Sweet Child O' Mine

During the course of a pre-Christmas clear-out I came across a box containing the tiny wrist bands the children were issued with when they were born; little strips of plastic containing a lot of important information.  Along with the relief that I will always have a record of precisely what time they were born (I confess I don't remember - a bit busy experiencing the 'special' sensation that comes with childbirth - first time - and thinking "oh no!  I remember this part and it's really horrible!" - second time - to check my watch), was that they read 'baby of Toni Kent'.   

So fast were the tags put on that their names were not recorded - and after all those months poring over name books and negotiating!  They just 'belong' to their mother and exist as nothing else officially until you visit the registrar and hope that they don't make a mistake and register your little boy as 'Sue' or your little girl as 'Frank'. 

Then come the family tours and the visits to work which boost the spirits and make you long to return and where nobody complains if the baby farts loudly or vomits on their black suit and instead they congratulate you on managing to hold it together for long enough to get out of the house (even if you did have a little cry in the car, and another one in the loos, and you might have one on the way home) and how you've 'sprung back into shape' when in fact you have rolled your stomach up and stuffed it into a pair of control knickers.  They might also remark on how much your offspring looks like you.  Or not in my case, but that's ok, at least they won't ever be greeted with "ooh don't you look like your mum!" - I've yet to meet an adult that feels 100% happy with that 'compliment'.

And as the children grow they are testing boundaries and asserting themselves in ways that we hadn't predicted would happen so soon.  Conversations at the dinner table switch from what happens after you've swallowed your food to what happens after you die, to precisely how old Yoda is.  It is like being in constant preparation for a general knowledge quiz..and they don't always agree with, or accept our answers.   

Refusals of some kind happen on a daily basis: having their hair brushed, wearing something that looks vaguely smart (even weather-appropriate would do - our son wears shorts almost without exception), doing homework, and sometimes we are not even permitted to hold our daughter's hand on the walk to school.  At each turn we try to hide our frustration or sadness in the hope that they might do what we want or would like.  Behaviour can be encouraged or resolved with a trip to the reward chart or the threat of pocket money deductions but on things like their opinion on what they wear or whether they feel like holding our hand we know we have to let them make their own decisions - we are kidding ourselves if we think we're in charge!  Each day sees their personalities building and each year brings more independence of action and thought.  They are growing up, and away.

We carry them round and cuddle them tight calling them 'mine' and 'ours', take endless photos and videos and post status updates on their achievements, but they might grow up to be embarrassed by this, by us, and our delight in the minutae of their youth.  Remember the shame of your mum getting the baby photos out in front of your boyfriend or girlfriend?  The school photos that were all over the living room wall charting the never ending horror of the home-cut fringe?  I like to look at them now but it's safe to say that my teenage self would have been quite happy for none to have existed as I strained at the leash to establish myself as appearing completely unrelated to my family.

Much as we love our children and give them everything we think they need it's likely that at some point they're going to think we're cramping their style or being frankly rubbish parents.  So I will try to see these little disagreements and differences of opinions as reasons to celebrate their individuality, be happy that they are building their own personality and hope that we are laying the right foundations for confident, independent, healthy, happy little people to grow up and away (whilst secretly holding on to the hope that they will let us hug them tight and call them silly names well into their twenties!).


Soundtrack: Sweet Child O' Mine - Guns N Roses

I Read the News Today; Oh Boy.....

Not currently part of the
Key Stage 1 curriculum
(c) Private Eye

In the week that Lord Leveson released his report on press regulation and the media is awash with comment and opinion on a Free Press; our daughter has become a Free Reader.

To be a 'Free Reader' is a much coveted title at school; it means that you no longer have to follow a colour-coded reading book programme but can instead select any book that you like from the school library.  We are justly proud of our daughter, and delighted with her teachers.

Her confidence increased, she has taken to reading anything that she can see, whether it's intended for her or not.  As a result, she has given us cause to reconsider where we leave our reading material more than once this week. 

It began with her asking us who the man on the front of Private Eye was, then reading aloud the contents of his speech bubble.  She was disappointed to discover that the 'cover star' Lord Leveson is not related to Father Christmas because his outfit 'looks almost the same'.  It's a fair point but as interested as she was, we're not entirely sure she's ready for political critique and satire and so we've put it out of her reach.



(c) Johannes Eisele/AFP/Getty

This was followed by our son pointing out that there was a picture in the paper of 'Mary and Joseph'.  It was, in fact, an image of three Afghanistani women.  Taken on its own, it is a funny and understandable mistake for a child to make but for the fact that the accompanying story was about the murder of a young girl for refusing an arranged marriage.  Our daughter wanted to read the story.  Another paper gets put out of the way.


So we have agreed to make sure that we put anything that's not for little eyes out of sight and we think that we're doing ok.  And then I go to a shop in a nearby village where there is apparently great demand for 'adult' magazines.  I don't know what the legislation is on front covers at this point in time but apparently as long as there are stars over a woman's nipples then it is fine for it to be in plain view; even if she is attempting to lick the star off or is pointing at another part of her constellation-covered anatomy.  

As a child, The Sun was the favoured daily paper of my parents so rarely a day passed where I didn't see which 'lovely' had her baps out for the delectation of the British public.  There was also always a stash of 'dirty magazines' left in the local woods (with the internet not yet invented people took to the wilds with nothing but a magazine, a hanky and a furtive look) so I did not grow up unaware of quite how fascinating the female form is to so many, but I don't want it for my children.  You could argue that the magazines are out of their line of sight but that is to assume that they never look up or around them and that is also to assume that they cannot read.  For whilst the woman's breasts came with the requisite stars, her bottom half was concealed by the legend: "Footy Fanny!"  There is a part of me that wants to guffaw at its absolute shabbiness but as a mother I am appalled that a shop in the middle of a housing estate, and next to a nursery, is putting magazines like this just one display away from CBeebies magazine.  Thankfully our daughter didn't get the opportunity to look in that direction, she was too busy being led away with me muttering something about "they've run out of sweets"....

I remember hearing a woman who had not learned to read until adulthood say during an interview that it had been like someone turning up the volume on the world.  Whilst up until that point she had plenty of spoken conversation; the wording on signs, in papers, on the sides of vans, cars and buses, and the back of tins and packets had always been silent to her.  After learning to read she felt they were shouting out to grab her attention, crowding her brain with messages and urging her to read more.  This is how it is now for our little free reader, and it's our responsibility to make sure as far as possible, it's only the good stuff that gets heard. 


Soundtrack:  A Day in the Life - Neil Young, Live at Glastonbury 2009.  Makes my hair stand on end this one.

Down in the Country

Here's looking at Moo

Ah the countryside.  Peace and quiet, pipe and slippers, an absence of street lights and a sky full of stars.  Idyllic and boring as hell by turns.  Or is it?

I grew up in Basingstoke; a town that gets a very bad rap but actually has some nice countryside on its doorstep.  Walks down the farm were commonplace, as was being told off by the farm manager for touching the electric fence 'for a laugh'.

From there to Reading for a ten year feast of pubs, clubs, restaurants, and shopping.  Happy, happy, days but there came the point when the paper-thin walls of our Victorian terrace (we knew our neighbours far better than we wanted to, or perhaps they intended us to - rather like my friend in 'The Sound of...') and spending an hour stuck in traffic to travel eight miles lost its shine so we departed to a village on the outskirts of Newbury.

And it does tick all of the boxes you would expect.  Horses on the high street, tractors on the school run, sheep and cows coming up to the garden fence and visitors from nearby towns wandering the streets searching in vain for a mobile signal.  If you don't have a car, you are at the mercy of just six buses a day and if you are sick - best make it between the hours of 9 and 12 if you want to be seen at the local surgery.  So far, so predictable, except that lots of far from predictable things have happened in the eight years that we've been here....

The Weather.  Not to be messed with.

• The bike ride where we encountered a full-blown rave happening in an underpass. 
• The pig running purposefully up the road en route to who knows where but certainly escaping being turned into chops.
• The 'Missing Llama' poster that appeared in our shop window.
• The naked rambler who wasn't quick enough with his 'modesty screen' to escape a friend's husband from seeing his buttocks winking in the sun. 
• The house that keeps a flock of ostriches in its garden.
• School raffle prizes including donations from a certain Mr Walcott. 
• The weather being something of real interest rather than something that just happens outside.  Snow closes the village off.  Torrential rain brings a normally dry river back to life and sends shoals of 'Monster' energy drink cans through the village (other heart palpitation inducing beverages are available....).  It also threw our trampoline across the garden with the gusto of a professional bowler going for a 'strike'.
• Discovering the best way to break into your house after locking yourself out is with the help of a heavily pregnant woman and a 12-foot ladder.
• Bumping into people we last saw 10 years ago at the Reading Festival at a Beaver-Scout meeting.
• Being told that a pub in a nearby village was to be avoided due to the feistyness of the local jockeys and stable-hands.  Oh how I wished to see silks flying but we heeded the warning and relied on our imagination to fill in the blanks.

So eight years in, we're looking forward to at least eight years more and for a move that we thought was all about space, and peace and quiet, it has instead been one of discovery, amusement, and surprises.  Ravers, llamas, and naked ramblers - not so boring after all :)

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Soundtrack: In the Country - Cliff Richard & The Shadows

What will I be?

(c) Brute Labs
http://www.brutelabs.org/girl=boy.html

On the way to a soft-play venue today (terrible weather = trip to a building made of tin filled with more scramble nets and obstacles than the finale of the Krypton Factor) the children were having a discussion with their cousins about what boys and girls are able to do.  After 5 minutes on the merits, strengths, and abilities of girls and boys (including "girls can do sport if they are as strong as a boy" and "I'm never getting married!"), it was agreed that actually they can do the same things be it football, work, raising children, or the type of vehicle they fly/sail/drive.  With the children's ages ranging between four and seven-years-old, I was impressed that they had raised a topic, debated it openly (and forcefully at times) then come to an agreement.  

Given it was a discussion between two girls and two boys, I was especially delighted that they came to the conclusion that they did.  And then I remembered that children have an in-built sense of justice and fairness.  Whether it's a board game, handing out sweets, portion-size at dinner time, or discussing who could be an astronaut; they each want to be treated the same and see it is only fair that others are too.  What open-minded, smart, fantastic little people they are - I hope they carry this into their adult lives.

I am hopeful for this generation; they are the children for whom no stigma is attached to families where both parents pursue fulfilling careers, where mum has the more demanding / important job, or where dad stays at home to support mum's career.  Whatever our opinions about family arrangements and career decisions that are different to our own, these children see them as normal.  And in this I see that my son knows he can be an engineer, a teacher, a builder, a developer or a stay-at-home dad.  And I see that my daughter knows she can be an engineer, a teacher, a builder, a developer or a stay-at-home mum.  They can be anything, equally.  Except as it stands today, some 'grown ups' have decided that girls cannot grow up to be a Bishop in the Church of England.  I think they could learn a thing or two from these kids.   

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Soundtrack: Que Sera Sera - Doris Day

How 'Mo' Can You Go?

There is a 'Mo' growing in my house.  Not quite 'salt and pepper', but definitely more than a hint of grey going on within the black; it is a blatant and bristly intruder.  The children complain of its itchiness when they kiss Daddy goodnight and I try not to stare in incredulity at the changed face of my husband, but we know that it is there for a good cause and so we wait patiently for December to arrive when normal service will be resumed and kisses will be smooth once again, all the while being grateful that the 'Mo' is there to support, rather than to remember.

I love the creativity and participation that Movember encourages, the way it tackles a serious issue in an positive way and the variety of spin-offs that it has created, from MoRunning (witness Mr French in the middle with his friends Dave & Paul at the Battersea Park MoRun.  So 'Mo', that they are doing a MoBot.  At a MoRun.  With big Mo's.  If you have a picture that ticks more 'Mo' boxes, please send it over)

to the individual efforts of people like my friend Gary who will recreate a moustachioed pose of your choosing, subject to a donation to his page.  If you like his '118 118 Man' , you can make a request by donating here:

 

 

I know that this topic, and this month, is much documented and so I didn't think I would have anything different or interesting to add until I came across a company that is run by a friend of a friend.  Just setting up in the business of selling condoms, one of their recent Facebook posts carried a picture that manages to combine sexual health and Movember in a way that some people thought was a bit close to the edge but I found very salutary and funny.  After giving it some thought I have decided not to publish the picture because I'd like to give you the choice as to whether you look at it or not, but I think you will be able to imagine it when I tell you that the gentleman's rather full and lustrous 'Mo' does not belong to him, rather it is the pubic hair of a woman.  It is well-shot, humourous rather than sexual, and supportive of women in that I think it is possibly the first instance I've seen where a company is using an image of a woman being anthing other than devoid of hair positively.  If you would like to take a look - you'll find it at www.facebook.com/safesexappeal 

 

Whether you check out (or agree with) the picture or not, I hope that you will join me in celebrating Movember.  Whether you grow a Mo, run for miles, donate dollars or simply acknowledge the efforts of your friends' and neighbours' facial hair experimentation in the name of cancer awareness and prevention - I salute you!

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Soundtrack: Born to Hand Jive by Sha Na Na (Grease Soundtrack)

With the Ill Behaviour

So we returned from our half-term break refreshed, revitalised and having almost achieved a tech-free holiday (if you don't count the tv....) but wondering about something.  Why is it that our darling angels pick being on holiday with other people as the best time to try out their worst behaviour?  In the past few shared holidays that we've had there have been inordinate amounts of tantrums, shouting and point blank refusals to do as they're told.  Nothing more serious than that but a very tiring state of affairs and just a little bit embarrassing. 

There are plenty of explanations: they are excited, they are with their friends, they are free from the stricture of routines imposed by school and pre-school and the set way that we do things at home.  It always surprises us when we get back how much calmer they seem but if you factor in the point that mum and dad are not nearly as interesting as their friends and their normal routine does not involve going to the beach every day and getting to stay up late then it does make sense.  Equipped with such knowledge we now know to brace ourselves and try to relax a bit so they don't feel that for the entire holiday their surnames have been changed to "No" or "Stop it!".

Then the other day a friend was telling me that during the wee small hours of a particularly lively dinner party she was holding, her 19-year-old daughter got out of bed and stood at the top of the stairs to tell her off for making too much noise.  Tables turned, here was the parent being the naughty one, and classically she responded with a "no I will not!".  It was payback time. 

It made me think about what happens when I get together with my friends.  Some of this is documented (see Doing it for the Kids or The Kids are Alright) but I will also take this opportunity, in the spirit of reminding myself that it isn't just the children who muck around, to confess to participating in the following:

• A re-enaction of a 'Spaghetti Western' using tinned spaghetti as our weapon of choice (out of the tin of course).
• Making phone calls on behalf of the fictitious 'Friendly Society' which involved calling people to wish them Happy New Year.  Whilst our calls were unexpected, we did get a lot of bewildered 'Thank You's'.
• Having a fruit and veg fight in a classroom.
• Calling out to strangers from a moving car asking them in an anguished voice "When are you coming home?"
• Stuffing a car full of leaves, including the glove compartment.
• Whining at a DJ for switching the music off because we just want to dance, man! 

I have also witness people eating the entire contents of sugar bowls, 30 olives in one go, massively over-spiced curries (sometimes by choice, other times spiked) and pots of mustard for fun.  It's one thing to muck about but I draw the line at inflicting pain on my intestines - I'll leave that to the cast iron stomachs of my male friends.

All of this is silly, childish behaviour fuelled by being with friends and often by one too many shandies.  Replace the shandies with industrial amounts of ice cream and orange juice and you have the perfect small person's storm. 

So there it is, it's not just the children.  The desire to muck about is in all of us, it's just that for the most part our children are spared the embarrassment of our misbehaviour.  Next holiday I'll cut them a bit more slack. 

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Soundtrack: Renegade Master - Wildchild (Fatboy Slim Remix)

Hi, My Name Is..

What's in a name?  Your parents pick one for you and you either love it, loathe it, change it, or your mates decide that adding a 'y' on the end of your surname or calling you something entirely different would work better.  The latter point seems particularly prevelant among men; when I met my husband's friends I had to learn their actual names and their nicknames.  Some followed the classic 'y' model like 'Broomy' and 'Studdy' whilst others stemmed from in-jokes and shenanigans long before I knew them - like 'Queenie' and 'Shed'.  Never happened with my girl friends, our 'proper' names always won out.
 
So it was decided that I would be Toni, and whilst there have been a couple of attempts at variations from friends and the occassional shortening to 'Tone' my name has remained largely unchanged and problem-free.

• Except that it is impossible for me to buy plane tickets or fill out a form without it being questioned.

• Except that when I had short hair as a child, people thought that I was a boy.  

• Except that sometimes, when my mother and father-in-law spoke to people about their son and me without explaining that I was a woman, some of them thought I was a man. 

• Except that sometimes in business if I email someone prior to meeting them, they expect to meet a man (do you detect a pattern here?). 

Were it to happen after a meeting, I would be distressed but as that is not the case, the fact that my name creates confusion is something that I quite enjoy and so I thank my parents for giving me a memorable name.

So we skip through life with our first names then some of us become a 'Mrs' and change our surnames.  Big day, big admin task, then big thrill of being addressed as 'Mrs Kent' for the first time.  So rarely do we use our 'formal' names now I feel like I'm in Downton Abbey if I have to say it or reply to it.  It feels particularly strange to be called it by our daughter's classmates - like most of us I don't feel too much older than 25 (even if I look am much closer to 40) so it feels odd to be given such a respectable sounding title.



No 'muh-meee' on here

And so to those children.  Ah lovely little babies that you are, we await your first word with trepidation, punch the air when you babble 'mama' and are overwhelmed when you say 'mummy' properly.  Then you realise that saying 'mummy' gets you attention, and the urgency and pitch with which it is delivered can be extremely effective in causing your parent to appear at a moments notice.  Uh-oh.  Mummy becomes Muh-meeee.  Or Muuuuuuuuuuuummmmyyyyyyyyyy.  Or MummyMummyMummyMummy!  There are days when I think that I must be called it close to 50 times...oh the agony.  Sometimes it is cute, sometimes just about bearable, often absolutely maddening.  There is a special kind of restraint involved to swallow the primordial scream brewing in your chest when you realise that the sound of you shutting the toilet door will prompt a small voice to call your name in a way that suggests something needs your immediate attention.  Even an attempt to discreetly open a magazine at the kitchen table when you think your child is playing in another room gets picked up by their radar - how do they do it?!

I love my children and being a mum has enriched my life but oh how I cherish those moments when I am just plain old Toni.  Hang on a minute - I think I can hear someone calling from upstairs.......no, I'm ok.  This time it's Daaaaaaaadeeeeeeeee :)

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Soundtrack: My Name Is - Eminem