It is about this time of the year, when I am frequently asked, “What are you doing in the Summer Holidays?” In the middle of April, this question immediately stresses me out. I have just about coped with 17 days of Easter holidays, but the thought of 42 days of Summer holidays fills me with total panic. In fact, put like that, Easter is just a warm up – a rehearsal for the long stretch that will hit us all at the end of July.
As usual, we have left it to the last minute, despite saying to ourselves year after year that we will get our acts together earlier. Finally, as I stood shoulder to shoulder with other mothers discussing holidays in the playground last week, I felt compelled to set my mind to the task. As always, the difficulty is finding one that bridges the gap between what parents would call a holiday, versus what a six, four and two year-old would call a holiday.
I gave up on the idea of sitting in the local travel agent leafing through brochures, after The Toddler decided to join in, resulting in a whole row of Safari holiday brochures toppling down from the shelves around him. It was now all down to The Internet with The Toddler parked in front of an extended episode of Balamory.
My husband and the children’s fist choice is camping, one that fills me with dread. However, last year I made the fatal mistake of saying to my husband (and printing in a Family Ties article) that I would not consider a camping holiday, “on the grounds that camping and nappy changing do not go hand in hand.” Now that The Toddler is fully ‘potted’, I have no excuse so camping is back on the agenda. I made a feeble attempt to ‘google’ a few campsites, but promptly gave up when I stumbled upon a website containing a whole blog of unhappy campers’ feedback, from talk of rats to dangerous caterpillars! This prompted me to switch to my ideal family holiday, involving sun, sea, pool, beach and some very nice friendly kids clubs nearby.
Meanwhile, my husband persisted with his investigation of the perfect camping holiday, refusing to believe any of the negative feedback, swiftly labelling them all as, “amateur campers.” It soon turned into a race. We sat in bed with our laptops on our laps, surfing like mad into the early hours, utterly determined to find the perfect option. Unfortunately, my perfect holiday stumbled at the first hurdle when we realised that camping was a fifth of the price. I had lost and had to submit to the idea of joining the merry camping fraternity, water slides, kids entertainers and the rest. Thankfully, my husband did compromise on sleeping under canvas and has booked us into a static mobile home. “It will be great,” he says and then adds, excitedly, “It’s even got decking!”
Friday, 2 May 2008
Friday, 25 April 2008
The glasses gang
Our four-year-old son has been told he must wear glasses. I was surprised and if I am being honest, tried everything I could to try and avoid this, including whispering a few letters at him during the eye test. I know what you are thinking – what kind of mother would cheat to avoid her son wearing glasses? For the simple reason that I have a small boy that can barely sit still for a minute, cannot go anywhere without breaking into an Olympic-style sprint and must climb every wall he finds, preferably with a small plastic firearm in his back pocket. The glasses would never stand a chance.
The optician told him that if he wears the glasses all the time he would probably only have to wear them until he was seven. This did not register and as far as he was concerned aged seven was far too many Christmases away. The man then reminded my son that Harry Potter wears glasses, expecting him to enthusiastically reach for the nearest pair of national health specs. My son just sat in silence looking out of the window. On the way home, a small voice from the back seat said, “Harry Potter is NOT cool.” I could see his point.
I was in for a long battle. He was adamant that a pair of glasses would never perch on his small button nose. I fired off a few SOS e-mails to the family searching for some tips. My sister-in-law replied swiftly, with a step-by-step guide to dealing with the situation. Given she wore blue rimmed national health glasses as a child she had sound advice. She said we should all start wearing glasses around him at home. This was fine for my husband who abandoned his contact lenses and wandered around in his reading glasses. However, I did look a little ridiculous cooking ‘spag bol’ in my dark, Jackie O style sunglasses.
One day, all ‘glassed-up’, we made a special family trip to the optician to choose the frames. Once chosen, we spent the next few days continuing with our promotion of glasses, even forming a Glasses Gang which he and his two best friends who also wear glasses could be part of. However, he was unenthusiastic. That was until he arrived back from school one day and said, “Mummy, I urgently need my glasses.” Eventually, I got to the bottom of his sudden change of heart. His teacher had asked him to sit in the front of the class until his glasses arrived, when he could return to the back. Where bribery, Harry Potter and even my Jackie Os failed, thanks to his teacher’s very sound move, he is now a firm member of The Glasses Gang.
The optician told him that if he wears the glasses all the time he would probably only have to wear them until he was seven. This did not register and as far as he was concerned aged seven was far too many Christmases away. The man then reminded my son that Harry Potter wears glasses, expecting him to enthusiastically reach for the nearest pair of national health specs. My son just sat in silence looking out of the window. On the way home, a small voice from the back seat said, “Harry Potter is NOT cool.” I could see his point.
I was in for a long battle. He was adamant that a pair of glasses would never perch on his small button nose. I fired off a few SOS e-mails to the family searching for some tips. My sister-in-law replied swiftly, with a step-by-step guide to dealing with the situation. Given she wore blue rimmed national health glasses as a child she had sound advice. She said we should all start wearing glasses around him at home. This was fine for my husband who abandoned his contact lenses and wandered around in his reading glasses. However, I did look a little ridiculous cooking ‘spag bol’ in my dark, Jackie O style sunglasses.
One day, all ‘glassed-up’, we made a special family trip to the optician to choose the frames. Once chosen, we spent the next few days continuing with our promotion of glasses, even forming a Glasses Gang which he and his two best friends who also wear glasses could be part of. However, he was unenthusiastic. That was until he arrived back from school one day and said, “Mummy, I urgently need my glasses.” Eventually, I got to the bottom of his sudden change of heart. His teacher had asked him to sit in the front of the class until his glasses arrived, when he could return to the back. Where bribery, Harry Potter and even my Jackie Os failed, thanks to his teacher’s very sound move, he is now a firm member of The Glasses Gang.
Friday, 18 April 2008
The experiment
Last night, I poured myself a glass of wine. You might think this is fairly normal practice, particularly after a long day with three twittering starlings in tow. However, I have been on a booze-free challenge for the past five months.
It was not something I planned. It just happened quite by default and once I began my journey on the ‘dry road’, one thing led to another and before I knew it I had abstained for 150 days. It became an experiment to see how long I could last and what the benefits would be. The first challenge was how I would substitute my much-loved evening glass of wine. At first, I tried iced water but this simply did not have the same kick. I then trialled Elderflower but found it too sweet. Finally, I settled on Diet Coke, a drink that I had survived on as a student, alongside pints of cider and blackcurrant, of course.
The results of the drink-free experiment have been varied. I certainly felt a great deal fresher in the mornings. I could easily cope with the children’s 6.30am rises and sprung out of bed, rather than waking crossly and pleading with them for five more minutes. I have even managed to keep my cool on the odd midnight calls for water calmly getting up to fill their cups, rather than shouting from my pillow for them to go back to sleep. The children have greatly benefited from my new- found energy, patience and the odd enthusiasm – enough so to even allow a few hand painting sessions at the kitchen table.
However, at 7.15pm when the children are in bed, the click of a coke can does not have quite the same effect as the pop of a cork. I have also missed the odd night in the pub as it just isn’t the same drinking a ‘softie’ perched on a bar stool. Most interesting though is how much quieter our social life became with fewer invitations for supper. Our sober company is clearly not as enticing. On the odd evening we have been out, I have spent a good deal of time convincing the hosts that I am neither pregnant nor a recovering alcoholic.
Thankfully, my experiment has come to an end. Again, not planned, but after a particularly stressful day with The Toddler, coupled with the late evening sun setting over the fields I found myself reaching for a chilled bottle of white from the fridge. It is good to be back.
It was not something I planned. It just happened quite by default and once I began my journey on the ‘dry road’, one thing led to another and before I knew it I had abstained for 150 days. It became an experiment to see how long I could last and what the benefits would be. The first challenge was how I would substitute my much-loved evening glass of wine. At first, I tried iced water but this simply did not have the same kick. I then trialled Elderflower but found it too sweet. Finally, I settled on Diet Coke, a drink that I had survived on as a student, alongside pints of cider and blackcurrant, of course.
The results of the drink-free experiment have been varied. I certainly felt a great deal fresher in the mornings. I could easily cope with the children’s 6.30am rises and sprung out of bed, rather than waking crossly and pleading with them for five more minutes. I have even managed to keep my cool on the odd midnight calls for water calmly getting up to fill their cups, rather than shouting from my pillow for them to go back to sleep. The children have greatly benefited from my new- found energy, patience and the odd enthusiasm – enough so to even allow a few hand painting sessions at the kitchen table.
However, at 7.15pm when the children are in bed, the click of a coke can does not have quite the same effect as the pop of a cork. I have also missed the odd night in the pub as it just isn’t the same drinking a ‘softie’ perched on a bar stool. Most interesting though is how much quieter our social life became with fewer invitations for supper. Our sober company is clearly not as enticing. On the odd evening we have been out, I have spent a good deal of time convincing the hosts that I am neither pregnant nor a recovering alcoholic.
Thankfully, my experiment has come to an end. Again, not planned, but after a particularly stressful day with The Toddler, coupled with the late evening sun setting over the fields I found myself reaching for a chilled bottle of white from the fridge. It is good to be back.
Friday, 11 April 2008
In The Night Garden
The Toddler is outraged, furious and in despair. The BBC has scrapped its evening transmission of the children’s programme, In The Night Garden, only showing an episode during the day. He is lost without it. And apparently he is not alone as more than 60 parents have recently signed a petition on the Facebook website calling for it to be reinstated.
One of The Toddler’s first words was, “Piggle.” It meant nothing to us but we cooed over how clever he was and misinterpreted it for ‘Cuddle’. It was my six-year-old daughter who one day said, “He is saying Iggle Piggle.” Iggle Piggle is the rather strange, blue main character from the programme. The next word he added to his vocabulary was, “Ninky Nonk.” This strange new language slightly worried me and prompted me to take a closer look.
In The Night Garden was created by Anne Wood and Andy Davenport who also wrote the successful Teletubbies. It took five years to make and cost £14.5 million. An astonishing 500,000 children sit downto watch the programme each day, mostly between the ages of 1 and 5 years. The Night Garden is supposed to be a place of safety and security for children, full of flowers and happy toys. Apparently it makes children feel secure and happy in a dream-like state between waking and sleeping. It certainly did just that. As I observed my children watching it, they seemed mesmirised by this strange world of psychedelic toy characters who seem to say nothing more than their own names. The programme reminded me of the 1970’s Magic Roundabout, but with more limited language. Apart from timid Iggle Piggle and his red blanket, other characters featured are Upsy Daisy who inflates her skirt to dance around squeaking, “Daisy doo” and the extraordinary Makka Pakka who has a love of stones and rides around on his ‘Og-pog’ carrying his ‘Uff-uff’ – need I say more.
The programme if full of rhymes and repetitive words, something that the creators say is critical for children’s development at this age. However, I am a little concerned about the Toddler repeatedly saying, Pip-pip, onk-onk’ instead of ‘Goodbye’. This was not the kind of English I wanted him to learn.
I gently probed my older two children on the programme’s appeal. “It is relaxing,” says the six-year-old. “It makes me sleepy,” adds the four-year-old. Well, perhaps I could overcome the language issue when it had this effect on them but In The ‘Day’ Garden was not quite so appealing. After much deliberation I joined the campaign on the Toddler’s behalf calling for the evening return of Iggle Piggle. However, last night I heard The Toddler chanting to himself in his cot. As I put my ear to the door, I was aghast to hear, “Makka Pakka, akka wakka, micka, makka, moo!”
One of The Toddler’s first words was, “Piggle.” It meant nothing to us but we cooed over how clever he was and misinterpreted it for ‘Cuddle’. It was my six-year-old daughter who one day said, “He is saying Iggle Piggle.” Iggle Piggle is the rather strange, blue main character from the programme. The next word he added to his vocabulary was, “Ninky Nonk.” This strange new language slightly worried me and prompted me to take a closer look.
In The Night Garden was created by Anne Wood and Andy Davenport who also wrote the successful Teletubbies. It took five years to make and cost £14.5 million. An astonishing 500,000 children sit downto watch the programme each day, mostly between the ages of 1 and 5 years. The Night Garden is supposed to be a place of safety and security for children, full of flowers and happy toys. Apparently it makes children feel secure and happy in a dream-like state between waking and sleeping. It certainly did just that. As I observed my children watching it, they seemed mesmirised by this strange world of psychedelic toy characters who seem to say nothing more than their own names. The programme reminded me of the 1970’s Magic Roundabout, but with more limited language. Apart from timid Iggle Piggle and his red blanket, other characters featured are Upsy Daisy who inflates her skirt to dance around squeaking, “Daisy doo” and the extraordinary Makka Pakka who has a love of stones and rides around on his ‘Og-pog’ carrying his ‘Uff-uff’ – need I say more.
The programme if full of rhymes and repetitive words, something that the creators say is critical for children’s development at this age. However, I am a little concerned about the Toddler repeatedly saying, Pip-pip, onk-onk’ instead of ‘Goodbye’. This was not the kind of English I wanted him to learn.
I gently probed my older two children on the programme’s appeal. “It is relaxing,” says the six-year-old. “It makes me sleepy,” adds the four-year-old. Well, perhaps I could overcome the language issue when it had this effect on them but In The ‘Day’ Garden was not quite so appealing. After much deliberation I joined the campaign on the Toddler’s behalf calling for the evening return of Iggle Piggle. However, last night I heard The Toddler chanting to himself in his cot. As I put my ear to the door, I was aghast to hear, “Makka Pakka, akka wakka, micka, makka, moo!”
Friday, 4 April 2008
Lesson learned
Over the last six years of parenthood, there have been good days and bad days. The good days occur when generally the following principles apply – the children are cold-free, well-rested, well-fed and well-exercised. However, in reality the bad days rear their head from time to time.
Yesterday was indeed one of those days. I should have guessed it was on its way, as there had been a few bad nights, one too many play-dates and it was raining. We had enjoyed a good six days without a tantrum and who was I to know that it was bubbling under the surfaces of the six, four and two-year old. At 5.30pm it was in full swing and, with my husband not due back for a further 24 hours, I was coming under pressure. I kept my cool for a while, but then realised that I was about to launch into my own tantrum, so I took the advice of Super Nanny and took ‘time out’, to give myself time to calm down. I left the tantrum trio scattered around the house and walked outside, giving the door a good slam behind me. I did several laps of the garden, glanced at the latest spring flowers and the world suddenly seemed brighter. I could still hear all the crying from outside, but I was calm enough for Round 2.
The back door is always a bit stiff and I wrestled with the handle. No joy. The latch had dropped down and I was locked out. Sudden panic hit me. It was getting dark, the children were locked inside with no windows open and my husband was away. What would the neighbours think of me leaving my three darlings inside to scream their little hearts out, only to lock myself in my garden at dusk. Images of social services arriving to question my parenting skills sprung to mind. “Stay calm and focused. I have to get myelf out of this,” I muttered to myself. I shouted through the lock and calmly told my six-year-old daughter what had happened. She instantly dissolved into yet more tears and ran up to her room – not terribly helpful but quite predictable for a damsel in distress. It was my four-year-old son who suddenly stepped up to the mark, once I told him that I was in need of a superhero. He took on the challenge and wrestled with a few locks around the house, while I shouted instructions to him through the letterbox. Eventually, after 40 minutes one lock relented, the door opened and I flung my arms around him with relief.
He stepped back and looked me in the eye. “Mummy, that was a very silly thing to do. I will have to speak to Daddy about this when he gets home.” I looked down at my feet in disgrace and whispered, “Sorry.”
Yesterday was indeed one of those days. I should have guessed it was on its way, as there had been a few bad nights, one too many play-dates and it was raining. We had enjoyed a good six days without a tantrum and who was I to know that it was bubbling under the surfaces of the six, four and two-year old. At 5.30pm it was in full swing and, with my husband not due back for a further 24 hours, I was coming under pressure. I kept my cool for a while, but then realised that I was about to launch into my own tantrum, so I took the advice of Super Nanny and took ‘time out’, to give myself time to calm down. I left the tantrum trio scattered around the house and walked outside, giving the door a good slam behind me. I did several laps of the garden, glanced at the latest spring flowers and the world suddenly seemed brighter. I could still hear all the crying from outside, but I was calm enough for Round 2.
The back door is always a bit stiff and I wrestled with the handle. No joy. The latch had dropped down and I was locked out. Sudden panic hit me. It was getting dark, the children were locked inside with no windows open and my husband was away. What would the neighbours think of me leaving my three darlings inside to scream their little hearts out, only to lock myself in my garden at dusk. Images of social services arriving to question my parenting skills sprung to mind. “Stay calm and focused. I have to get myelf out of this,” I muttered to myself. I shouted through the lock and calmly told my six-year-old daughter what had happened. She instantly dissolved into yet more tears and ran up to her room – not terribly helpful but quite predictable for a damsel in distress. It was my four-year-old son who suddenly stepped up to the mark, once I told him that I was in need of a superhero. He took on the challenge and wrestled with a few locks around the house, while I shouted instructions to him through the letterbox. Eventually, after 40 minutes one lock relented, the door opened and I flung my arms around him with relief.
He stepped back and looked me in the eye. “Mummy, that was a very silly thing to do. I will have to speak to Daddy about this when he gets home.” I looked down at my feet in disgrace and whispered, “Sorry.”
Friday, 28 March 2008
Swimming lessons
It is 4.15pm on Friday afternoon. We arrive at the childrens’ weekly swimming lesson late as usual. The children are tired after the long school week and the Toddler is furious at the prospect of being a spectator once again. The problem is swimming lessons are like gold dust. Like many others, we have spent months on a waiting list and when the phone rang with an offer of a place, albeit at the worst possible time, I had to grab it.
I try and drum up some enthusiasm as the children lag behind me with their swimming bags. The four-year-old has just woken from a deep sleep in the car and is adamant he will not be co-operating. Shoes and socks removed, we pad around the damp floor of the overheated changing rooms. I try not to think about the amount of other bare feet that have done the same thing that day. Five minutes late and £5 already wasted, I undress the children at record speed. On the poolside, it feels like we are entering a sauna and The Toddler and I are gradually overheating in our winter woollies. I am life guarding him and virtually pin him down as he periodically attempts to take a flying leap into the pool to join the others, or just cool down.
While on duty, my mind wanders back to when I learnt to swim. The swimming pool was never heated at school and we were forced to swim come rain or shine. With arm bands removed by my teacher, I began the mammoth task of doggy paddling across the pool, my head bent upwards to the sky to avoid gulpfuls of water. My teacher, wrapped in a warm parka, shouted, “Do not touch the bottom of the pool.” I remember wondering why anyone enjoys swimming and as a result, I have been put off it for life. My husband’s experience was even worse. He recalls being thrown in the pool and having to madly doggy paddle to the edge. At the point when he thought he would submit to the water and drown, he felt a tug on the back of his Speedos as the teacher hooked him up in the air above the water on a long pole.
So, why am I subjecting my children to the whole swimming lesson lark, when they are tired and hungry on a Friday afternoon. Because us parents have this strange distorted belief that the ability to swim, along with riding a bicycle, and playing a whole range of sport and musical instruments and all by the age of seven are all essential for our beloved super human children. Perhaps we would all benefit from spending our Friday afternoons sitting in front of the fire with a cup of cocoa, watching Jackanory.
I try and drum up some enthusiasm as the children lag behind me with their swimming bags. The four-year-old has just woken from a deep sleep in the car and is adamant he will not be co-operating. Shoes and socks removed, we pad around the damp floor of the overheated changing rooms. I try not to think about the amount of other bare feet that have done the same thing that day. Five minutes late and £5 already wasted, I undress the children at record speed. On the poolside, it feels like we are entering a sauna and The Toddler and I are gradually overheating in our winter woollies. I am life guarding him and virtually pin him down as he periodically attempts to take a flying leap into the pool to join the others, or just cool down.
While on duty, my mind wanders back to when I learnt to swim. The swimming pool was never heated at school and we were forced to swim come rain or shine. With arm bands removed by my teacher, I began the mammoth task of doggy paddling across the pool, my head bent upwards to the sky to avoid gulpfuls of water. My teacher, wrapped in a warm parka, shouted, “Do not touch the bottom of the pool.” I remember wondering why anyone enjoys swimming and as a result, I have been put off it for life. My husband’s experience was even worse. He recalls being thrown in the pool and having to madly doggy paddle to the edge. At the point when he thought he would submit to the water and drown, he felt a tug on the back of his Speedos as the teacher hooked him up in the air above the water on a long pole.
So, why am I subjecting my children to the whole swimming lesson lark, when they are tired and hungry on a Friday afternoon. Because us parents have this strange distorted belief that the ability to swim, along with riding a bicycle, and playing a whole range of sport and musical instruments and all by the age of seven are all essential for our beloved super human children. Perhaps we would all benefit from spending our Friday afternoons sitting in front of the fire with a cup of cocoa, watching Jackanory.
Friday, 21 March 2008
The Puppy
We are now fully relaxed and recuperated after our two-week holiday. The children are settled back into school and I have finally reached the bottom of the holiday washing basket. One evening, as I was flicking through my favourite sections of the Blackmore Vale, namely Property and Pets, I came across an advertisement for Black Labrador Puppies. Of course, these adverts are not uncommon but on this occasion I felt drawn to calling the number. Fatal, I hear you say.
We had been planning to get another dog for many months, to give Molly, our border terrorist, a sibling. However, a bit like waiting for your child to walk before planning a second one, my plan was to wait until The Toddler was potty trained before getting The Puppy. I would love to say that I have succeeded and have kissed goodbye to nappies for good, but sadly The Toddler relapsed during our two-week break, so we have had to start the long torturous process again. Now, I digress. Having enquired about the puppies, we went and saw them and within days were the proud, but slightly nervous owners of Clover, a nine-week-old black Labrador.
The children were thrilled although I suspect this will be short-lived, once her small teeth become even sharper and she is chewing into a beloved Spiderman slipper or some nice juicy Toddler toes. The border terrorist is also pretty pleased with her new companion and was happy to give up her bed beside the Aga within a day. She has also learnt to eat at double the pace in the fear that The Puppy will turn her attention to her bowl, in true Labrador style.
So, here I am potty training and rearing The Toddler and The Puppy side by side. In fact, my observations tell me that they are very similar and the same disciplining techniques are effective with both. With accidents, both are swiftly placed either on a potty or on the grass, the Toddler is reminded to say ‘Thank you’ when I put his plate in front of him, just as The Puppy has learnt to ‘Sit’ before hers and the same stern, serious voice is applied to both. However, I have had to train the Toddler not to chew on the small puppy bone that he discovered lying in the grass yesterday.
Many people have remarked, “How are you coping?” Well, the mop and bucket is now a permanent fixture in the corner of my kitchen and my arm muscles are firming up nicely, with the amount of ‘slooshing’ I am doing. My attitude is if I am housebound with The Toddler, I may as well throw a puppy into the mix. I know what you are thinking – the woman’s barking mad, and perhaps I am!
We had been planning to get another dog for many months, to give Molly, our border terrorist, a sibling. However, a bit like waiting for your child to walk before planning a second one, my plan was to wait until The Toddler was potty trained before getting The Puppy. I would love to say that I have succeeded and have kissed goodbye to nappies for good, but sadly The Toddler relapsed during our two-week break, so we have had to start the long torturous process again. Now, I digress. Having enquired about the puppies, we went and saw them and within days were the proud, but slightly nervous owners of Clover, a nine-week-old black Labrador.
The children were thrilled although I suspect this will be short-lived, once her small teeth become even sharper and she is chewing into a beloved Spiderman slipper or some nice juicy Toddler toes. The border terrorist is also pretty pleased with her new companion and was happy to give up her bed beside the Aga within a day. She has also learnt to eat at double the pace in the fear that The Puppy will turn her attention to her bowl, in true Labrador style.
So, here I am potty training and rearing The Toddler and The Puppy side by side. In fact, my observations tell me that they are very similar and the same disciplining techniques are effective with both. With accidents, both are swiftly placed either on a potty or on the grass, the Toddler is reminded to say ‘Thank you’ when I put his plate in front of him, just as The Puppy has learnt to ‘Sit’ before hers and the same stern, serious voice is applied to both. However, I have had to train the Toddler not to chew on the small puppy bone that he discovered lying in the grass yesterday.
Many people have remarked, “How are you coping?” Well, the mop and bucket is now a permanent fixture in the corner of my kitchen and my arm muscles are firming up nicely, with the amount of ‘slooshing’ I am doing. My attitude is if I am housebound with The Toddler, I may as well throw a puppy into the mix. I know what you are thinking – the woman’s barking mad, and perhaps I am!
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