Category Archives: Parenting

November 4, 2010 · 8:45 am

Swapping childminder for nursery: farewell second mum

 END of an era for the kids this week, as Bonnie left our faithful Childminder Claire and moved to nursery.

The change has come after six years, on and off, of family-home childcare, and it’s a bit of a wrench.

Our older boys went to nursery when just a few months old. Things have certainly changed in a decade.

Back when I had Child 1, if you hadn’t been at the same job for two years then you only got three months maternity leave. Now you can have up to a year off (mostly unpaid).

At one point having Child 1 and Child 2 in nursery cost me over £850 a month. Which was more than I earned. I was £10 a month down. But I did it to hang on to a full-time job and (I thought), career.

Scroll forward to 2003 and time for one year old Child 3 to need childcare. Fees had gone up, while our wages stayed stagnant.

I was recommended Claire through a primary school teacher pal. It was not only cheaper to hire a childminder, but I got a good friend into the bargain.

She looked after Billy full-time until he started half-day nursery at three-and-a-half, then went had him part-time before he started school.

When I was running late she collected the boys from school for me. When I needed holiday cover she took them all in. Naturally, when Child 4 Bonnie came along, I went to Claire for childcare again, although this time I was a freelance, and my hours were much more erratic.

When her own daughter, Leah, came along after two sons, Bonnie had a playmate the same age. The pair of them have been partners in crime ever since. They giggle like, well, little girls.

Bonnie might be older by a few months, but two-year-old Leah is definitely the boss.

But Claire has decided to pack in the childminding, and spend some one-on-one time with her own offspring. So Bonnie is off to the same nursery that her eldest brothers attended.

It was funny and touching when we visited nursery with the boys, who haven’t been there for seven or more years. Lots of the same staff who looked after Jed and Doug as nippers were still there, and recognised them. There was much hugging and cheek-pinching, and bashful delight as the boys were told how tall and handsome they’ve grown.

Bonnie’s started this week, and the early signs are that she loves it. Tables with dough on? Painting areas? Brilliant!

But I suspect that despite all the new friends and excitement, she’ll miss her little mucka. I think we’ll be popping around for lots of cuppas to stay in touch. After all, Claire’s been like a second mum to Bill and Bonn. She’ll be missed.

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October 31, 2010 · 9:33 am

Damn you cupcakes, you’ve killed the humble fairy

Bonnie makes cakes (but only eats the topping)

WHATEVER brought about this recent revival of the humble cupcake, it has left me with mixed feelings.

On the one hand, I have a simple and usually enjoyable half-hour activity beloved by all the kids which usually results in something vaguely edible.

On the other, I’m eating way too much cake.

There’s also the competition. No longer can you get away with producing a plain fairy cake, perhaps embellished with a spot of buttercream or jam and some ‘wings’ gouged out of the top.

No, now it’s all muffin cases and three inches of pink icing, topped off with chocolate whirls and silver baubles. Or fancy hand-crafted decorations, fashioned as if by real tiny fairies, and delicately placed like artwork atop a light sponge scented with lavender and lemon zest.

Bonnie, aged two, isn’t so fussy. She’s happy just to play with cake mix and scoff any sweeties that might be destined for the topping. The only part she’s not interested in is actually eating the cakes.

Well, someone’s gotta do it. . .

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October 29, 2010 · 8:21 am

Do your children play Call of Duty, even though they’re underage?

THE major topic under discussion in our house lately has been whether or not I should pre-order the Xbox game Call of Duty:Black Ops for our eldest two sons.

They’ve saved up their money by selling their used video games, and want to get it ‘pre-ordered’ for once (I usually make them wait until games come down in price).

The biggest issue at hand is that CoD-BO (yes, get with the lingo Grandma) is certificate 18. Surely “no”, then?

Ah, well, we’ve already started out of shaky moral ground here, because we’ve allowed them to play the previous six versions of these games, which ranged from certificate 15. Our eldest sons are aged 11 and 13. So already, Very Bad Parenting.

I might scramble back some foothold by saying we didn’t buy the games for the kids. Bloke bought them for himself, and the boys were allowed to play them after he did.

Would we let our boys watch 18 rated films? Er, no. So why the double standards?

For the uninitiated, Call of Duty is a series of visually stunning, reasonably historical, scarily addictive first-person shooter games. Essentially war games with you as a soldier with a gun.  

We’ve had versions set in the Second World War, ones set in the modern Middle East, with levels in deserts, Arctic landscapes, shopping malls and dusty favelas. There is usually a ‘plot’ of sorts, which sees you having to make decisions about preserving yourself and your brothers-in-arms. But this doesn’t alter the fact that the game is about shooting people. You can even play online and ‘talk’ to other players via headsets, but this doesn’t happen in our house.

There’s no doubt that teen boys have a weird fascination with war and soldiers. Bloke is a total military history nerd. From an early age he was setting up armies of toy soldiers and replaying battles with his brother. He can tell you the formation of troops from Bosworth to Blenheim, how military strategies saw millions of men gunned down in the two world wars and yet is a card-carrying pacifist in real life. This, he argues, is because he’s well-informed about the realities of warfare, a view he came to through play.

Video games might be waved in the air by the scaremongering media as the reason for our violent society. And it’s certainly true that allowing your kids unfettered access to unlimited hours sitting in a darkened room shooting people on-screen isn’t healthy.

But ultimately, CoD is a game. It’s a well-rendered modern cartoon. It’s paint-balling without the mud and sweat. The boys are in no doubt whatsoever that what they are watching in CoD isn’t ‘real.’ The news reports and television documentaries showing the dreadfulness of actual war are real, and scary, and awful, and ultimately avoidable. CoD players have to problem-solve, make choices, plan and work as a team. They learn.

I’m not sure they do so from other games, like the ones where they take pot-shots at various mentally unstable cartoon rabbits (suitable for 3+).

I hasten to add at this point that when the older boys are allowed on CoD games, their younger siblings are elsewhere. We don’t allow any computer games on ‘school nights’ and usually restrict access to weekends. And they don’t have games or TV in their rooms, only in the living room where we can see what they’re doing.

We had a moment, last time a CoD game arrived in the house, where a level showed civilians being gunned down in an airport. We had prior warning of this moment from a gaming geek who told us that when we got to this level, there was a ‘skip level’ option. We skipped it.

Some parents argue that because their friends play the games, they should too, to avoid being left out of their social circle. I don’t buy that argument. Plenty of the boys’ friends are allowed to watch 18 horror films, and stay up every night until stupid-o’clock. But we censor post-watershed telly and everyone has sensible bedtimes (much to their disgust).

I also think its worth noting that 18 in movie terms means a lot more than 18 in video game terms. It’s still a voluntary system in the UK, with only the most extreme of games having to go up in front of censors. The game companies get a lot more media exposure, hype and sales for an 18.

This doesn’t alter the fact that we, as parents, have ignored the recommendations and allowed our boys to play CoD games before. Even the ones rated 15 are ‘too old’ for boys aged 11 and 13, despite their maturity.

Which leaves me on slippery footing. We know that our boys are not changing their behaviours due to a couple of hours war-gaming of a weekend. But am I being a ‘good’ parent by not stopping them playing an over-age game that involves killing?

It’s a decision I can delay at least a little longer. The game isn’t out until next month.

What would you do?

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October 22, 2010 · 8:34 am

New specs lasted four hours

WE picked up Billy’s new glasses last week. Despite this grumpy expression, he really was delighted with them.

His old pair had broken so many times, the lady in the opticians attempted one last repair so we could keep them for spare. We’ve had four new pairs in a year.

By morning break the day after collecting them, the new pair were mangled. They had flown off Billy’s face in some freak playground accident and someone trod on them the moment they hit the ground. Specs leg, nose pad and lens all busted. Billy was inconsolable.

At least we had a spare pair. But they lasted a day before one of his brothers managed to snap the leg off again during the usual bouts of sibling wrestling. I was dreading the call to the opticians. . .again.

Thankfully they are perfectly used to children’s glasses getting battered, and they can replace them for free within a certain time period. With an NHS prescription, you get a new pair for free each year from a selection or can put the value of the £35 voucher towards a pricier pair.

Still, now his ‘spare pair’ have one wobbly leg tied on with fuse wire, it’s probably time to actually buy some.

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October 21, 2010 · 9:18 am

How do any of you parents afford university?

STILL on the subject of money (sorry), I’m marvelling at how many parents are somehow finding the cash to support their children through university. But they are.

Some lunatic parents are even ringing around the universities for their offspring. Really. I was in a uni office once and heard a woman ringing in to try to get a place for her daughter. The person who took the call asked if the potential student could perhaps ring herself? After all, at 18 she was an adult. Turned out the daughter was 28, but still had Mummy running around doing her dirty work. And this wasn’t unusual. Jeesh.

A  seasoned university don told me that he sometimes has parents who insisted on being in the student’s interview. He refused, of course. And the reason isn’t because they are paying for it, and therefore want to know everything. No, they just can’t bear to allow their little darlings to grow-up and think for themselves. No wonder we have such a generation of useless, needy wretches on our hands.

The announcement that universities can charge what they like for courses is staggering. I’m not sure many parents even realise what they are forking out £3,500+ a year for as it is.

Just having a degree hasn’t been a guarantee of a good job for a couple of decades. If you are paying for your offspring to study, for goodness sake, make them understand they can’t treat it like a three-year holiday and scrape out with a third. A waste of their time and your money.

The idea of trying to help my four children go university in the future terrifies me. We just won’t be able to afford it.

My own parents couldn’t afford it, and that was back in the days when tuition was free – or at least, paid for by your local authority via taxes. If your parents couldn’t/wouldn’t support you, you got a bar job, or stacked shelves.

Now you are positively encouraged to take out enormous loans and end up owing thousands, with no certainty that there will be a job at the end of it.

Inevitably, the only people able to support their children through higher education will be the rich, even if their kids aren’t actually bright enough to deserve the place.

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October 20, 2010 · 5:18 pm

Getting all political on your ass

HOW much more can any of us tighten our belts? There can’t be any parent who hasn’t had to watch the pennies in the past few years of redundancies and recession.
Yet the way the government speaks you’d think we were all rolling in it. Today’s Big Announcement didn’t help.  All this drip, drip of guesswork about what’s getting the axe became real, through the snappily-titled Comprehensive Spending Review.
Don’t be conned by stories about single mums on benefits. Or tales of unemployed families who have lots of children. This is propaganda. Its purpose is to make people who work and pay taxes and scrimp and save have someone easy to blame.
Osborne, the multi-millionaire Chancellor is saying: “We have to see this through.” Cameron talks of “Being in this together.” Nah, I don’t buy it. This is about Jim and Jo Average having to bail out the coalition while demonising anyone who claims from the state.
That includes the stay-at-home mum whose husband earns just enough for her to swap the 9-5 for finger-painting and cupcake-making.
They could claw back billions by closing tax loopholes and making the banks, the real culprits for the deficit, pay more. Public spending did not cause this mess, banking did. When they all crashed, thousands became unemployed, less people paid taxes, everyone stopped spending.
This is politics.
The truth is that YOU have to see it through, fellow parents. Those who know you can’t make ends meet without working every hour you can logistically manage. Those on just about an average wage with kids in average schools driving average cars.
And you’re right, it’s not your fault, but it’s not the fault of everyone claiming benefits either. Yes, certainly something needs to be done about benefit cheats – not all people on benefits.
Take a trip down to your local magistrates’ court and you’ll have your eyes opened to the reality of benefit fraud, unemployment and alcoholism. There you’ll see the Shameless generation: people repeatedly getting fined for fraud, paying £2 a month instalments from the benefit they still get, then being back in court for missing the payments.
This is nothing new though, it’s been happening for centuries. It’s just people are less embarrassed to admit to it.
Would you rather pay £1 extra tax each month towards a single parent with children under 5 whose partner has left them to start a shiny new family, or to the lazy 20-something mummy’s boy sitting in his bedroom on his Xbox expecting his first job to pay him £30k?
How can you attack the welfare state simply because you have a sense of it “not being fair?” There are single parents of school-aged children who get their mortgage interest paid for by the state as long as they DON’T get a job. They know that getting a part-time job to fit around the school hours will simply not provide the same income that being job-less will. That’s not fair, but if you just stop paying it tomorrow, aren’t you then just forcing the children out of their homes and the parents into even more of a poverty trap? It’s an impossible situation.
So what do the poor Averages do? They’ve been on the same salary for years, as bosses insist ad nauseam  that times are too tight for an annual rise, whilst squirrelling away their own massive share options in their wives’ names.
How many parents can really still say their love their job and feel secure that they’ll keep it? How many more are exhausted, just doing whatever they can to pay for the pared-down weekly shop, stopping their kids’ out-of-school activities, selling anything they can on eBay to pay for Christmas?
Is it fair that they are the ones who will see reductions in tax credits, family allowance and pension contributions?
And don’t see this rant as a sign that I’m just some raving Leftie. I don’t believe there are any politicians, of any party, who really know what the hell to do, except for finding someone to blame.

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October 15, 2010 · 9:07 am

It’s not the size of your pumpkin, it’s what you do with it

Obviously my pumpkin is so large it didn't fit in this photo

IT’S harvest festival time. Time to raid the back of your cupboards and send your offspring off to school with a can of chick peas and a pack of cup-a-soup – preferably not out-of-date.

It’s a terrible thing, how half-hearted you get after throwing several children through the education system.

With your first child, in their first year of school, you’re brilliant. You’re efficient. You bake cakes for the fête rather than buy them. You turn up on time for everything, try your hardest to read with them every night, analyse their every comment about what they did that day and worry endlessly that you aren’t doing something right and are going to stunt their education forever.

Then by the time they start their second year, you’ve chilled out a little, realised that the staff pretty much know what they are doing. You get more into the routine – parents evenings, outings, library books, PTA events, the nativity – it’s been done for decades and it works.

That’s not to say you neglect your second/third/fourth children. Far from it. I loved Billy’s harvest festival assembly last week just as much as when my elder two boys took part in years gone by. You can’t stop yourself grinning, trying to wave at them from the back of the hall, and mouthing their lines when it’s their turn to speak on stage.

Billy’s enthusiasm for his class’s harvest festival assembly re-ignited my enthusiasm. This time, I wouldn’t send Billy with a tin of sardines for the food parcels for the homeless and elderly. I was going to send in a proper harvest. From my overgrown allotment. A genuine sacrifice for those less fortunate.

UNfortunately, harvest festival came a little late in the season, which meant the offerings weren’t exactly, er, supermarket-pristine. There were misshapen carrots, proudly grown and picked by Billy. The last of the (probably a little stringy) runner beans, a courgette, too many green chillies (put in a sealed bag marked ‘CHILLIES!’ to avoid any painful curiosity) and the piece de resistance, one of the three ripe pumpkins being saved for Halloween. Billy made me carry it, partly because he didn’t want to drop it going across the playground, mostly because it was heavy.

When I arrived at the assembly, I found myself peering at the stage, searching not for my gorgeous, excited seven-year-old son, but for the pumpkin. I thought, ignorantly, that it might be the only one. No, face it Hilary, other parents can grow things too.

My fellow mums tried to help: “Is it that orange one at the back?” suggested one. No, too wrinkly. “That other orange one? “That greeny-orange one with the pointy stalk?” No, I’m sure mine was much bigger. Oh, no, that’s it. Nothing special, nothing massive and impressive. Probably not enough for a decent vat of soup at the Hope Centre. I’ll have to do better next year. Or stick to the sardines.

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October 14, 2010 · 9:00 am

The relief of not being caught up in the agony of school applications

THIS is the first time since 2007 we haven’t been wrapped up in the autumn stress-fest that is secondary school admission applications.

I can’t say I’m missing it.

If you have a child in Year Six, the final year of primary school, then you have to apply by November 1, at 5pm to get a place at school for next September.

Don’t imagine for a second that you will automatically get the school you want. That’s not how it works these days. I’m sure I’ve bored you enough over the years with my grumbles about catchment areas (and how ALL schools should give priority to families who live within three miles). I didn’t get first choice with son 1, appealed, lost, sent him to school that then closed and reopened as academy. A year later, son 2 applied and got a place at school that previously rejected us, under alleged ‘random selection.’ *sighs.

Son 2 was asked to turn up at his over-subscribed school to play rugby from 6pm-8.30pm (under floodlights). They don’t usually train at this time but I guess it looks good to prospective parents. I watched lines and lines of would-be pupils and their hopeful folks trudge around the playing fields in the dark, feeling utter sympathy, knowing that most of them will be disappointed next March when the places are allocated.

Don’t only visit the school you really want. You have to put down three choices, so visit at least three schools. Imagine how difficult it would be for your child, if they’ve been allocated a school they’ve never seen. Not many appeals are successful.

Be open-minded. Talk to other parents, make notes, and get a ‘gut-feeling’ about each place. Don’t look for faults at your ‘second-choice’ schools, and don’t ignore them at the one you’ve already decided you want.

Open days are running for a few weeks, and if you really can’t make their date, ring and ask if it’s possible to make an appointment before November 1.

Above all, take your child with you to the school. And listen when they tell you what they think. You may not agree, but it’s your child who will be spending the next seven years there.

n All open days are detailed in the admissions booklet you will have received with your application, or you can check online via the county council website.

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October 7, 2010 · 8:30 am

Having a lollypop head and stupid eyelashes is not a talent and not alright

 THE TV watershed is all very well for younger kids – as are strict bedtimes – but what do you do about your older children watching things you don’t want them to?

I’m not necessarily talking about rude stuff – although sitting in the same room as your pre-and-teen sons watching rumpy is as excruciating as it was watching with my own parents. The slightest hint of an impending snog still sends my mother diving for the remote.

Anyone who was a kid when there were only three/four channels will remember how much easier it must have been for our parents. Many people I know weren’t allowed to watch ITV. The whole channel. There was a terrible snobbery about watching anything but the BBC.

We weren’t subjected to a complete commercial television ban, mainly because my parents have a Coronation Street addiction stretching back decades. #

So we got to see Saturday morning wrestling hosted by Dicky Davies, while many of our posher friends were left out of the loop.

Having a television in your bedroom wasn’t an issue. There was one telly in the house in the 1970s and 80s, and it was rented. My brother got the use of a portable black and white set when he was about 16, which we were only allowed to watch when ill.

Now we’re the parents, there are trillions of channels. We have three tellies, but none in the kids’ rooms. It’s hard enough to spend any time with them as it is. If they had TVs in their rooms they’d only see us at feeding time. Routine bedtimes would be impossible. If children have TVs in their rooms they will attempt to watch it, even/especially if you tell them not to.

In our house there are restrictions on children’s telly. Yes, even children’s telly.

Then there’s the X-Factor. Damn you ITV, you’re proving those 1970s parents right with your ‘reality’ programmes.

We watched one of the earlier series of the X-Factor together, I think it was the one where Leona Lewis won. But it is what it is: a load of sadistically entertaining guff.

Bloke opts out completely, he just thinks it’s exploitative rubbish. I usually avoid it until the final couple of live shows.

But the boys will set their watches by it, from the earliest audition to the tear-sodden final. Much like adults around the proverbial water-cooler, they know that the following day’s school conversations will involve why Cheryl should have chosen Gamu over stupid fame-hungry Katie, and how daft Storm looks/sounds/is.

I haven’t banned the X-Factor because I think the boys are at an age where they should be able to make up their own minds on whether someone is an idiot or not. I despair that they think the frighteningly thin, lollypop-headed Cher with her ridiculous false eyelashes is “alright.”

I take every opportunity to remind them not to give the show any emotional investment. I point out the dodgy showbiz connections and explaining the way they make their money is to con poor sap members of the public into actually giving enough of a toss to vote.

The X-Factor might be classic Saturday night entertainment, but don’t for a second think that it’s reality.

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October 2, 2010 · 1:05 pm

There’s a teen in the house: Y’get me?

MY little boy became a teenager this week. Scary, huh? Everyone tells you, when you have kids, how quickly time will pass. And how right they are.

That 13th birthday is a milestone. It may not really mean anything much legally – I think you can take on a paper-round and Facebook is no longer a no-go – but it’s the first tangible step out of childhood.

As well as having an embarrassing mother who puts embarrassing photos of you in the paper, Jed’s become unlucky by virtue of birth dates. His youngest brother, Billy, was born six days before his sixth birthday. He went from being the subject of unadulterated September celebrations to having to share the same week with someone younger.

Billy is still able to have a knees-up in the traditional manner, with the chaotic pass the parcel, cake and ten friends party, because he’s seven.

Jed gave up the ball-pit, bouncy castle and party-bag fun at the age of ten. It must be hard. What fuss is made when a boy turns 13? Nothing much. He’s chosen his present. He gets to choose where we go for a family meal to celebrate. He’s altogether underwhelmed with the whole birthday thing and has perfected that teenage ‘not-bothered’ shrug already.

There’s a famous parenting book from the 1970s which says you have to view teenage boys a little like babies rather than adults. For example, a 13-year old will forget all means of communication and you’ll need to do everything for them. A 14-year old will be frustrated at everything and everyone and throws tantrums, much like a toddler during the terrible twos. A 15-year old will try to push the boundaries and will argue with inanimate objects if there’s no adult around to appreciate their wisdom.

I’m pretty sure he’d hate me saying so, and God knows I don’t want to tempt fate, but so far, Jed’s been a pretty great, easy-going kid.

He’s had the pressure of being the eldest, with his next sibling very close in age, and the expectation that he should help out with everyone else. He’s good company, but has the advantage of a brother close in age so doesn’t feel he has to go knocking on doors to see friends. He cooks, he cleans (when nagged), but still leaves underpants and damp towels where they fall and argues about how unfair bedtime is every, single night.

He’s suddenly had a much-longed-for growth-spurt, and is now taller than his brother and both grandmothers, and almost as tall as me. He’s now enduring the hilarious voice-breaking stage, and can waver from sounding quite manly to literally squeaking the next. He’s cynical, exasperated with life and if he wasn’t disturbed, could sleep until noon. I know I’m biased, but he’s delightful. I wish I could give him everything he ever wants. I’m grateful that he still talks to me, and will even deign to give his old Ma a hug. How long this will last, well, only time will tell.

It seems an impossibly long time ago that I became a mum, and was handed that tiny, scrunched-up, red-faced baby boy, who is now on the cusp of becoming a man.

Happy 13th birthday Jed, oh, and don’t forget to pick up your laundry from the bedroom floor. . .

Jed and Doug, some years ago. Aww.

Sorry, poor quality pic but they hide when they see a camera now

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