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Pirates on parade

HALF-TERM next week, and unless you’ve somehow managed to ignore the massive increase in the cost of living and booked a holiday, there’s an interesting free event on in Northampton.

The borough Play Rangers will be holding a Pirate Play Day at the cricket club in Wantage Road on February 26, between 11am and 3pm. They are hoping for over 1,000 children to join in with pirate games, face-painting, puppet-shows, climbing and adventures. It’s for four-year-old to teenagers and under 8s need to have an adult with them.

There will be play schemes running in Abington Park (am) and the Racecourse (pm) over half-term, which are also free. Fingers-crossed for dry weather!

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Library closures: why cuts shouldn’t be presented as ‘either/or’

AT a time of painful and apparently limitless cost-cutting, the loss of several public libraries might seem easy compared to closing nursing homes and respite care for the disabled.

But we shouldn’t be looking at these cuts as an ‘either/or’ situation, as the politicians would wish us to. We should be finding ways to preserve it all.

I was looking through some photos of the family over the years and was struck by the fact that the few I have of Bloke have a theme – he’s reading books to the kids.

We visit various town libraries once a month or so. It’s not that we don’t have the luxury of books at home, but with four children, they’ve got a little dog-eared over the years. We can’t afford monthly visits to bookshops, but going to the library means they can keep having their passion for stories – ( Doug and Bill prefer non-fiction) – updated whenever they want, for free.

I must confess to being sometimes tardy with my timekeeping. Despite being able to renew books online, I forgot about some which had become buried in the mess of the boys’ room. By the time they were found, I thought I’d be facing fines like those at university: £10 a DAY for late return of equipment, 60p per HOUR for in-demand loans. I think my fine at the library was about £2.50 for books that were weeks late.

Libraries are not just places for at-home-mums to go with their offspring, students to catch up, or pensioners to use the internet. They are storage units for our history. Journalists may rely far too much on Google, but the real research is to be done in the local history sections, where centuries of newspapers exist on microfiche, old photographs and street records are lovingly indexed, and the minutia of our ancestors are preserved. For now.

So, Save-Our-Libraries, find a way. Stick in a coffee shop. Hold celebrity signings if you must.

And fine me more. I have no excuse.

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Who’s the (real) Daddy?

BOOTS the Chemist, despite being a bastion of the British High Street and seemingly as virtuous as its head-girl cousin M&S, is a bit of a gossip.

Boots knows all your dirty little secrets.

As well as providing shelves full of ‘adult toys’, discreet morning-after pills and pregnancy testing kits, Boots will go even further: they’ll tell you who the Real Daddy is.

Actually, Boots will take £30 off you to sell you the paternity kit and whack on another £129 for the processing, but eventually, you will indeed find out if someone was, or indeed wasn’t, there at the moment of conception.

In Britain about 50,000 children born every year are registered without a father being named on the birth certificate. However, unlike pregnancy tests and morning-after pills, paternity testing is not available on the NHS, even if ordered by a court.

The justification, say the manufacturers, is that one in 25 men, according to woolly figures quoted in various bits of research, is not the biological parent of a child he believes he fathered.

Paternity tests are nothing new. You could already get them online, and at some independent chemists.

In no way do I think that true paternity should be swept under the table. And I don’t assume this is just an issue of Men’s Rights – and these days they seem to have fewer. I’m sure there are plenty of Dads who have a niggling suspicion that they are bringing up someone else’s child, or paying for one they never actually see.

But there are also mothers who face accusations of infidelity and for whom such a test would prove a father-in-denial responsibility beyond doubt.

The whole process is undoubtedly painful and has argument and betrayal at its core . And yet at the heart of this venom and bitterness is a child, an utterly blameless child.

The kits at Boots do require the presumed father, mother and children over 16 to sign consent forms (with the mother signing for young children), as well as proof of identification – all measures that can be faked, even though since 2006 it has been illegal to take someone’s DNA without permission.

Growing up in the 1970s, there were plenty of rumours about who’s Dad-wasn’t-really-their-Dad. I know people who knew the truth about their parentage, but felt they’d had a better life with the family they had, even if it wasn’t the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

I heard a heart-wrenching interview with a father who said he’d always had his doubts that his teenage son was really his, but had brought him up and shared custody after a bitter divorce. When the mum lost her temper and blurted out the truth to her son, he sought reassurance from the man he’d always known as his father. ‘Dad’ then carted the kid off to get a DNA test to prove he’d always been right, then triumphantly returned to throw the evidence in the ex-wife’s face. But what of the 16-year-old child, whose life had just been shattered by the two people he thought loved him unconditionally?

The labs say most tests are done on newborns or very young children who are too young to understand the implications. But they will one day grow up. And what about your DNA being taken? Who is responsible for destroying it? Or will DNA labs be able to sell your data without your consent? Will paternity tests be routinely done in the delivery room so there’s no room for doubt? Or trust?

What Boots has done – purely for its own profit – is ‘normalise’ the paternity test as something you can buy along with deodorant and a sandwich.

Jeremy Kyle must be terrified: who is going to watch the results of “My Mum was a bit of a Slapper” if we can all just pop down to Boots and scrape a cotton bud around our cheeks?

 

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The dummy fairy may have a fight on her hands

WHILE I’m looking forward to our fourth child Bonnie’s third birthday later this month, I’m also getting worried. There’s going to be a fight.

The conflict is going to involve her dummy addiction.

Yes, yes, quieten down all you brilliant parents who refused your offspring the plasticy comfort of a dummy. I thought I’d be like you until about 24 hours after our eldest was born, when sleep deprivation and panic saw us run to the all-night garage to buy one.

Not all our children had dummies. Dougie refused one, having found his thumb just days after birth . . . which he still sucks now at the age of 11.

Jed and Billy had dummies, but gave them up without much fuss on their third birthdays.

And herein lies the problem. On Bonnie’s birthday, she’ll be expected to give up her dummies to the Dummy Fairy, who collects them from beneath pillows to give to newborn babies who need them more than three-year-olds. And she’s not up for the idea AT ALL, despite the promise of payment/presents.

Bonnie never wanted a dummy for day-time, just for bedtime and car journeys. But since I told her that when she’s officially A Grown-Up Girl, the dummies have to go, she’s become stubbornly attached to them. Tantrums usually end up with her demanding one (and go on for ages when she’s told ‘no’). Her behaviour in the car is completely dictated by whether there’s a dummy available. I’ve tried withdrawal, but I’m just too tired, impatient and weak-willed to try to beat the looming birthday deadline.

Are girls more stubborn than boys, or is this just an inevitable stand-off between the females of the house?

 

 

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For those about to face the academy steamroller

I FEEL for the parents, staff and pupils of Weston Favell School. I really do. I’m sure my fellow parents of Malcolm Arnold-nee-Unity-nee-Trinity pupils do too.

For the last few years, we watched the chaos and disruption wreaked by the Academy steamroller as it did/didn’t/did turn our state secondary school in a disadvantaged, urban catchment area into, well, a school with a new head, a name and new uniform.

Now Weston Favell is going through the same débâcle, as its potential sponsors are named. At least Weston parents are being told straight-up: “You don’t have a choice about this, other than to state a preference for a sponsor.”

Organisations on the sponsor list include The David Ross Foundation, which already sponsors The Malcolm Arnold Academy and another in Grimsby, and E-ACT, whose director general, one-time Northampton School for Boys head Bruce Liddington, also wants to set up a “free school” east of the town. Other potential sponsors are Greenwood Dale School in Nottingham, Barnfield College, Bedford College, Hanover Foundation, Ormiston Trust, Priory Federation of Academies and ARK Schools.

Weston, by all accounts, seemed to be improving of late under their new head Betty Hasler, who told parents last week: “There is no choice not to be an academy. The Department of Education has made it very clear that we cannot stay as we are and if we do not choose are own sponsor then the Government will make the choice for us.”

Similarly, Unity’s previous head Mrs Gwynne had been well-liked and had started to turn the school around. But becoming a ‘new’ academy means a new headteacher is non-negotiable. I’m sure someone will correct me if I’m wrong, but this means Ms Hasler could be getting the boot(if she hadn’t already announced her intention to jump ship).

When Unity/Trinity became Malcolm Arnold Academy in September, I wrote that I would reserve judgement until the school had a chance to settle down. I’m nervously and impatiently standing by that statement.

After all, how do we parents really know what’s going on? We chuck our children through the gates, remind them about homework, wash their sports kit and and hope for the best. I get no feedback from my son who is 13 and only grunts.

At first, many promises were made. Malcolm Arnold Academy, under the David Ross Foundation , vowed to have a well-staffed school with better discipline and beneficial links with public schools.

We were also to be a music and maths specialist, but as far as I’m aware, the school still has no Head of Music (job adverts had stated the position would start in January, five months after the school opened). What I do hear, from fellow parents and staff, is that very little has really changed. There’s still a lack of consistency in teaching and discipline.

There are, however, new opportunities. Our usually mono-syllabic first-born used his gift of the gab to win the chance to have a tour of the Olympic stadium site and visit Mayor Boris at his London HQ. Apparently David Ross won the trip for a handful of his academy students in a charity raffle! Jed’s playing hockey – which he loves – thanks to the efforts of staff who have done a deal with Thomas Becket to share training. This week he went to the theatre to watch Private Peaceful. He’s also taking part in a schools competition to stage a mock Magistrate’s Court trial. All these things make his younger brother, who got into the over-subscribed Northampton School for Boys, green with envy.

The only advice I have for Weston’s anxious parents is: Don’t panic. Yes, it’s a pain to have your child’s education fiddled with at every turn. No, there’s not a lot you can do about it. All we can ever do as parents is to hope that the school does its absolute best to give your child every opportunity to fulfil his or her potential, and that we as parents find the time/money/enthusiasm to support them.

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How to get your toilet clean(ish)

AS the dynamics and discussions have changed with the older boys, so the levels of chastisement have had to alter too.

Our younger two hate being separated from the action. But let’s face it, teenage boys don’t mind at all if you send them to their rooms. That’s where their stuff is (mostly on the floor) and where they can text to their hearts’ content.

One thing that all of them dread is being separated from the real love of their lives – various video game consoles. If you really want them to suffer, take away access to the PSPs, the DSIs, ban Xbox and Wii usage and you suddenly see a change of heart. But you have to follow through with the threats.

Last week, for various different misdemeanours, Billy, Dougie and Jed were all barred from the Xbox on Saturday morning (they aren’t allowed on it on school nights). This was so painful for them, they begged to be allowed to ‘earn back’ their Xbox rights throughout the week.

By Friday night, they’d done the dishwasher several times, sorted and folded several loads of washing, swept the kitchen floor, emptied the car of rubbish, and, get this, cleaned the toilets.

It sounds terrible, but I almost want them to misbehave again this week. . .

 

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Seeing your children turn into teens can be as baffling as having a newborn

THINGS have changed recently in our house. The basic dynamic of The Parent is Always Right is not as cut and dried as it used to be.

There are always small changes in a house where a new sibling has arrived every couple of years or so, but while they are all aged under ten(ish), the rule of Don’t Do What I Do, Do What I Say has kept things on an even, albeit not very democratic, keel.

Now we have a teenager in the house, and another racing to leave pre-teendom behind, it’s getting trickier.

The elder two get more independence, which the younger two feel is unfair, even though they still want their noses wiped and their laces tied.

The elder two are also expected to increase their contribution to the basic running of the household chores, at the same time that their age means they find it impossible to have any control over their own clothing or belongings. They simply all end up on the floor. Even when the washing basket, school bags or dustbins are within an arm’s length of where their ‘stuff’ ends up.

Add to that the need for more frequent washing, the increase in homework, the addition of girlfriends-you’ve-never-met and the creeping introduction of not-telling-your-parents-the-whole-truth-and-nothing-but-the-truth, and your carefully honed practical parenting skills go out of the window.

In short, seeing your children turn into teens can be as baffling as having a newborn. But the biggest difference between the two stages of development is that you can actually remember being a teenager yourself.

Without wishing to stereotype all teenage boys into the roles of Harry Enfield and Kathy Burke’s Kevin and Perry, it does catch you unawares when your previously inoffensive child turns 13 and inexplicably starts to rudely answer back, or spin an elaborate web of lies to cover up something they knew full well wasn’t allowed.
After the initial incredulity, and the inevitable angry counter retorts, you have to remind yourself that most of the time, they barely realise they are doing it. Getting into a screaming match with a 13 year old just because they muttered and back-chatted about still having a set bed-time isn’t very adult – as Bloke, the much calmer parent, frequently reminds me after the event.

It’s easier with little ones, really, it is. If they are rude to you, usually a cross look and “manners!” will do the trick, or at worst, sending them to their room or withholding privileges. It usually all ends, at the worst, with teary hugs and apologies.

It must be difficult being the eldest and having to go through the teen years first, not only because you haven’t had the advantage of seeing someone else get caught, but because your parents haven’t a clue how to react either.
I promised I wouldn’t embarrass him too much in these columns, but I recently found out the real reason our eldest had been volunteering to cycle to school. It was so he could wait until we’d left so he could wear his non-regulation Converse baseball boots to school instead of the boring black slips-ons he’s already kicked to bits.
My fury wasn’t actually about the boots, it was about the subterfuge. Plus the Big Fat Lie he told a teacher about how his school shoes had holes in, implying we hadn’t bothered to replace them. The shame.
It seems innocuous, but what I struggle with my growing boys is the ease of the lie. I truly find it painful when they fib to me. I’ve always told them that they’ll be in more trouble for the lie than for the original wrong-doing.
Yet I know I’m lying to myself for thinking that my kids won’t be just as devious as I was. After all, at Jed’s age, as soon as I got on the school bus I would flick the brace on my teeth into my pocket and swap my clumpy school shoes for the black suede, paisley-patterned, pointy stilettos that I’d hidden in my bag and which were definitely not allowed.

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Is the six-month wean too mean?

WHEN is the right time to start weaning your baby on to solid foods? Well, if you get your advice from the media, who knows?

I found myself shouting at the telly again this week. This time about the mish-mash of mis-information being chucked around about feeding new babies. Badly-headlined bulletins about how long you should breastfeed have confused the real issue – when to wean.

The “research” that prods news organisations into publishing health information comes thick and fast, and most of it flies under the radar.

But last week one report was picked up because it contradicted the advice of NHS health visitors, who have been under orders to encourage breast-feeding – and breast-feeding alone – for the first six months of a child’s life, before introducing solids. This six-month-rule was doing the rounds almost three years ago when I had Bonnie. But the ‘newest’ report said to do so was detrimental to the health of the baby, sending new mums into a tail spin. Some of them mentioned that the authors of the report had previously received funding from baby food companies. Oooh, conspiracy!

I ‘dual-fed’ all my kids. By this, I mean I breast-fed exclusively for the first couple of weeks or so, then introduced the odd bottle of formula so Bloke could do some feeds and so we could go out without always having to find somewhere for me to discreetly flop out a boob. I still breast-fed 90 per cent of the time for at least the first six months.

Then at around four months for each of them, despite the ever-changing advice, I started adding solid food – if you can call sloppy baby porridge solid. None of our kids have any allergies and they all seem pretty healthy, so far.

As a new parent, you already get a plethora of information from health professionals, books, internet forums and well-meaning relatives. And most of it is muddled. You always feel like you’re doing something wrong.

So who do you trust? Well, yourself. Hard, I know, when you haven’t slept properly for months and everyone else is a ruddy expert.

You have to trust your instincts. It’s not exactly science, but it seems to have worked for trillions of mothers for billions of years.

When our boys, now aged 13, 11 and 7, were babies, the advice was to wean – start giving them solids – at around four months. My own mum will tell you that when she was a new mother, it was three months or even earlier. The advice changed to six months for Bonnie, but I ignored it.

Starting them on solids is not an exact science. Firstly, four-month-olds don’t usually sit up by themselves. When you prop them up in a high-chair stuffed with cushions, it’s not long before they start slumping one way or the other. But as long as they can hold their head up and are willing to slurp from a spoon, you should both soon get the hang of it.

It’s a messy business, (from both ends) but you should find that a few spoons of liquid porridge or pureed fruit will make the difference to their sleep patterns too. My lot really started to sleep through the night once on solids.

There’s a certain amount of experimentation that has to be done. You may find strapping them into a portable car seat or lie-back chair is the best position for feeding. My lot couldn’t stand baby rice (not terribly surprising, as it tastes disgusting), and refused just about everything I cooked and pureed myself.

However they were all quite partial to a shop-bought organic pot of dribbly carrot. The one that stains everything it touches forever. Banana bashed into oblivion and mixed with a splash of baby milk went down well (but be warned, it produces toxic nappies). Tiny pots of fromage frais are useful to try.

Baby food didn’t have to be heated in our house, in fact, I think if you start weaning on cold foods they’ll eat anything, rather than expecting food to be warm. An exception is Weetabix and rusks, which need warm milk to get slushy enough for them to swallow.

You may find they refuse a spoon but will accept a clean finger dunked in mush. This is fine, because you don’t give them much at first. A few tiny spoons once a day at first is all they can manage. And keep up the milk feeds because this is where they get most of their nutrients and hydration. If they don’t like solids, stop, and try again next week.

If you only feed a single food type at a time, you have more chance of finding out if they do have any allergies, rather than swapping the type of solids every day and having to go through a lengthy process of elimination.

While my lot were all greedy enough to accept food from any source at around four months, I know other babies who refused any attempt to feed them anything other than milk until six months and beyond. You know when the time is right, because if they don’t want it, they won’t take it.

I’d take all the advice, and that probably includes mine, with a pinch of salt (but make sure you don’t add any to the baby food. . .)

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Letting the old bitch out for a daily walk

IT’S not really a New Year’s Resolution, more a necessity to stop my gammy fat knees becoming arthritic, but I’ve started a daily walking routine.

I know, I know, you’ve heard all this before. Last time it was the running in the summer, before that years and years of gym memberships.

Racecourse dragon

But the grinding of cartilage under my kneecap is serious. The walking routine has to be kept up, and means a change in the family dynamic. Mum must be given half an hour every day to go for a walk. However, sometimes lack of babysitters means I have to take a walking buddy. And we don’t have dog (despite constant nagging from the offspring).

Bonnie is really doesn’t like being confined to the buggy but I can bribe her around the Racecourse now with a promise that we’ll visit the dragon at the end. The councils get a lot of flack for their decisions but for once they deserve praise – for the dragon play area at the, ahem, less salubrious end of the park is really looking, well, like a dragon. And for those of us needing exercise, racing up and down the steep humps after a toddler is as tough as circuit training. . .

PS – This is my 100th post. Don’t say I never stick at anything.

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Probably the worse record ever made, and it’s about Northampton

IT’S an underused, under-publicised and under-rated resource and probably in line for cost-cutting, but I love Northampton Museum and Art Gallery.

We don’t go often enough. We aren’t one of those families who go to all the Toddlers’ Afternoons, where you can make things with your under-fives. Upcoming events include a chance to make Chinese Lanterns on January 27, a Spanish Fan on March 3, or the ambitious-sounding Native American Wigwam workshop on March 31.

No, I go with the kids maybe two or three times a year when we find ourselves in town at a loose end. You should go, (it’s opposite the theatres) it’s warm, and interesting, and free!

I expect most Northamptonians haven’t been since being dragged there on a school trip, and I dare say much of it may not have changed since. While a lot of exhibits seem unchanged for decades, there is always something new every time we visit.

We’ve been going since the older boys were babies. They’ll tell you all about the Elephant Boot in the Shoe Museum part. All our kids have played with the shoe shiner and the twirly thing, where you spin sections of a cube to give different heads, outfits and shoes.

They have been through the weird and wonderful top floor, which features the history of Northampton, including a bit where you sit in a tunnel-that’s-not-a-tunnel watching a small flicking orange light, listening to the story of the Great Fire of Northampton. The floor ends with a bizarre corporation video extolling the virtues of 80s (or is it 70s?) Northampton with the kitsch ‘pop single’ called Sixty Miles by Road or Rail playing as the finale. It’s so bad it’s brilliant. You’ll see what I mean here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W52nq58OYsU

The museum is tragically under-publicised. Recently, Billy was most excited on a random visit to see football boots worn by the likes of David Beckham and Gary Lineker. There’s currently shoe exhibits from top sportsmen, including Roger Federer whose feet are HUGE. But disappointingly, they don’t say what size the shoes are, which I found strangely frustrating.

The museum might be known for its massive, historic collection of shoes, including very modern Blaniks and Westwoods, but it’s the rest that keeps me coming back.

The art gallery – and it does belong to you, the people – has an extraordinary collection that, let’s face it, most of us ignore and our children will never see. It needs to change.

The gallery currently has an exhibition called Big, Bold and Bizarre, running until February 27, and I urge you to drop in, as Billy, Bonnie and I did this week. The first thing to catch the kids’ eye – aside from the textile-covered lion and a kids’ drawing table – was a large oil painting at the end. “There’s Hairy Alan Moore,” said Billy, casually referring to someone he knows as a family friend, rather than a world-famous graphic novelist.

It’s a small exhibition covering everything from contemporary modern art to busts of the Fermors from Easton Neston, dating from 1658. My personal favourite is a picture of a metal door and lock, in such incredible detail I stared and stared, until Baby Bonnie decided she’d like to start drawing on the walls rather than the paper provided.

It’s not ideal to go to a museum with small children (unless yours are considerably better behaved than mine) if all want to do is read every description and explanation. But nevertheless, it’s worth going back and back again for short visits.

The curators obviously make an effort to keep coming up with innovative ways of keeping at least part of it fresh, and it desperately needs its own detailed website to show just how much treasure we have in this town. We must keep visiting or it will be lost to our own children forever. How can we deny them their own history?

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