pole dancing teachers get more publicity from your outrage than money can buy. As you should know by now, there is no such thing as bad publicity (unless you’re Ryan Giggs).

The thing that frustrates me as a parent, which I have little control over, is pop
lyrics. Nothing new, of course. Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s Relax was famously banned, as was Donna Summer’s Love to Love you Baby, and other merchants of filth including Bob Dylan, the Kinks, the Rolling Stones, George Formby and Lulu.

But when you’re listening to Radio 1 at 8.30am and your children start singing along with Nicole Scherzinger: “Me like the way that you touch my body, Me like the way that you kiss my yeah yeah yeah yeah. . .” (it gets worse).

I don’t want to be flicking radio stations every five minutes unless it’s to avoid
hearing Chris Moyles. I don’t want to be channel hopping every time J-Lo’s backside jiggles or Rihanna gets raunchy on prime-time telly. I don’t want to have to chaperone my kids to the corner shop because the newsagent has been paid to have the Sunday Sport’s front page up-skirt-shot at 12-year-old eye-level.

I’d prefer it if certain things weren’t waved in my children’s faces, but I don’t like bans.

There’s a certain responsibility that comes with parenting that means you have to show where Mum draws the line. . .
.

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June 13, 2011 · 8:46 am

How do you get medical glue out of hair?

TOUCH wood, we haven’t had to attend hospital too much over the 13 years we’ve been parents. But Billy managed to end a recent day out with a trip to A&E after bashing his head (we’re still not sure how) and bleeding profusely.

The wailing only really started when tactful Dougie, who ran to his aid, started saying things like: “Cor, there’s loads of blood, look, it’s really bleeding, he’s got blood all over him, it’s gushing . . .”

Once we, and some helpful fellow parents, had managed to calm him down and stem the flow, we tried to work our way through his matted hair to find out how bad/deep the cut was. It was only about an inch and a half, but looked like it might need a stitch (we mimed this idea to each other out of his eye-sight so’s not to start him wailing again).

We headed for MIMIU, the minor injuries and minor illness unit on Cliftonville Road in
Northampton. It was a Sunday, we thought we were doing the right thing, but apparently not.

After a bizarre one-way conversation with the receptionist (I talked, she typed) we deduced that you are supposed to ring ahead or get referred by your GP. A passing medic stopped to examine Billy’s cut an agree that it did closing with medical glue, and asked the same receptionist to find out if the nursing staff had any. The minor injuries unit didn’t necessarily have the right kit to fix a cut!

A further bizarre wait while the receptionist emailed the unseen nurses, then explained she
then had to wait for them to see the emails and reply. No phones or feet in use then?

Cricket boy

Inevitably, we were sent up to the main A&E department. Thankfully Bloke had waited with
the other kids in the car or it would have been a long walk. A&E booked him in, assessed him, sent us to a play area and patched him up, all in half an hour.

Billy’s cut paled into insignificance when I was talking to a fellow mum, whose toddler daughter had run into a heavy chair and needed several stitches in her forehead, under general anaesthetic. Billy was lucky.

A week later, with no proper hair wash, Bill’s bonce seems to have healed. But please, how on earth do you get a big clump of medical superglue out of hair?

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June 12, 2011 · 8:39 am

Heartsick for the seaside

DAUGHTER, aged three, is crying loudly, and refusing to get in the car without a fuss.

“I want the sea,” she wails. “Don’t want to go home, want the sea.”

“We can’t take the sea with us,” I explain, “the sea lives here and we live. . . (in my head I say “about as far away is it’s possible to be from the sea”) . . in Northampton. You like Northampton, it’s where your toys are.”

She buries her face in my shoulder, still weeping, but grudgingly allowing the sand to be brushed from her feet. I know how she feels.

If you’ve grown up near the seaside, and then left for pastures not-so-green, you may also get an overwhelming sense of glee when the opportunity arises to get some sand between your toes. Beach sand, not the builder-grade,
suspicious-lump-infested sand of a municipal playground. 

We love the sea. Not your foreign holiday beaches (which we haven’t experienced that much), but the often under-rated, sometimes sunny seaside of the North Sea, English Channel and Atlantic coast.  

Even when it’s raining, there’s some deep pleasure for me in standing on a beach, jumping up and down until a pool of water seeps through the sand. Staring out over a vast horizon, squinting at boats and endless, repetitive
waves. Not so much of that when you have four children in tow though.

Over half term we visited my parents who live just outside Newcastle, where they returned to in retirement after 30-odd years living in Devon. Each time we visit, we go to the sandy beaches at Tynemouth, Cullercoats and Whitley Bay.

Beaches? In Newcastle? I hear your skepticism. But these are beautiful places, they Hoover the beaches each morning with great big machines. The council flowerbeds were full and well-tended. The sea, despite being around the corner from a major port, is crystal clear.

We went for three days, and two of those we spent at the beach. One day was windy, and we went rock-pooling with nets at St Mary’s lighthouse, then had tea and cake at the Rendezvous Cafe, a 1930s icon, hardly altered in decades,
which has massive windows looking out to sea.

The following day, when we were meant to be driving home, it was scorching and we couldn’t resist going for a paddle. Bonnie insisted on wearing her swimsuit and it seemed her complete joy made her immune to the chilly water.
Despite the sun, and the half-term, and the provision of lifeguards, it was hardly busy. It was bliss.

Billy dug holes. Jed and Dougie kicked a football about, skimmed stones, threw wet seaweed at each other and dug more holes. Bonnie and I paddled, paddled some more, and buried our feet. Only the inevitable five-hour drive home could drag us away.

If you usually use your family holidays to jet abroad, and think that the British seaside is just pebbles, tacky arcades and run-down guest-houses, you’re missing out. Forget Newquay and Blackpool, look at Widemouth Bay, near Bude, on the Devon/Cornwall border, Putsborough, Croyde and Instow in North Devon, Old Hunstanton and Heacham in Norfolk or Studland Bay in
Dorset (though Dorset is getting Londonified).

Accept that your car is going to get filled with sand, pebbles, bits of seaweed  and possibly dead crabs. Pack a few old towels, some suncream, spare clothes  and shoes and download a tide-times app on your smartphone. Enjoy what being an island truly offers us – the seaside – even if living in Northamptonshire does mean it takes hours to get there . . .

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June 3, 2011 · 9:19 am

My little sew and sews

YOU can tell it’s getting towards the end of term in our house when the sewing kit comes out. I say ‘sewing kit,’ but I actually mean a reel of black cotton with a needle stuck in it. We might also have a spool of white, somewhere. Despite being descended from good Northern stock for whom sewing and knitting seems am effortless joy, I’m not one of life’s darners. However, when you have three sons who play football on Tarmac playgrounds, and school trousers cost around £14 a pop for the older boys, it can get expensive. First it’s the hems that go, usually in the first couple of months. I sew them up, usually too tightly, giving a slightly ruched look. Then it’s the knees. I’m not great at patching worn holes, but I can handle a clean tear. And I even sewed myself a pouch on a string to hold my stupid new mobile phone for when I don’t have pockets. Usually, you have to buy a few ‘official’ items like sweatshirts, blazers and sports kit from the school, and then can buy generic trousers, shirts, polos, dresses, skirts and shoes. Back in September, our eldest, Jed, was given his blazer, tank-top, tie and sports kit as part of the deal to turn his school into an academy. The blazer seemed big on him then, and I hoped it would last a couple of years. But already the sleeves have started to look too short. He’s on his second pair of shoes (third if you count the black trainers he borrowed from his brother to tide him over until the Easter holidays). He came home last week with a massive tear in the backside of his only school trousers (two pairs bought, one lost). “I was playing football at break and I stuck my leg out too far. It was embarrassing, as a load of girls were standing behind me, if that’s any consolation” Two days later Dougie, whose official uniform cost £100 back in September, rang me after school. “Can you pick me up? I’ve got a big hole in my trousers. I’ve had to put my sports shorts on underneath.” Yes, he too was playing football at breaktime. The elder boys’ trousers were split on the seam, so were easy enough to sew up. Double stitched. Not neat, but hopefully strong enough to last them for the last few weeks before summer. As I was sorting the washing at the weekend, I found Billy’s school trousers. They have a hole in the knee. Probably from football. I’m not good with holes. I’m sure he won’t mind doing the last half term in shorts. . ?

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May 28, 2011 · 9:43 am

Nothing like a new phone to make you feel old

STILL on the subject of technology, there’s nothing like a Smartphone to remind a parent how fast the grave approaches.

Bloke and I have both recently had our end-of-contract mobile upgrades. While Bloke spent the best part of a fortnight like a besotted teen, gazing dreamily into the huge screen of his huge new phone, I was ready to stamp on mine after a few hours.

Forget downloading apps and posting to Twitter. Trying to transfer my numbers from my old phone to my new one seemed as impossible as trying to extract wind from a newborn. I stomped off to bed, vowing to return it (the phone) to the shop the following day.

The next morning the tech-savvy males of the household had successfully transferred the numbers, backed-up everything to my computer and even defeated a couple of levels of Angry Birds for me. And Dougie worked out within a few seconds how to lock the damn thing, a feat that I’d failed to complete even with the manual to hand.

I handed my old phone on to Son 1, who has been enduring the teen shame of a three-year-old mobile because he lost his new one weeks after his birthday and we wouldn’t buy him a new one. To rub salt into my ageing, Luddite wounds, he managed to set it up to do things I didn’t discover it could do in two years of ownership. It even looks better, and costs him less than it did me. I feel ancient.

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