Let's Hear it for the Boy

Well, it's all kicked off a bit on LinkedIn, hasn't it?

For those of you not on LinkedIn, the topic du jour that's causing people to lose their minds is the algorithm potentially (or definitely depending on who you listen to) prioritising male voices. So much so, that women have taken to changing their names from Lucy to Luke or the gender marker in their 'about' section from Lady to LadsLadsLads.

Like any social media platform, LinkedIn can be a pretty seductive place (and not in a sexy way - although I see plenty of posts where men are being called to account for treating the platform as a dating app); one where you get drawn into either an echo chamber where you're lauded in a way that would not happen at home, or you find yourself being OUTRAGED by people and articles that - whilst more refined than tabloid clickbait - certainly exist for the same reason.

Anyhow, this isn't going to be an examination of whether women's voices are being purposely silenced by nefarious forces or just not heard because we're less self-absorbed / proactive / provocative than men. There's plenty of others who are far more invested and educated in that topic. Rather, it's given me the opportunity to visit something that's on the mind of lots of parents of teenage boys - myself included - what their son's experience is of becoming a man.

In LinkedIn land, and particularly in DEI spaces where I often find myself, there's a sense that being a 'man's man' or a 'bloke' or someone who wants to provide for their family is regressive. Perhaps even a bit distasteful. I hear "Men need to step aside" "Women don't need 'looking after'" "The TV show Adolescence is a documentary that must be shown in schools....". And you'd better watch yourself if you're a woman who says publicly she'd be happy to stay at home while her husband's at work - controversial! 

Now the narratives we see are heavily influenced by our own browsing habits, connections and confirmation bias and as a result are incredibly one-sided. And I've noticed that what I read and hear in the corporate space is often far removed from what I see and hear in the infinitely more nuanced and varied outside world where my friends and family extends beyond 'professionals' and into a more representative group that includes men who are board directors, long-term unemployed, scientists, fork-lift drivers, accountants, window fitters and creatives. And teenage boys. And there's nothing like being in the presence of teenage boys to tell you what their life is like.

Happily for me, my 17 y/o is (relatively) happy to have a conversation. And definitely open to a lift back from a party which often provides me with more laughs than I can get at a comedy gig. Once he learns to drive I'm going to know a lot less for sure but what I have learned so far is that alongside all of our worries about the various bogeymen online who we'd all like to blame for collectively damaging our sons and daughters alike, we need to pay attention to what's going on at home.  

And what is going on at home? I know I speak from a place of privilege and good fortune (or, as one of my friends calls it - "Absolute Vanilla"). I am 25 yrs married and our son has grown up alongside his older sister in seeing a mum whose wings are not clipped and a dad that is around thanks to the 'joy' that is working from home. He speaks football with the fluency of a perfect pundit and can share that with his dad in a way that I can only hope to match with my knowledge of music which is a shared pursuit on those car journeys. With two forthright women in the house he also has to carve out a way in which to operate as a man amongst a monsoon of hormones whether he likes it or not.

Like all families, we experienced and were harmed by the absolute bin fire that was COVID but in an area where you could go for a walk without the neighbours all fucking spying on you and reporting you to someone with a clipboard. We weren't trapped in a flat. But it wasn't all board games and bread-making - while BoJo was having private parties, my mother died and the rules meant instead of visiting my disabled brother to tell him that the most important person in his world was gone, I had to explain it over TEAMS.... Through that period our son saw first hand that the man with the top job was distinctly lacking in moral fibre in a way that rode roughshod over some of the most vulnerable people in society. 

And when I look at it like that, I see our son's life has been coloured by men at all levels doing bad things. And yes, we have talked about Andrew Tate around the dinner table but let's not pretend that's the only type of 'role model' boys pay attention to and see. And let's not pretend that our boys think that our opinion is 'the law'. I read a great piece that said we need to ask our kids what they think and then just listen. It's the opposite of the tack that was taken at school where they had to participate in sessions which essentially told the boys that anything men like Tate or Yaxely-Lennon (for that is his name ;) ) had to say was wrong. No room to listen, no room to talk, no room to respectfully disagree or participate in debate. Boys should be told and not heard.

But listening is where we get to hear the interesting stuff. What's landing. What's appealing. What we can counter and what, perhaps, we need to make room for. Who is saying to boys that it's normal to want to look after your family? Or normal to aspire to have a comfortable lifestyle? Or normal to want to leap around at football like a lunatic? Or normal (if not desirable) to get caught up in trouble and learn from it?  If we know these things (and we know how the topic is being handled at school) we can have a conversation at home about how you can get what you want in a way that is ethical, doable and doesn't look down on aspirations that a lot of young people (despite what half of online media will tell you) actually have?

And what is striking is that a lot of the negative narrative about boys disregards and dismisses us as parents and families too. What are we telling our boys about the men in their lives that they love, look up to, respect or admire? Are they 'wrong' too? No. 

In speaking with friends who teach in primary schools, they tell me how when you ask very young children - both boys and girls - what they want when they 'grow up', they will draw pictures of a family and a home. Then, once they're proper into the capitalist machine that we can pretend we don't live in, they start adding 'stuff'. The cars, swimming pools, pool tables, ponies. There's a reason Argos brought their catalogues back you know.... The children are showing us they'd like a family and a nice lifestyle and how do we tell them to go about getting it? We don't! 

School becomes a sausage machine for university. PSHE lessons focus on consent and drugs and sexually transmitted diseases. Those tricky topics are important and have led to challenging conversations and the knowledge that - as much as you might not like to think it's happening - there is still plenty of teenage sex and pregnancies, drinking and drugs, and it's all going on right on your doorstep. Fret about toxic influencers all you like but I'd be worrying more about the kid on the moped that's selling ket and weed... 

But how about the good stuff? Where is the optimistic stuff? We've not once had a report of conversations about how you might build a life with a partner or friends. How you might share resources in those early days or think laterally on how to take that first step towards a house or a car. So what do we do? Send an email to the school? I think if we ourselves have managed to worked it out then it is incumbent on us to help our children find their way. Parenting isn't passive - yet the narratives we hear thanks to 'smart' phones can make us feel like we've not got much influence at all.

As mum to a son I've seen an entire generation of boys being characterised in the press as 'wrong' and 'at risk'. But what the media paints isn't the whole picture - it never is. My personal experience is that these boys are interesting and funny and vibrant and wanting to make their mark on the world in a confident and positive way - even if they don't feel confident or positive yet. They want to know about their family history and the men who have gone before. How their dads and uncles and grandads and stepdads make / made money and how they, in turn, might earn a living. They're interested in what their mums do too but - much as I hope my son loves and respects me - he absolutely doesn't want to be me!. 

They also want to be heard. The boys who have lost their mums, experienced family break-up, had a hard time at home / school, or their heart broken or been picked on or ripped off. Instead of beginning from a point where we think they are misguided or toxic or wrong, we need to provide the space and conditions (apparently side-by-side in the car / on a walk is best!) to hear what they have to say and listen without jumping to the worst possible outcome or judgement. The way we feel, characterise and talk about our boys and young men rubs off so how about - in the spirit of this blog - we do it in a way that's a bit more optimistic and, frankly, cheerful!

Soundtrack: Let's Hear it for the Boy - Deneice Willliams. Now added to the full updated Reasons to be Cheerful Playlist! Listen here

The inspiration for this post - they know who they are ;)

Before

Before testosterone takes hold
And stubble grows upon your cheek
Before your voice descends an octave
Could I forever hold this week

Before the scent of little boy
Slips away like grains of sand
Before your chest and shoulders broaden
Could I forever hold your hand

Before your sleepy tousled hair
Is tamed into a grown-up style
Before your giggle turns to rumble
Could I read to you for awhile

Before your little body's shadow
Lengthens to a full grown man
Before you're big enough to hold me
I will hold you, if I can

Goodbye to Gingham

In July 2012 I wrote about how my daughter was just about to finish her second year of primary school (you can read the post here).  This was a new blog back then and I had no idea that the process of publishing my thoughts on parenthood and saying goodbye to corporate life would lead to me becoming a writer full-time.  Turns out that 'doing what you love thing' is true.

Fast forward to today and that same 'little girl' is about to start secondary school.  The badge is sewn on to the blazer, every last item of clothing is labelled and her timetable is pinned to the wall.  We have spent more on uniform and PE kit than I spent on my first car and she is now the proud owner of a phone which she has used to arrange meet ups with friends and take part in chats that consist mostly of emojis.  She's even used it to stay in touch with me and Mr K when we're away - bonus!

I don't feel wistful about primary; this was the first summer my daughter has chosen not to wear a gingham dress and seeing her among a class of Year 6's that towered above the reception class (and in some instances are taller than me...) was a clear signal that it was time to move on.  She could do with having a mix of teachers, a mix of other children, a bit more space to grow.  Maybe it will be different when the boy moves on and I no longer get to stand on the playground chatting with the parents who have become my friends.

Secondary marks a step towards her future and whilst I don't relish the thought of exam stresses (whatever form the system takes by then....) and am pretending to ignore that fact I'll have a teenager two years from now, I'm happy to let her go a little more.  Goodbye gingham, it was nice knowing you :)

M&S's finest

Oh Boy

It is bedtime.  And your limbs are heavy.

"Carry me Mummy."

I lift you and you curl your arms around my neck, gentle fingers not quite intertwined.  You rest your hot cheek against my shoulder.  Your breath against my neck.

Your hair is tufted, rearranged while sweaty then left to dry.  It smells of grass and dust and I'm glad you didn't wash it.

You place your legs around my waist but you can't hang on by yourself.  Too tired.

I cradle your bottom with both of my hands to support you and remember when the midwife lifted you onto me - your bottom in the palm of my hand, your wet little cheek against my chest, your smell of new life. 

I wonder where the time went.  I wonder if this is the last time I'll get to do this.

Oh boy.

Children's Parties - What I've Learnt So Far

Next week my daughter will be 10 and rather than writing something reflective on the joys of being her mother, I was struck by the thought that I've done ten years of children's parties and so thought I'd share my experiences so far.  If you've yet to have kids, let this be a rough guide to what to expect.  If you already have children - feel free to enlighten me on the parties I've missed out on!

The 1st Birthday Party

Don't kid yourself that this is for your baby.  This is an opportunity for you to acceptably drink alcohol in the middle of the day while you pat yourself on the back for 'making it through' the first year.  Your baby will not appreciate that he or she has 'guests' (ie. other babies, relatives and knackered mums that have squeezed themselves back into their skinny jeans in order to feel normal but are still wearing black tops because when other babies cry their breasts leak) and will definitely not appreciate the many (tasteful, preferably wooden) presents, preferring the paper instead.

The Soft Play Party

This takes place in a former factory that has boiler lagging and scramble nets attached to every available surface.  Where it normally costs you £5.00 to get in, you will instead spend £11 a head for the added extras of nuggets and chips on paper plates (and if you go to Eddie Catz you'll also get a plate of crudités thrown in that the children will ignore) plus a visit from a budget 'character' that will either scare the children or will be scared by the children as they try to wrench his tail off. 

There is nowhere for parents to properly relax so they will head off into town to do some shopping leaving you to spend most of the party worrying where the "little boy who has a tendency to start fights with other children" has got to.

The Professional Entertainer Party

Some of these guys cost £300 - THREE HUNDRED POUNDS!  Their waiting lists are months long and they have seen you bloody coming.  You are guaranteed a great set, children in tears because of a sinister puppet or because the entertainer has called them their pet name in front of all their school friends and angry parents as the entertainer starts singling them out for kicks - "look everyone, that daddy's got a baldy head!" and "that mummy's eaten all the biscuits!".  I've yet to meet anyone that's done this kind of party more than once.

The Do It Yourself Party

So you go to a Professional Entertainer Party and think "that's money for old rope - I could totally do that!  I'm going to hire the village hall, make all the sandwiches, decorations and party bags the night before and then we'll play party games just like when I was five and we all had a party in the front room."  This is a BAD MOVE although you won't realise that at first because it will start off being the best party in the world.  Then you'll lose your audience as the children realise that there's 30 of them and (at most) 5 grown ups (all the other parents have pissed off because there's no way they're spending three hours making small talk and besides, Next has a sale on).  The children will refuse to play Musical Statues because "that boy is always cheating", someone will have a nosebleed, and the "girl who only eats mini-sausages" will eat everybody's mini-sausages which causes a riot.  You will wish you'd paid £300.

The Whole Class Party

Do it once because, frankly, you have to.  Then never do it again.  It's like the 'Do It Yourself Party' but on speed.  It will take you a week to recover, and your child two days to open all the presents (I'm not a big fan of conspicuous consumption but I'd rather not hold a party than earnestly ask my friends to plant an acorn on my child's behalf instead of buying another necklace-making kit).

The Really Easy Party

This has just started to happen in my life and it is *bliss*.  By the time your children get to 10 they're (hopefully) free of tit for tat party invites and the whole 'Whole Class Party' thing has died a death.  Pick two to four friends, take them to the cinema, bite to eat afterwards and you are done!  Brilliant!  I shared this opinion with my daughter's friend's mum today and she conspiratorially whispered "I know, it's great - we do it too!".  Now this may sound a little smug on my behalf but I plan to enjoy every minute of this stage because I know what it is to be at an:

Out of Control Teenage Party

What to say here without incriminating anyone?  Let's just put it this way:

Thunderbird

Uninvited guests

Breakages

Police

Furious parents

Clean up operation that included having to scrape vomit from the pocket of a pool table

So until I get payback for my own terrible teenage behaviour, here's to Really Easy Parties - long may they continue!

Don't Go Changing

I've never hankered for a return to the baby years; as each year passes the children have become more interesting, engaging and surprising and there is a huge amount to be said for being free of potty training and broken sleep.  These strong-bodied, active, articulate little people teach me just as much about myself (I need to keep a cooler head, play more, worry less) as they do about themselves (they hear more than I give them credit for, they can sense if I want five minutes to myself and so interrupt me, they will read the front cover of Private Eye and ask what "pissed" means....).

This summer, however, I've felt a niggle.  One that I should be mentally capturing moments and committing them to memory even more keenly than before, especially when it comes to my daughter.

For her, this summer has been one of cartwheels, of plunging into rivers on rope swings, Cub camps and family camps and running through fields uninhibited and happy.  

For me, it has been one of unexpected cuddles, of watching her conquer fears and dive into swimming pools and freezing seas, of tearing across a field in her shorts roaring with laughter, of conspiring with her cousins for an extra hour of play.  It has been the best.

And then I remember that tomorrow she's moving up a year at school.  And that there are girls two years older than her entering into puberty and if I'm honest, I'm happy to wait a hell of a lot longer for that to come knocking.

My husband and I don't 'baby' our children, and we're open about what's to come but now feels like a very special time for our girl.  I can still carry her (although only just), and it is still more than ok to tickle fight, water fight and pillow fight.  I'm still helping with hair washes, and still called upon to give a kiss goodnight and read bedtime stories.  She is free to run, jump and play unselfconsciously and I want that to last *as long as possible*.  

I like to think that a bit of honesty plus keeping the house free of MTV, Page 3 and trashy magazines will help to keep her free of undue pressure and crappy role models but I can't delay the inevitable, and I can't pretend it isn't going to happen.  What I do hope is that I get just a couple more summers like this one.  Don't go changing - not just yet.

Soundtrack: Just the Way You Are - Billy Joel

Push

"Push through your bottom" the midwife said
As I lay panting on the bed
"Push, push, push! I can feel the head!"
"SO CAN I!" was my reply...


"Now push, now wait....
no more pushing until you completely dilate."


"Now push, then pant in measured spurts
And I know Mrs Kent your vagina hurts
You should listen to me, I am wiser and older
Must you bite your husband on the shoulder?"

"Push, push, push, just one more try!"
There was a rip, and a slip, and a baby's cry
A girl, a daughter!
A hug, and then
"I am never doing that again."

Children Stop Fighting!

Children - please stop fighting each other!
Daughter - you should love your brother
Son - stop winding up your sis
There really is no need for this!

Must you sing the Clas Olsen ad...
Until it drives her completely mad?
You tumble, tussle, yell and shriek
And we've only just begun the week!

If this goes on, we won't survive
The summer hols, which is why I've
Booked Holiday Club for you again
You can have fun, and I can stay sane ;)



Like this?  You can find more of my poetry at www.facebook.com/abrighterwriter 

National Trust

If this summer holiday
You feel it is a must
To pack your kids into the car
And visit a National Trust

I'm duty-bound to warn you
It won't be like the ads
Full of Boden Mummies
And earnest, smiling dads

You won't glide around the gardens

I'm smiling because I'm hiding from my children...
at Basildon Park NT

In a state of familial bliss
Your children won't marvel at nature
What will actually happen is this:

One of them will say "boooring"
And "I can see that statue's bum!"
And "This place smells of dog farts"
You will pretend not to be their mum

It will probably rain on your picnic
And your child will lose a shoe
Then get a splinter in their finger
Then announce "I NEED A POO!"

They'll probably drop their ice cream
Then try to eat it off the floor
Or leave a sticky handprint
On an antique painted door

And the kindly National Trust staff
Will never, ever shout
But you know that they are thinking
"Get those bloody children out"

You'll shout out "Put that cup down!"
And "don't sit on the chairs!"
"The piano is NOT FOR TOUCHING!"
And "no running on the stairs!"

All you wanted was a day out...
And all you did was moan
The trick to visiting the National Trust
Is to go on your own

What Camping and Business Travel Have in Common

Now *that's* what I call a room with a view!

Not so long ago I wouldn't have set foot inside a tent.  The aversion to canvas was in part formed by an early experience with the Brownies where we camped on a rugby pitch in Abergavenny; one of our party had (to put it delicately) a "very upset tummy", the rest of us were just "very upset".  It was also informed by a strong desire to avail of as many 5* hotel experiences as possible - which, as it turns out, was a very good plan as once children arrived, the cash with which to do this vanished under an ocean of costs associated with sports clubs and the buying of shoes every six months.

Camping during half-term saw our family celebrate a full year of tent-ownership and a reflection on quite how far we have come during the space of a year which began with borrowing a tent, and ended with us owning not just a tent, but an awning, several flash gadgets and a habit for campsites that come with great facilities.  What began as a way to holiday cheaply has resulted in something that is not too far off business travel because....

Small = smart

I once managed a week in Washington with just carry-on luggage (ok, Business Class carry-on but it still counts!).  Miniature toiletries, layering of separates, strategically positioned shoes to maximise space, anything to avoid queuing for hours at a carousel or the magical game that is wondering whether your luggage will reach the same destination as you.... This habit has now transformed into the decanting of shampoo into small bottles, sleeping bags that fold into teeny pockets and collapsible colanders (who knew the joy that little gadget would bring?!)

A little luxury goes a long way

Duty free used to be my guilty pleasure, especially the Chanel handbag-size atomisers - the joy!  Some people won't travel without a scented candle for their hotel room (I never once did that, but I get why you would), others insist on a glass of champagne after take-off (I definitely did that).  For camping this transforms into good wine, proper cutlery, farm shop burgers and cheeseboards.  Our friend once brought a glass cloche to protect, display and serve a rather nice cake from.  It was a crazily fragile thing to take into a field full of children and guy ropes but not one of us did not appreciate its beauty over a Tupperware pot.

You will covet other peoples stuff

On a business trip it's all about admiring your neighbour's shoes / laptop bag / Luis Vuitton toiletry bag.  Back when we had to room with other people at conferences I tried on my roommate's Manolo Blahniks while she was out.  Upon her return I confessed to my terrible behaviour. And then she let me try them on again - yay!    

Now we remark favourably on our friends' camping stoves, tent carpets and camping mats, and harbour ambitions to one day own a kitchen stand.  It will be ours...

The day hasn't started unless coffee has been served

Mega hangovers thanks to dinner with clients, all-nighters, being woken by what sounds like a concrete mixer (when in fact it is deer nibbling at grass) or having to take your child for a wee in the dark several times during the night.  All of these fade away with the first cup of strong, hot coffee.

The feeling when you get home

Whether it's a five day business trip to the US requiring inordinate amounts of smiling nicely at customers and a cast-iron constitution, or a long weekend of fresh air and outdoor pursuits with your family, both of these things are true:

1. You will feel like you need a holiday afterwards   
2. There is nothing like your own bed!

Like this?  You'll love the book!

Poem: Revolting Car

Inside of my car

You are
Revolting
It looks like someone has been moulting

The passenger foot-well

The pocket on the door
Since when did these become a store
For plastic bottles
Wrappers, hair clips?
As the car corners, everything slips

I park the car

And am disgusted
If mess is a crime, then I am busted!

All the dust and all the crumbs
Pressed into seats by my kids bums
Not one inch of cloth is clear
You'd think they ate their dinner here!

I spot a blackened banana skin

And realise my car is no more than a bin
What kind of human being am I
To drive a wheeled version of a pig sty?

So I clean it out

Crumbs, dust and hair wisps
And then someone opens a packet of crisps......

Get Through It

What a week to be a working parent.  The children are hanging on by their fingertips to get to tomorrow when 1.30pm brings the end of school and the official start of Christmas.  They are puffy-eyed, over tired and bordering on hysteria with what next week will bring.  The curriculum has gone out of the window to be replaced (much to the children's delight) with dvd-watching, clearing out cupboards and a nativity that for all its beauty (and the best camel outfits ever to grace a church) sounded like a doctor's waiting room such was the level of coughing.  Book bags spill over with Christmas cards and sweetie wrappers as the healthy eating policy gets crushed under a sea of Quality Street from the teachers.

We are Wolves

And while they're at school I'm still working to pre-Christmas deadlines whilst accepting deliveries, sending cards and adding ever more to the festive food list - the closer we get to the 'Big Day' the bigger our appetites get - we are wolves, salivating at the thought of turkey and upping our cheese intake to make sure we at least eat something with the bottle of port waiting patiently in the cupboard.

Now where *is* that
last tree chocolate?

Sunday Best

I am trying so hard to be focused but there is part of me wishing these next couple of days away.  I'm eager to join the children in their revelry, up for letting my hair down and dreaming of those few days when I point blank refuse to do any washing.  Let the jeans and t-shirts fester in the basket, we shall wear our Sunday Best to breakfast, lunch and dinner.  I can't wait until nothing but the next game of UNO and trying to find a tree chocolate matter, and to savour that moment of giggling and shushing on Christmas Eve when we sneak the presents under the tree.  They say Christmas is just for children but I know different.

Knackered

And it's not just me - the playground is full of parents who are knackered.  We too are puffy-eyed, over tired and bordering on hysteria.  We too are hanging on by our fingertips before we can take time off; empathising and encouraging each other to give it one last push before we run out whooping and yelling into the December air - we can taste time off and it tastes like Christmas.  So come on grown-ups, one deep breath and just a few more days to go - we can get through it.

Merry Christmas everybody!


Soundtrack: Tender by Blur

Get the Balance Right

I had a great time catching up with some friends and former colleagues at a conference yesterday.  We spoke a lot about our families and when it came to the women who had children, we reflected on how it had felt to return to work and the impact it'd had (and was still having) on our families overall.  As a group of women, we were in a fortunate position; well paid, in jobs that stretched us intellectually and able to contribute to the emotional, financial, and practical aspects of family life.  We talked about the way in which being able to support yourself increases your sense of self-esteem but also the challenges that come when you have two parents that are working.  Who does pick up and drop off?  Who collects the kids if they're ill?  How do you make sure you're present for each other, your children, friends, wider family - yourself even - when you feel like you're pulled in a hundred directions?  

We talked too about how our partners and husbands felt, how it is for them and how much choice they feel they have when it comes to how much time they dedicate to work and family.  In some instances, they have less.

Do I stay or do I go?

When considering my career, I made a definite choice to remain in the corporate world until after I had children. This was in part because I was enjoying the lifestyle and opportunities the job afforded, but also because the maternity benefit offered by my employer was first-class: six months on full pay. I heard a rumour that there was an employer offering twelve months on full pay, but they were in the automotive industry and I didn't know squat about cars. Still don't.

Life-changing events

I asked my husband the other day what he would have done if he'd have been offered access to that kind of benefit.  Unsurprisingly he said of course he would have taken it.  The thing is, for most men, the only way they can get that level of paid leave is for a different, and much less positive, kind of life-changing event: having a terrible accident, a nervous breakdown, or becoming seriously ill.

Getting the balance right

I know plenty of couples where the woman earns more than her partner. Couples where it would have made practical and financial sense for dad to stay home with the children (and where this is the option they would have preferred) but whose employers offered something measly like one week of paid leave on top of their statutory entitlement. Hardly enough time to get used to changing a nappy without getting pee'd on...

Shared parental leave

Come April 2015, there will be a small step in redressing the balance with the advent of Shared Parental Leave (https://www.gov.uk/shared-parental-leave-and-pay/overview) but let's face it, statutory pay doesn't scratch the surface when it comes to paying the bills. What I'd be really interested to see is employers who are currently offering generous maternity packages considering making these available to their male workforce. It would take some doing but given that organisations already need to consider the requirements of adoptive and same-sex couples perhaps it could become a reality.

And if it did happen - would it make any difference?  Would we see an exodus of dads from the workplace and mums going back to work more rapidly?  Would either of these be a bad thing? There's only one way to find out - I wonder who will be brave enough to go first.  And if you know a business that is going first - let me know!

Soundtrack: Get the balance right - Depeche Mode 

Footnote - a shortened version of this post can be found on my LinkedIn page.

Wonder Woman?

I have always been someone who wants to fix things.  Not mechanical things you understand - my brain is not orientated to dealing with the nuts and bolts of a bike or an engine.  The stuff I like to fix relates more to bad situations and feelings.  I hate seeing people upset, angry, sad, frustrated, put upon.  I hate it because I've felt it and I also know how it feels when people help you to feel just a little bit better - a hug, a sympathetic ear, a useful phone number, a lift when it's pissing with rain or someone to pack your bags at the supermarket because your baby is screaming and it is quite evident that you are about to scream too because you can't get the Shreddies to fit in the bloody bag and comfort your infant at the same time.  I witnessed a beautiful example of this recently as a shopper sat and held the hand of an elderly lady who couldn't remember her pin number and so couldn't pay.  It was making her cry because it had happened before and she was embarrassed.  And the kind shopper and the shop assistant at the till told the lady it was alright, and it didn't matter - they'd find a way to sort it out, and we all forget our pin number sometimes, because in keeping our details safe we tie ourselves up in ever more complicated knots of numbers and letters and punctuation marks.  Bloody banks.    

With all of these wonderful vibes going round what I hadn't expected to learn was that there are times when my urge to assist needs to be toned down, and naturally the lesson has come from the wisest people in the house - the children.

Returning home from school one day my daughter told me about something that had happened that seemed unfair to her and so I offered to contact the school.  In return I was treated to a good minute of "Whydoyoualwayssaythat?! Aaarrgh!! You're so annoying!!"  Turns out that she just wanted to vent, just like grown ups do and (as one of my friends later pointed out) if my husband complained about work, I wouldn't call his boss - so why was I trying to fix every tiny issue the children present?  Despite the delivery of her message, what my daughter said made me take stock and so I returned to where she was sat, exasperated at my inability to detect she is growing up, to explain that my being annoying and embarrassing comes from a good place and that I would wait until she asked for my help before volunteering to speak on her behalf; sometimes us parents can't help these things.  And she smiled, and wasn't angry any more about what had seemed so unfair during her day, or her annoying mum.  

In my rush to fix I had forgotten to listen properly, putting my pants on over my trousers and attaching my cape when I didn't need to come to the rescue.  For all the times when I have needed to be on high alert in my life, there are dozens more where I have created more drama than necessary, and where my wanting to be helpful has overshadowed what I'm being told.

So I'm going to try to be more wife and less Wonder Woman, more friend and less Fantastic Four, more mother and less...um a superhero beginning with 'M'....you catch my drift.  In doing so, perhaps I'll tune in better to when I'm really needed - I'll hang on to the cape just in case.

Soundtrack: The Theme to Wonder Woman

Get up, stand up

A few weeks ago I went along to an event called the Vagina Dialogues which, rather than being a group discussion about vaginas (which in itself could have been a raucous affair), was actually an evening of thought-provoking entertainment designed to facilitate a conversation between us about our experiences of motherhood - whether as a mother, or having been mothered.

I had expected that I would come away with a few insights, which I did, but what I hadn't anticipated is that it would lead me to performing stand-up.

We were asked to make ourselves a promise - the usual workshop thing of committing to paper something that you'll either stop, start or continue doing - and mine was "I will be more honest and less afraid".  We were also asked to write down some goals, for which I had included "attend an open mic night".

It's funny how writing a few words on a bit of paper can grab you.  Having looked at my list I asked one of the staff at the venue if they did open mic nights to which the reply was "yes, there's one in three weeks actually".  I called the box office and asked if there were performance slots available and they freed one up for me.  I told a friend I was going to do it and then couldn't back out....

And with this mic, I silence thee
horrid inner critic!

I felt nervous as hell, pacing the kitchen rehearsing aloud in the days before, and then on the eve of the gig I watched my son, daughter and their school friends perform songs, skits and poems in front of each other and hundreds of parents.  These children aged between four and eleven have been taught to enjoy performing and in the process are picking up some incredible life skills - did I miss that lesson or did the process of growing up rub some of that out?

In the end it was a great experience - life affirming, liberating and confidence building.  Thankfully it was held by the very supportive team at New Greenham Arts who welcome first-timers (trying to take on a Saturday night Jongleurs crowd may well  have ended very differently....) 

What I learned was that being honest with myself about something I wanted to try helped me to silence the little voice that makes me afraid of what other people might think.  And that feeling the fear and going for it is not a sensation we experience often enough as adults.  And that there's still lots to be learned from our honest, unafraid children.  Now that is a good lesson in motherhood.

Soundtrack: Get Up Stand Up - Bob Marley

I Don't Want To Talk About It

A couple of months ago my daughter brought home a road safety DVD, the aim of which is to help parents teach their children to safely cross the road.  It says that most children are not safe to cross a road unaccompanied until they are ten years of age.  

A few weeks after that I receive a letter to inform me that my daughter's PSHE lessons will include a cartoon depiction of sexual intercourse - I just hope it's not between Donald Duck and Minnie Mouse - Mickey will go nuts!  Joking aside I can't help but wonder how a child considered not old enough to cross the road is seen as old enough to watch a depiction of the technicalities of sex - it doesn't seem to make sense.  

I'm not a prude, or naive.  Both children know precisely how they were born - even if my son does insist on referring to it as when babies are 'laid' (I blame the fact that we keep chickens) -  we told them the truth on that one as soon as they asked.  The children know that conception (most of the time) requires a man and a woman and a 'cuddle' but beyond that they haven't pressed to find out more and so I feel a bit sad that the decision to discuss this is being made by someone else.  Now, we could opt out of our daughter seeing the video but I think it is probably better for her to watch it rather than have it described to her by a fellow class mate with a vivid imagination, or one who's suffering from the shock of realising that her mum and dad do that thing, or one who might see it as great sport to make something up ("yeah - the man puts willy in the lady's belly-button!").

There's loads of very useful stuff too - explanations of puberty, body changes, hormones, emotions  - all things that will be here sooner than we'd like and it would be wrong to pretend it's not going to happen, but sex?  Do we really need to cover that right now?  In the context of our daughter's life so far, it's (hopefully) at least another lifetime away for her and her peer group, even if as parents we joke that we hope it's at least another twenty...

Maybe I am getting too het up about what is, after all, just a 'fact of life', maybe our daughter will do little more than express utter disgust or mild hilarity.  Maybe she already knows....  This being uncharted territory for us as a family, perhaps this worry comes from not having talked about it before.  My own experience was (if my memory serves me right) being shown a video of childbirth at school which did a great job of making all the children say "I'm never, ever having sex!!" and being given a book called 'Woman's Experience of Sex' by Sheila Kitzinger by my mum which became quite a talking point for me and my friends.  With a more mature mind I can appreciate its frank, even-handed explanation and illustrations of post-birth vaginas, masturbation and sexuality but at the time it served mostly as a tool to amuse and repulse me and my pre-teen friends.  I am forever thankful that its pictures were black and white, there were a lot of them *shudders*.

One friend has, very kindly, provided me with perhaps a more suitable book to help support the conversations that we're going to have to have - a nice practical one with not too many pictures that give you nightmares.  I'm sure it will be fine, I'm sure I'll discover that our daughter knows more than we think but if I'm honest, I don't really want to talk about it.

Photo Credit: www.sxc.hu

Soundtrack: I Don't Want to Talk About it - Everything But The Girl (you could have Crazy Horse or Rod Stewart but I'm picking this one :) )

Ain't No Time to Play

The boy is worried.  As his first year at primary school draws to an end he's said more than once "I won't get to play as much when I'm in Year One".  The same thing happened with his sister and it is true.  Reception class is awesome - lots of time outdoors, play-based learning and just a reading book plus a little spelling for homework.  They even get afternoons outside where the whole lesson is geared around the natural environment - something inspired by the Norwegian outdoor learning model.  Come Year One, these will stop and he'll be bringing home projects that are impossible for children to do independently and so become 'family homework'.  That's on top of the reading, spelling, and times tables.   Little wonder he doesn't want to move up.

Now I think we are a family that is very much invested in our children's education.  We pay attention, help, take an interest and support them.  But it all feels a bit sad to know that they are being primed and geared from the age of five for exams and 'getting ready' for secondary school.  Short of taking them out of the state system and going for something like the Dolphin or a Montessori school I felt a bit hamstrung.  If the school focuses more on academic instruction than play then what can I do?  And then something happened in our bathroom to wake me up.  My daughter came to find me to ask me to play, and to my shame, I uttered the sentence "I can't, I'm cleaning the shower".  Now this was factually true - it is hard to participate in a game when you're wearing rubber gloves and have a container of Flash in one hand (unless you're into some really specialist stuff) but I felt like a pretty crappy parent when I heard myself say it.  Even my daughter gave me a look that said "yep mum, that's pretty much the lamest sentence you've ever said to me."

Tickets please!  Photo (c) tptoys.com

So the gloves came off and within a moment I was running around the garden with the children playing 'tickets please' where essentially one person gets to be an irate ticket inspector while the other two fail to show the correct ticket for going down the slide.  Within half an hour I was on my front on the slide with both children balanced on my back.  We all took skin off our knees, fingers and elbows (who knew plastics slides could be so injurous?!) but we were all also laughing like drains - not cleaning them.  So as the summer holidays come closer and the play days at school drift away I'll be paying more attention to how much playtime we're enjoying, not how grubby the bathroom looks.

Soundtrack: No Time to Play - Guru

   

Hey Boy, Hey Girl

I came across the campaign Pink Stinks the other day (www.pinkstinks.org.uk) - it targets "the products, media and marketing that prescribe heavily stereotyped and limiting roles to young girls" and I'm with it.

I'm quite sick of seeing everything from Kinder Eggs to Lego being separated out via the use of packaging into ones that are 'for boys' and 'for girls'.  Since when did a chocolate egg containing a crap plastic toy become gender specific and since when did it matter whether you were a boy or a girl to make something out of bricks?

I'm lucky that within my daughter's peer group many of her friends have mothers with interesting careers - she sees that it's equally possible for a woman to be a scientist as it is to be a sculptor, social worker, 'person in IT' (come on, even when I did it the kids didn't have a clue what my actual job was!) or teacher.  It feels essential to me that she knows all of these options, and more, are within reach.

And then, in amongst this rejoicing that my daughter sees a world of possibility is a never ending parade of Disney Princesses, feminised Nerf guns, and even entire shops with aisles that are dedicated to 'boys toys' and 'girls toys'.  For her, this results in a conflict between the role models in her life and what companies want her to believe she should like for the benefit of their bottom line.  She's smart enough to know the purpose of the advertising but I would be naive to think that it doesn't influence her, or to fail to recognise views and opinions on what boys and girls 'should' like hasn't influenced every generation before hers.

At this early stage in her life I'm fortunate in that the images she has access to can be managed to a certain extent.  We can make sure she doesn't see Rhianna with her tits or arse hanging out at an awards ceremony (again) when we're using the internet together.  We can stop Page 3 coming into the house.  We can give her positive choices that help her her value herself for who she is, and her achievements, rather how she looks.  But it's far, far harder when it comes to the question of toys and attitudes that tell our girls they should want princess figures and pedicures and our boys they should like diggers and guns.  

But it's not just a question of 'telling' the children that the advertisers are wrong.  Oh no, it's got to be balanced with not being too vitriolic in my opinion of toy princesses with big plastic tits and come hither expressions.  For her to make a choice, her own choice, I need to tone down the face that looks like I've just picked up a dog poo when we walk through The Entertainer.  But until they get shot of the pink packaging, that's going to be hard to do...



Soundtrack: Hey Boy Hey Girl - The Chemical Brothers

You Wear it Well

What happens to your sense of style once you have children?  The first inkling I had that mine had taken a vacation was on a weekend in Bath many moons ago with some of my NCT friends.  We were strolling around in the sunshine and I noticed a proliferation of pretty tea dresses.  Where had these come from?  Why had we not heard about their sudden popularity and why were we the only people not wearing them?  I felt somehow cheated that what was obviously fashion news had evaded my radar - it's not that I particularly wanted to wear one, it was more that I didn't want to feel so surprised by not knowing what was happening on the high street.

It's continued in much the same way since - I went to Reading a couple of months ago and noticed four people wearing deer stalker hats in one shopping centre alone.  Are these now a 'thing' or are there just a lot of young hunters in the Oracle?  I can't tell and it irks me.

I think it has a lot to do with your social life and location.  Without the nights in town and oodles of time to browse shops with your friends the only place you can take your sartorial cue from are the folks around you, the internet or the Boden brochure that appears to fall through the letterbox every week (incidentally any top that's described as "fun" by a model quoting her favourite thing in life is "cupcakes" is not getting within three hundred miles of my wardrobe - grow up!).

And as much as we try to retain our individuality, we are most definitely influenced by those around us.  I found myself wearing the same dress and coat as a colleague when I used to work at Microsoft, we both looked lovely but it was a bit weird.  But then given we were similar age / similar job / similar tastes was it really so strange?  There are items I have bought on recommendation or because I've seen someone rocking a look that I had been too shy to try.  Some purchases are down to practicality (every mother in the village has a coat with a hood) and some I cannot explain - why on earth is it that I own so many scarves now?  Never needed one in my life and since having children I appear to have developed a dependency on them - one of my friends even has separate cupboard space for hers.  Can someone explain this please?

It's not reserved to the girls either - there are shifts amongst the men too.  It takes a bit longer and may involve the buying of kit for cycling / running / DIY but it definitely happens.  We women notice these things and are secretly pleased our husbands are still trying :)

So when I ended up in London a short while ago and found myself in Benetton (a place I hadn't shopped since I was seventeen) it was a revelation!  I bought a pair of jeans with rips in because I liked them even though a small part of me worried I was only a Grolsch bottle-top away from looking like Bros.  I stared at what people were wearing on the train, in bars, at the theatre and it was really exciting - especially the woman who was wearing a beautifully patterned bow tie undone on top of a crisp white shirt.

It made me realise that I do miss fashion and not in a 'I want to blow my cash on something that will last a week' disposable-fashion kind of way, but in the way of appreciating fabric and styling and looking good or wearing great high heels just because.    

Working from home and doing the school run on foot gives me limited opportunities to indulge this.  Or does it?  Maybe tomorrow I'll work from home in these :)

Soundtrack: You Wear It Well - Rod Stewart

I Hate You So Much Right Now!

I thought that I had experienced it all - whether between me and my oldest brother when we were growing up, or between my own two children - I thought I had pretty much covered every possible thing that children can argue over: what to watch on the television, who sits where in the car (and which window they get to look out of), who is believed to be cheating in a game, and who gets to play with the baby building blocks that have long outstayed their welcome.  Been there, done that, got the memories of rolling around fighting on a brown swirly-patterned carpet in front of a massive wood-framed television to prove it.

But no, as it turns out I hadn't quite covered everything as I discovered when my children fought over a mooring ring.  Yep, that's right.  A piece of metal embedded in a piece of concrete. For those of you yet to encounter the child-entertaining qualities of one of these things, here it is:

I wonder if Argos sells these.....

I managed to take the picture in the brief moment when both pairs of hands were not clutched around it, knuckles white, palms gradually taking on the scent of rusted metal and batteries thanks to the heat generated by their basic desire for this most vital part of being a brother or sister: being the one that wins.

As there is no way to 'share' a mooring ring, they settled for pushing, shoving, shouting and all while being close to the canal.  They were supposed to be watching 'crafty rafters' being cheered across a finish line, not fighting to the near death over something that is designed in the interest of safety.  I decided that if they were going to fight, they could do it somewhere they'd be less likely to drown.

Resigned to having to move, but still trying to get the last touch on this most precious ring, they took it in turns to shout "I HATE YOU!".  To each other, about each other, and within earshot of other people.  It was exasperating, upsetting, tiring, and more than a little embarrassing.  And then I remembered that it passes and that one of the best things about children (when they're not shouting so loudly that it makes you want to pretend they're not your children), is that they don't bear a grudge and that they don't really mean it, even if they do feel it in the heat of the moment.  Within ten minutes they were friends again, making each other laugh and being kind to one another.  The moment had passed, the dust had settled and peace was restored.  The mooring ring was released from their grip, the battle for supremacy already becoming a memory and as we made our way home all sibling smiles, I allowed myself an indulgent look at my now happy children and made a silent vow to never, ever go on a canal holiday.  

Soundtrack: Caught Out There - Kelis