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 16, 2010 · 2:34 pm

I’m allergic to cheap roofing felt

Bloke and I actually did something together last weekend. We re-felted the roof of the garden shed.
The shed was inherited with the house, and while I’d love to say I use it solely for gardening, it’s inevitably become a dumping ground for anything we don’t want in the house. Lawnmower, kids bikes, portable loo bucket for camping, several paddling pools and various sports equipment. In short, it’s a tip. It’s also warped at the back, but as we can’t see it, we don’t worry about it.

Yes, this is the 'After' shot

It’s also, most inconveniently, in the sunniest spot in our north-facing spot. Really, we need to replace it, but sheds are expensive and Bloke and I are not really shed-putting-together-types. He scoffed when I said we could sell the old one on Ebay and the buyer would come and dismantle it and take it away. “People don’t do that, do they? What a pain.”
So when the roofing felt finally came adrift and was flapping around, letting water in, I bought the cheapest roofing felt (still £17) and we made time to put it on. It was ridiculous. The felt ripped like paper every time you tried to move it, the nails ran out, and I hadn’t had the intelligence to buy the can of £10 roofing felt adhesive that I had seen but had ignored.
Still, it’s better than before, for now anyway. I’m pretty sure the first heavy rain and windy conditions will have the whole lot off again.

Oh, and if you end up having to do the same yourself, wear gloves. Bloke and I both had swollen sore hands afterwards, which we think was something to do with the toxic coating. Yuk.

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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 13, 2010 · 12:31 pm

Devious ways to distract your children

I have discovered a marvellous way of keeping two-year-old Bonnie occupied while I attempt to catch up with some gardening chores.

One of the tasks for the autumn gardener is to collect up and wash out all the pots and seed trays that have been used throughout the year. It’s a mucky job, and far too much like housework for my liking.

Bonnie makes brother wash-up pots. Wise girl

Bonnie doesn’t like to be indoors when I’m outdoors. Even when it’s cold and rainy. But that doesn’t stop her moaning and whining while she follows you around, putting bulbs in upside-down and tipping soil everywhere.

To stop her stomping about on my freshly-re-seeded, patchy lawn, I set up a washing station with a trug of soapy water and an old dishcloth. She happily scrubbed two dozen pots and then wiped-down the watering cans. It took her a good hour, and she even had the sense to enlist one of her brothers to come and help. I think those pots may need a wash again next weekend. . .

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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 6, 2010 · 11:10 pm

Official Dilbert Widget

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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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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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