Parents' evening

It is that time of year again when we get the letter from school inviting us to the a parents’ evening. I spend the weeks leading up to it, reminding my husband of the date and time to make sure he can come along with me. With two days to go, I issue the final reminder. “You have remembered the parents’ evening on Thursday haven’t you?.” He replies, “It isn’t in my diary. You could have given me some warning.”

We have been given early evening slots so the schedule is accelerated to ensure that tea, baths and homework are complete by the time Granny arrives to babysit. Eager to be on time and to avoid a black mark for tardiness, we climb into the car. As we pull out of the drive, I glance down to see a pair of half chewed furry slippers on my feet. We reverse and I make a mad dash back into the house to find a half decent pair of shoes.

Thankfully, we arrive in good time and wait outside the classroom. I feel a bit like I am waiting to go into a job interview, although worse. Someone was about to talk to us about our two precious angels. “We must ask some sensible questions,” I tell my husband. “Like is he able to tie his shoe laces by himself in PE?” he says. We shuffle in cheerily and perch on a couple of tiny chairs in front of the two teachers. I pity them having to handle such sensitive interviewees. They tell us our four-year-old is a bit quiet. For those regular readers of this column, you might understand why this came as a bit of a surprise. We were utterly relieved as he is the classic middle child – llively and on some occasions tests us to our limits.

We move on to our daughter’s classroom and begin to relax. Afterall, an eldest child, particularly one with two small siblings, tends to be fairly sensible and grown-up. In our daughter’s case, even at the age of five, she takes life and education very seriously. She had also cleverly instructed me that on entering the classroom, I was to tell her teacher how much she loves school. A good tactic to use on parents’ evening.

We arrive home exhausted to find the four-year-old tearing around the house shrieking in delight as he pulls the Baby along behind him on a piece of elastic. If only we could have a taste of that quiet little school boy at home!

Punk or princess

A few weeks ago we went to our friend’s 40th birthday party. The theme was Punks and Princesses. I usually dread dressing up parties and make a feeble attempt at wearing the odd themed item. However, my husband loves fancy dress and on one of the first occasions we went out together, I remember him turning up in a gold, leather, Flash Gordon suit. On the odd occasion, he wore ‘Flash’, as it was known, even when we were not even asked to wear fancy dress!

Unfortunately, Flash did not really fit the bill, so we went off to a Fancy Dress shop in Semley, which is a hidden treasure trove of fancy dress costumes of all description. Once fully ‘punked up’, we began to get quite excited, not only about going out which is a rare treat with three small children, but also about the prospect of dressing up in some extreme garments. When the evening arrived, we had great fun getting ready. My husband had us rolling around on the floor laughing, as he appeared dressed in a ripped denim waistcoat, jeans and a black leather hat with a gold chain on it. I wore a black net mini skirt, psychedelic pink netted top, a pink spikey wig, studded jewellery, topped off with black lipstick and an awful lot of eye liner.

My daughter, who was busy upstairs putting her Baby Annabel to bed, suddenly appeared in the doorway. Her little face said it all. She stared, wide-eyed at us with her jaw dropped. What had her parents become? Obviously she was used to her and her brothers dressing up, but punks had never featured amongst the fairy, pirate and Snow White outfits. We were laughing, attempting to make light of the situation, but she wasn’t. “Mummy, you are naughty,” she said. “I really don’t think you should go out like that.” The tables had turned and I was being given a dressing down by my five-year-old over my appearance. As we left, singing, “In the Navy,” due to my husband looking more ‘Village People’ than punk, she stood at the doorway in her pink, spotty nightie, utterly horrified that her parents were daring to go out in public dressed like that.

When we arrived, the pub was full of friends from all over the village dressed in an impressive assortment of punks or princess costumes, all revelling in their rare fancy dress moment. A friend said that her son had been utterly bemused, and totally shocked when he came downstairs to find Daddy in the sitting room, dressed in a long, black velvet dress and a pearl choker. He promptly turned and headed back up the stairs, trying to eliminate this vision of his father, the strong, skillful cabinet maker turned elegant princess, from his mind. This was a great occasion for parents to raid the dressing up box and we loved every minute of it, but perhaps next time we do need to prepare our children, to avoid any long-term psychological damage.

Trick or treat

My only experience of trick or treating to date was lying on the floor of our house in London with the lights off and the curtains drawn, whilst teenage boys shouted “Trick or treat. We know you’re in there,” through the letterbox. Last week, after much persuasion, I agreed to embark on a trick or treat crawl to neighbouring houses. I dashed to Woolworths and stocked up on three costumes and some essential tricks in the form of party poppers.

Having not taken part in Halloween for years, I was a bit rusty on the whole trick or treat etiquette. I chatted to a few friends and learnt that it was best practice to call a few neighbours in advance. I duly phoned and pre-booked our slots.

We invited some friends to join us, as admittedly I was reluctant to roam around the lanes in the dark with three small children. The children could barely contain themselves as they dressed up and The Baby was utterly bemused, wondering why he was going out in the dark, strapped into the buggy dressed as a small skeleton. It was only then I realised we had no torch, except for the pen-sized one my friend kept in her handbag. After an SOS call to my mother, she arrived with a large torch and we set off into the darkness. It was certainly scary steering six children and a pushchair down the road, regularly diving onto the verge to avoid cars rushing home from work. As we approached our first stop, my son tripped over the kerb, falling flat on his monster’s mask. We arrived on the doorstep with him and The Baby screaming - now traumatised by the whole dark experience. Our lovely neighbour held out a large basket of treats. I was mortified as my children enthusiastically grabbed a handful. I had also forgotten to brief them about the etiquette of trick or treating.

At the next house, two of the children yelled outside the front door as their beloved costumes got caught on a nearby rose bush. Once untangled, our neighbours kindly asked us in and presented the children with a bag of goodies, and us mothers with a perfectly timed glass of red. I almost drained it in one as I watched The Baby clamber onto a smart sofa to munch his way through a packet of chocolate buttons. As if that wasn’t enough, my friends’s little boy suddenly said, “This is boring.” It was time to move on and we broke into a jog for the last couple of houses.

We arrived back with a gaggle of exhausted children in tow. It all ended with the children squabbling over the treats, my son crying at not being able to try out a trick and The Baby almost choking on a chewy eyeball.

Going to church

In the days before children, I remember going to church one Sunday and sitting behind a young family, with three small children much the same ages as ours. I watched as they wriggled around whilst their parents desperately tried to keep them under control during the service. The poor mother was utterly horrified when she discovered their small son chewing a piece of gum that he had clearly found stuck under his pew. At the closing hymn, the parents looked genuinely joyful as they bellowed out the words, looking at each other in relief that they only had to endure another few minutes before they could release their children from the church. For me, as an onlooker, it was all fairly amusing.

A few weekends ago, I took the children to church and by the end of it, I was certainly not amused. We arrived promptly, to allow for parking the buggy in a suitably safe location. I confidently directed the children to the second pew from the front, believing it to be important for them to see what is going on. We were of course now in full view of the rest of the congregation. Thankfully, we were diluted by our friends with their three small children who shuffled into the pew behind us. We were kindly offered ‘Busy Bags,’ full of wonderful small, silent distractions for the children, which I politely declined on the basis that I wanted them to concentrate on being in church – a decision I was later going to regret.

For the first fifteen minutes I stood proudly with my little brood quietly nestled around me. It was The Baby who began to get twitchy first. He started wriggling on my knee, decided he wanted to get down and then crawl along the pew. He shouted out, “Ma Ma. Look,” as only a toddler can who has not yet learnt the art of whispering. Predictably this was followed by him hitting his head. There was the silent pause as his small mouth opened and the rip roaring scream erupted which I desperately tried to smother in my jumper. Meanwhile, the other two children had embarked on a loud religious discussion. “God is everywhere,” said my daughter. “He is even in your eye,” added my son. I desperately attempted to sssssh everyone, bribing them with biscuits afterwards. My son then said he needed the loo. In full view of everyone, I shuffled out and strolled down the aisle to the back of the church, with The Baby under my arm. We returned to our seats for some prayers and just as we were silently thinking about our own intentions, my son asked loudly, “Is God going to give us the biscuits soon?” I felt hot and vey flustered. As the vicar told us to “Go in Peace,” I could not hold back and cried out, “Thanks be to God.”

Fluffy

This week, after much pressure from my five-year-old daughter, I feel obliged to dedicate this column to Fluffy. Fluffy is my daughter’s class hamster. Our family has spent much time over the past five weeks talking of little else. We have discussed what she eats, what she likes to play with and how she is feeling each day.

As a parent, I have a lot to thank Fluffy for. My daughter has never had such a happier term at school. We only have to mention Fluffy’s name at breakfast, and a smile breaks out across her face. Her ‘hamster’ vocabulary has been impressively enhanced and her spellings of words such as “saw-dust,” “gnaw” and “rodent” are near perfect.

When she gets into the car after school, I ask, “How was school?” The response used to be something along the lines of, “Alice has crisps in her lunchbox. Can I have crisps tomorrow?” Now, when I ask, more often than not, the response is, “Fluffy wasn’t very keen on playing on her wheel today.” In fact, I gather each day the children sit down for “Fluffy circle time” when they have the opportunity to look closely at Fluffy and chat about her. They have learnt to recognise when she is tired, be considerate to her and to be gentle. She also has a role to play in science lessons and was most recently placed next to a teddy bear, to demonstrate things that are dead or alive. Fluffy also needs plenty of toys, and quite apart from her very own hamster motorbike, she also relies on the children to bring in loo paper rolls. My daughter has taken this very seriously and I have found mounds of loo paper lying on the floor, which she has unravelled from around the cardboard.

As most of us know, hamsters are not blessed with a long and fruitful life. I asked my daughter’s teacher about this and how the children might cope with Fluffy disappearing over night. To my relief, the class teaching assistant also has a hamster called Mr Darcy who looks identical to Fluffy, and apparently he is willing to move into Fluffy’s cage at short notice if necessary.

Thanks to Fluffy, I am no longer under constant pressure to get a hamster, guinea pig or rabbit, something I have resisted for years on the grounds that border terrorists and small pets such as these do not gel well. Our knowledge of hamsters is now extensive but I am delighted that Fluffy (or Mr Darcy!) is confined to a corner of the school classroom and according to my daughter is a very important 22nd member of Year 1.