Category Archives: Parenting

October 1, 2010 · 8:30 am

They broke my house

I once got hate mail from a reader who was incensed that I recommended not giving out party bags, on the grounds they are full of plastic junk and the kids just want sweets.

She took the time to write and tell me she thought I was a slobby mother who obviously didn’t care for her kids. She said this was evident by the home-made cake and drinks cartons in a picture of one of my boys’ celebrations.

She was glad her daughter wasn’t acquainted with my offspring as she would be devastated not to get a party bag. I was sorely tempted to fill a party bag with something from the park bin and pop it through her door. I resisted. For once.

However, when it was party time for Billy this weekend, as he reached the grand-old age of seven, I did do party bags: they were Lidl freezer bags with two tiny bags of Haribo, a collectible Bean and some cake. Job done.

Some of the other mums and I were discussing how our attitudes to parties changed the more children we produced.

I’ve always been disorganised (and tight), so I never managed to stage the truly spectacular children’s party, with entertainers and bouncy castles, matching tablecloths, paper plates, treat bags and wrapping paper.

We agreed these were only ever staged once, usually early on with your first-born. We quickly realised the kids wouldn’t even notice the Bob The Builder theme and were most happy to be stuffing down cake and running around bonkers with their friends.

As I’d left it too late to book a party at an-oh-so-easy-no-clearing-up-venue like the Wacky Warehouse or Berzerk, Billy asked to have some friends over to the house. I groaned, silently. OK, but none of this North London nonsense about inviting the entire class.

To make one party: Ten friends, invites hastily printed out on the home computer. Two hours on a Saturday lunchtime, balloons, a load of cakes, sandwiches, pizza and crisps, two older brothers to marshal party games, some confectionery bribes and a DVD set up to calm them all down before handing them back. It’s never as bad as you first fear.

Everyone behaved well, even if the noise levels were ear-splitting. No one cried and all seemed to go home happy.

However, I’ve just noticed a new crack across the living room ceiling, which must have been made when Dougie had 11 under-sevens hopping and jumping up and down in the bedroom above.

Perhaps I’ll diary in an early booking for next year’s party to be held somewhere else. I’m not sure the house can take them getting any bigger.

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September 27, 2010 · 8:58 am

Simple pleasures are easily ignored

Six-year-old Billy and I decided spontaneously to stop at Abington Park and introduce Bonnie to the joys of the horse chestnut harvest. 

I know it’s a cliche, all this running about being at one with your kids, but it’s memory of my childhood that’s still vivid. 

It was an annual treat for my brothers and I, skiving off on a Sunday morning to the conker trees with Dad, fighting over the best ones. 

They might not be allowed in the playground any more, what with the paranoia of Health&Safety, but there’s still plenty of pleasure in finding conkers. 

From the anticipation of carefully breaking open a fat prickly windfall, to scouring out that perfect, polished brown ball, it was a satisfying and absorbing hour’s play for all three of us. 

Bill and Bonnie with their haul of conkers

 

Bonnie ran back and forth, utterly engaged with the task in hand, filling her pockets. She now insists on carrying around a handbag stuffed with them. 

Still, this means I avoid stabbing myself with a skewer trying to get a piece of string through them.

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September 23, 2010 · 9:05 am

I’m NoHo, fly me. (Or welcome to Northampton and please stay a while)

IF 2,000 new people moved into Northampton this week, you’d think we’d notice, yes? Well, they have.

OK, quite a lot of them may already live here, but nonetheless there will be over 2,000 new faces arriving at the University of Northampton to start their higher education.

Meanwhile, many of our native offspring will be leaving, flying the proverbial nest, to start their studies at universities elsewhere.

It’s a week that would give the most seasoned population statistician a headache. And parents a weird mixture of pride, relief and heartache.

Bizarrely, despite hundreds of new Northamptonians arriving, we hardly seem to notice. Parking spaces become even rarer. Estate cars loaded with anxious parents bearing pot plants and boxes of baked beans might ask for directions.

But are we aware of more people in town? The doctors surgeries? The nightclubs? (If you’re a parent reading this you probably haven’t been near a nightclub for years).

Yet there are three times the students starting some Northampton courses compared to two years ago.

I was a newbie myself at the university last year, but unfortunately it wasn’t to start a three-year pub-crawl and get myself into yet more debt. I am a part-time lecturer.

And it’s been an eye-opener.

Student life has changed drastically over the last couple of decades. No doubt many of you will be feeling the extraordinary pain of financing your child/childrens’ three-year rite of passage. This will be at least £3,000 a year, for three years, for tuition and possibly the same for living expenses.

However, if you cough up for everything, you may not be doing them the massive favour you think you are.

From personal experience, both as a student and someone who teaches them today, it’s the ones who feel personal financial commitment who appear to get the most from their university life.

It’s not a universal truth, nor is it a gross generalisation. But most of the students I know who work part-time seem to be the most attentive. They know that every second costs.

Sometimes those students whose parents pick up the tab are easy to spot: they have the shortest attention spans, the worst attendance records, and hand in the poorest work.

In short, they are enjoying the cliched uni-experince without putting any knowledge in the bank. They have iPhones and MacBooks, they drive new cars and have sat-nav and therefore never actually have to explore the town they live in. It’s sad to how little they grow.

There have always been students who were helped out by their parents, from every background. None of us wants to imagine our kids living in a slum with nothing to eat.

It’s all very well for us, whose education was grant-funded by the Government. No guilt about missing lectures due to a chronic hangover, living on cornflakes for every meal until the grant cheque arrived.

Today’s undergraduates have to remember what it costs. I reckon, roughly, that every lecture missed by a student will have cost the parent about £24. It will probably be their only lecture that day.

We want our children to go to university. We’re proud of their exam results and the fact they got a place. But these days, its no longer enough that they got in. There are thousands of students and over 150 UK universities. It’s how you use your three years that matters.

The students I teach actually taught me a lot last year. I now have a far better understanding of the multitude ways anyone under 25 communicates. They might not be tub-thumping radical thinkers, but they can email, text, Twitter, Facebook, Bebo, Myspace and publish your startled expression on YouTube faster than you can say “a cider and blackcurrant please.” And the less said about chatroulette the better.

If you are new to Northampton this week, welcome. Don’t feel nervous, we’re really quite nice if you venture off campus and get to know us. . .

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September 17, 2010 · 9:05 am

Does smarter mean smarter?

I CAN’T help but smile while doing the extended school run of a morning, since Malcolm Arnold Academy-nee-Unity-nee-Trinity changed their uniform.

Where once there was a purple fog of sweatshirt-clad teens dragging themselves across Northampton’s Racecourse, now there’s a sea of public-schoolesque blazers and cravats.

New boy Dougie in new uniform and yr 8 Jed, right, in his (and he had a haircut after seeing this photo)

I’m not sure if it’s just because I’m getting old, but I really like their new look. Whereas before they seemed to look, well, like primary school kids, now they look far more grown-up. They seem to stand up straighter (now I’m worried I’m turning into my mother).

Apparently the girls have mixed feelings about it. Some appreciate that it’s actually ‘on-trend’ this season to have the preppy look. Others are taking every opportunity to use it as a tool of rebellion: cravats around heads, shirts undone, skirts rolled up at the waist to indecent lengths (yes yes, we all did it. . .)

Whether the smarter look actually makes them pay better attention to their schooling remains to be seen.

It seems to be considered an instant fix to a down-at-heel school to give everyone very public-school-style uniforms in the first instance. Whether this is so they are seen to be doing something, or genuinely because they believe it makes pupils take more pride in themselves, well, I guess it would be hard to prove. Uniform change comes with regime change. Which parts of that new regime actually work is often hard to quantify.

With one son at MAA and another at NSB (Northampton School for Boys), we’ve already see how two big secondaries operate in the first week of term.

Last year's secondary school uniform for Jed, er, just like primary but purple

MA has smart uniforms. NSB has smartish uniforms.

NSB has already held after-school trials for Year 7 cross-country, rugby, football, basketball and other activities in lunchtimes. MA hasn’t organised any afterschool clubs yet.

Nor does it actually have a Head of Music in place (despite being a music and maths specialist school?)

MA has lockers for pupils to store belongings.

NSB does not (for Yr 7s, at least).

This means small new boy is carting around a rucksack weighing half his bodyweight, sometimes with two sets of sports kit, for the entire day. Goodness only knows what happens when they start having to take a winter coat too. I understand this is supposed to make them responsible for their belongings. I suspect it may be responsible for giving them back injuries.

This may all seem superficial if both schools are delivering quality teaching in the classroom, and I guess its fair enough to give the new powers at MAA a chance to get things moving, seeing as they only legally took over a fortnight ago.

It’s a relief though, that my elder two boys seem happy and have settled quickly. I’m not happy, however, to be having to iron shirts for the first time in 20 years. I think a homework session for the boys in how to use an iron is due. . .

And while I’m not planning a blow-by-blow account of the term in these columns, it will certainly be interesting for all involved to see how things have gone by next summer. I’m keen to hear your views too.

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September 16, 2010 · 12:00 pm

By ‘eck grommets (Part II)

BILLY finally had his ear operation. And he seems absolutely fine. It was a huge relief to get it done.

Billy after his ear operation, not happy to be interrupted eating after eight hours nil-by-mouth

I feel a little embarrassed now, by how worried I was about my six-year-old going into hospital to get grommets fitted in his ears. After all, there are parents who have had to endure far worse with far, far poorlier kids.

And people were really lovely, very reassuring, very understanding. It wasn’t the actual operation I was too worried about, it was watching him be put under. I was worried I would blub in front of him.

It’s ridiculous. I used to be tough. I had some grim jobs as a junior reporter, having to do the dreaded ‘death knock,’ when someone has died and the paper send you to knock on the door of the bereaved. After I had children I couldn’t do them. I’d be on the doorstep in tears before they even answered. I became a snivelling wreck, crying at just about everything. TV shows. Sports events. Christmas. *Sniffs. Pathetic.

Bloke had taken the day off for Friday’s op, and we’d tried to be as nonchalant as possible with Billy, reassuring him without raising his suspicions that something scary was going to happen.

I thought Bloke would volunteer to go down to be with Bill in the anaesthesia room. Nope. He made me do it. He told me that Billy would want me there, and that I would be able to hold back the tears for his sake.

He was right, of course. I chatted incessantly until he was out-for-the-count. It was horrible to watch, I felt I had a weight on my heart, but I didn’t cry. Not until I was in the ladies loo anyway, and it was over in a nose-blow.

Everyone at Northampton General Hospital was great (although predictably understaffed). Everything from getting him settled and into his robe (“but it shows my pants!”) to having him come round and recover. He had a little cry in the recovery room, disorientated and a little tender. But with the help of smiley nurses and porters, a dose of paracetamol, some warm toast and a Penguin biscuit, and he was back to his usual self and complaining about how loud everyone was being.

We were in at 12noon, and out just before 6pm. I’m very grateful to all involved. He’s not complained once and is only grumpy about the fact he can’t go swimming for six weeks.

As I put him to bed last night, he said: “Mum, I ever don’t want to have any operations again, OK?” I told him I couldn’t promise, but hopefully that would be it. I didn’t tell him the little boy in the next bed was in for his second grommet op in two years.

Fingers crossed, he’s fixed. . .

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September 15, 2010 · 8:45 pm

Fancy a quick tumble?

IT was a weekend of humidity and the smell of damp towels in our house. My tumble dryer has broken. I’m distraught.

I know tumble dryers are the work of the devil as far as carbon footprints go. I know they use the energy of a small country and triple your electricity bills. But selfishly, I can’t handle the onslaught of washing without it.

The elder boys reminded me that we didn’t have a dryer when they were small, and they remembered damp washing hanging on all the radiators, going crispy. But that was when there were only four of us. Now there are six, and four of us are big. I’ve run out of radiator space with the first load. The rotary falls over with the weight. I need my dryer. I’ll plant a tree every year if I can have it working again. Pleeease!

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September 12, 2010 · 11:57 pm

By ‘eck, grommets seem to be working

Billy’s had his operation. It went well. He had a little sob after the anaesthetic. I had a little sob in the loo after watching him go under. His ears are working better (we think). Thanks very much for all who asked after him and gave reassurance. A full update this week.

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September 10, 2010 · 9:00 am

Bookstart is so useful it’s bound to be victim of Tory cuts

POOR little Bonnie. She’s been left out of all the back-to-school excitement and now has a raging cold which has left her with a sore nose and grumpy disposition.

Being the two-year-old with three older, male siblings doesn’t usually mean she’s left out. She’s often the centre of the boys’ universe and they let her get away with far more than they do with each other.

However, the boys have been getting their bags, pencil cases and uniform ready for school and she’s been desperate to join in.

Good timing then, that she had her two-year check with the health visitors, and was given her very own Bookstart bookbag. Just like the one she tries to steal from Billy, only bright red instead of blue.

Bookstart is an amazing scheme, probably taken for granted by us parents but much loved by the children. It’s the only national free books for all scheme in the world and sees parents given books to share with their babies and toddlers. It’s not purely philanthropic. It came about after academic research proved that children who read with their parents start school with higher attainment and a desire to learn.

It was confirmation of funding by the former chancellor, ol’ Brown bear himself, which allowed the scheme to continue to provide free books to children, regardless of income or background. Book publishers and charity arms of companies also contribute.

Bonnie loves books. She’s thankfully over the page-ripping stage, and will sit and ‘read’ aloud to herself if she can’t persuade someone to read to her. Favourites are the Mr McGee books beloved of her brothers, anything with Peppa Pig, and stories which involve pants or rude noises as part of of the plot.

The Bookstart bag also had a couple of number posters to go on her wall, which reminded me how neglected the poor girl has been in terms of room adornment. Her bedroom is still referred to as ‘the spare room’ and has no personalisation other than her mini-bed and toy box.

So we put up the number posters and moved in some of the more babyish pictures from the boys’ shared room. She’s delighted, and Billy now has even more room to stick up the trillions of pages he rips from football magazines. Everyone’s happy.

The baby Bookstart pack is the one you get before a baby’s first birthday and comes in a canvas bag with two board books and a mat.

Then there’s a toddler one like Bonnie’s, and at three to four years they get a cardboard book chest with story books, coloured pencils and a drawing book.

You get them from the health visitor and it encourages you to take your children to your local library, who also stock the bags.

We do occasionally go to the library but it’s usually only once every couple of months. We went much more when there were fewer of us! It’s a resource every parent should use as there’s so much to do, for free. Getting your children used to being in a library means they’ll continue to use it as they grow up.

But as with everything that’s state funded, if we don’t use libraries, it will be a source of great knowledge and happiness that may not be available for future generations.

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September 9, 2010 · 9:55 am

Snot-face and the two-year health check

BONNIE’S two-year health check went OK. It’s the appointment where the nurse makes sure a child is reaching developmental steps by playing with picture books, building brick towers and drawing circles.

Since then, she’s decided she doesn’t need a daytime nap anymore, and just stands shouting at her gate.

Raspberries and tomatoes don't last long when Bonnie's at the allotment

This means she’s grumpy at tea-time and bonkers before bed.

It’s also left her a little run-down, and the cold has hit her quite hard. We had two quite tiring, miserable days where she didn’t want to do much except be left alone to watch repeats of Peppa or Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom.

She’s recovered a little this week and perked up at the allotment, where she stripped the bushes of raspeberries and squished tomato pips all over herself.

Now it’s just the streaming, sore, snotty nose. “Bogies Mummy!” she shouts, smearing it across her face and into her hair, just before you can lunge at her with a tissue. Delightful.

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September 6, 2010 · 8:59 am

Nametags, uniform bankrupcy and whether it’s right to see your children as a social experiment

MY poor children’s lives have already been over-exposed for many years via the ramblings of their mother on newspaper pages, but the new term throws up interesting potential for analysis.

I will have three children in three different state schools across Northampton.

One will be at a controversial new academy, another at an vastly-oversubscribed, catchment-less, single-sex secondary, and the third at a large urban primary without his older brothers.

Three schools also means three different uniforms. All which need name tagging(*shudders).

Up until now, I’ve got away with hand-me-down uniforms and the simplest naming technique for impatient mothers with few sewing skills: the permanent fabric pen.

When the boys were all at the same primary, naming wasn’t a huge job.

1. Find label on new polo-shirt/sweatshirt/trousers/PE kit

2. Write surname on label.

Now we’re dealing with a whole lot more clobber.

The two older boys have new blazers, house colour tags, ties, white shirts, tank-tops, trousers, rugby shirts, rugby shorts, football shorts, t-shirts, boots, trainers and sports socks.

I’m going to have to dig out the iron, or needle and thread, to get names into items that just don’t lend themselves to the easy charms of the marker-pen. Like ties. Or socks.

This means grumpy late-nights for me before they go back (on three different days) later this week.

I was dreading paying for new uniform, at a time when we’re more skint than ever.

However, it could have been worse.

Jed’s new uniform – and that of 1,000 of his schoolmates – has to be paid for by the government because it agreed to turn Malcolm Arnold nee Unity nee Trinity into an academy. The sixth form, who have to wear ‘business suits,’ are getting a voucher or refund for £40.

It would have been galling to shell out again after the £60 or so spent last year on the now redundant purple Unity uniform (suggestions on what to do with it welcome. I’ve already planned a scarecrow for my allotment). We collect the new stuff later this week.

Meanwhile, over at NSB, the costs came in just under £100 for pre-badged blazer, tie, and various bits of sports kit.

Thank goodness little Bill doesn’t mind his hand-me down uniform. He’s happy with three new yellow polos that cost about a fiver. All their trousers came from a 3-for-2 at M&S.

Two pairs of shoes had to be replaced towards the end of last term, so they’ll have to last until Christmas.

So we still need one pair of shoes, several white shirts . . . and lots of blinkin’ name-tags.

But if you think this sounds pricey, how about a friend of a friend in London? She’s just forked out over £300 for compulsory school uniform. . .for ONE CHILD!

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