The Longest Week?

(Slightly short, dull, incoherent post, sorry)

One week into the summer holidays, and with typical timing the weather has returned to its usual British unpredictability, somewhat scuppering my detailed plan for plenty of outdoor activities. It appears that I've managed to survive my first taste of the non-working-parent-summer-holiday-lifestyle relatively unscathed, other than it having caused a strong craving for gin on what should by rights be a non-drinking day. It has also only reinforced the idea that I'm too cowardly to do this full-time, and the search for a new job has taken tentative steps.

That is not to say that I have not enjoyed myself and I have loved seeing the way the children respond to being at home with me. We're getting to the stage where we are getting used to spending so much time on top of each other after an initial somewhat frantic pace where it appeared that they wanted as much of me as possible. I've also taken a step back from social media, which I think has helped my relaxation levels greatly, and I'm wondering if my love affair with Twitter may be permanently over.

Thank heavens for libraries and National Trust membership, as well as various free events specially designed for harassed parents, thanks to which the budget appears to be holding up.

Here's to week 2...

Walled garden, Avebury NT

PEGI Family Gaming Ambassador - Challenge 2

(Sponsored Post - view Challenge 1 here: http://www.thesardinetin.com/2012/12/pegi-family-gaming-ambassador-challenge.html)

I'm very, very late with this post.

Not because this challenge was particularly difficult, but mainly because of those mysterious circumstances that dictate that when you need an electronic device of any description, the batteries will run out and you will not have any replacements in the house. (Seriously, why does EVERYTHING need batteries these days? I wish I'd gone into battery production. I'd be making a fortune).

Anyway. The second challenge is all about Collaboration. So Stop, Collaborate, and Listen.

The lovely folks at Ask About Games instructed to spend a couple of 60 minute sessions playing video games together as a family. In order to do this, we were given a copy of Just Dance 4, and a Skylanders Giants starter pack for the Xbox 360.

As I may have mentioned before, we have already owned a Nintendo Wii for a while, so are familiar with the Just Dance franchise. Playing this together was therefore not a new experience for us (although the fact that we managed to rope my husband in was!), and it tends to be something "we girls" do together fairly regularly. Great exercise for me, if nothing else!

It's at this point that I'm supposed to show you a short video clip of us busting our groovy moves to Barry White's My First, My Last, My Everything. Unfortunately, this is where technology conspired against us, the Flip camera refused to record us, and we gave up. Should we ever repeat our perfect score, I'll post the video another time. In the meantime, here's an artist's impression:

What I found slightly more challenging was playing the Skylanders game collaboratively, as this is mainly set up to be a first-person adventure game and we only have one controller. However, in the end, we did manage to both fulfil our challenges and collaborate, by the 7 year old controlling the game while myself and Mr Sardinetin shouted instructions, and the 5 year old swapped playing figures on the portal...

I'm a big believer in not leaving children unsupervised in front of technology for too long, so playing games together is something that we do actually enjoy while satisfying the control freak in me. With the advent of so many "family-friendly" consoles and games, there really is no excuse for not finding something that everyone can participate in either.

Having said this, I am dreading the days when my "Just Dance" crown is seriously challenged - DD2 is showing some serious rhythm...
___
P.S. If you're viewing this on a mobile device, and feel the desperate need to comment, you might have to view the "web version" to do so. Sorry, and thank you!

Can You Teach Children Resilience?

I've got a parenting dilemma, and it's all Robbie Williams' fault.

You see, despite my previous misgivings, I recently signed both daughters up to a "Performing Arts" session on a Saturday morning. I always knew it would be mainly for the benefit of my 5 year old, who is very much into dressing up and performing, but her older sister also often enjoys "putting on a show", so I figured I would try them both with it.

The younger age group has an hour first thing in the morning - split into 20 minutes of singing, 20 minutes of dance, and 20 minutes of drama. For those aged 6+ this goes up to 3 x 1hr = 3 hrs in total. After the first session, both children declared it to be "brilliant" and couldn't wait to go again. Excellent. So I signed them up for the rest of the half-term and bought them each the t-shirt.

After last week's second session, younger daughter was still full of enthusiasm, however, DD1 seemed a little subdued when she came out and didn't say much. To be honest, this isn't unusual for her, so I put it down to a strenuous morning and didn't think much of it.

Until, that is, we heard this song....




...which apparently is one of the songs they had been dancing to. It prompted a very sudden, and very definite, outburst of "I don't want to go any more" from DD1. Trying to get to the bottom of the whys and wherefores didn't really bring me much joy - all she would say initially was that it was "boring" (presumably because they were practising the same songs/dance routines as the previous week?), however, she did later admit that she "missed us".

I don't know why this has riled me as much as it seems to have done. After all, I knew from the outset there was a good chance it would be less her "thing" than her sister's. I suppose I was thrilled to see her initial joy, and yes, there is the fact that I have now paid for a half-term up front based on her declarations that she wanted to carry on!

It's also not the first time this has happened - we had similar tears at the start of Rainbows, then Brownies, school choir, and even school swimming lessons! It seems her initial reaction to something is to give up if she isn't immediately comfortable with it.

I suspect, however, that deep down I am projecting too much of myself onto her. The poor child not only looks like the spitting image of me, but we are both very alike in temperament. We're both introverted, and not particularly good with strangers or new situations.
However, I very much enjoyed performing in my yoof, and did a lot of drama etc - it was one way I was able to build some confidence and pretend to be someone else for a while, and I suppose maybe I was hoping it would be the same for her.

So now I find myself in a dilemma. She is still at the age (not yet 8) where perhaps she has not yet found her niche, and by forcing her to do something that she doesn't want to do I am preventing her from fulfilling her potential. Or, alternatively, she just needs a bit more time to feel comfortable, and once she gets over her initial hump maybe she will enjoy it...in which case a gentle push might be a good thing for her. I guess I'd like her to demonstrate a little bit of staying power - but is that unrealistic at this age?

Answers on a postcard, please....

Other Things That Are Wasted on Other People

(Catchy title, eh?)

Following on from a comment on my previous post about maternity leave being wasted on babies, it seemed like a good opportunity to follow up with a light-hearted look at some of the other things that might also be wasted on other groups of people:

- Sex drives are wasted on teenagers. Because really - let's face it - the eager/horny little puppies don't really know what to do with themselves. By the time we've had enough practice to actually do it properly without being too hung up on our bodies, real life intervenes. Work stresses, having to pay a mortgage and - heaven forbid you've had enough sex to reproduce - children and the tiredness they cause don't do vast amounts for the libido. Sad, but true.

- Honeymoons are wasted on newlyweds. Following on from the previous point (and thank you to May Day for this one) - what you need after several years of the rat race and general drudgery is a holiday of a lifetime. A two-week blow-out, just the two of you, somewhere exotic where you can rekindle the passion of the heady first few months and spend time away from being just mummy and daddy. Problem is, it's generally frowned upon to go off gallivanting for two weeks in the Caribbean when you should be taking the offspring to a Cornish campsite like everyone else. Even assuming you have babysitters willing to put up with the little darlings, you've probably spent all your money on nappies and gin and can't afford it anyway.

- Requirements for little sleep are wasted on the elderly. My parents are retired. Yet they are often up and about at the same time as me in the mornings. Through choice! No alarm rousing them for work, no kids jumping on their heads. No, apparently once you are retired, you get urges to empty dishwashers at 7am. Again, this is patently unfair. Morning sprightliness should be the reserve of those of us who have to go and earn a crust. If we can't look forward to long lie-ins in our old age, what is there to look forward to? Mind you, the link between early mornings and falling asleep on the sofa after lunch does seem to be a strong one...

- Money is wasted on footballers. I don't think I really need to say much more about this one.

- Fast cars are wasted on middle-aged men with paunches and moustaches. They look silly, but they're the only ones who can afford them. Why couldn't I have an Aston Martin when I was 25?!

- A collection of killer heels is wasted on us home workers. *Sigh*

Go on, I bet you can think of a few more examples?

Blue Sky Thinking

Maternity Leave is Wasted on Babies

Babies, eh? Cute little, adorable, needy creatures that rely completely on you, and you alone for all their needs. Right?

Wrong.

Apart from the whole breastfeeding thing (let me state at this point that I'm a big advocate, so this is a major flaw in my entire argument, but we'll handily gloss over that for the sake of my argument), let's face it, most babies couldn't give two hoots who provides them with clothing, nappy changing, feeding, bedding, bathing etc etc. Anyone can do it. Yeah, ok, there's a certain bonding element, but you're not going to love your child any less simply by outsourcing some of these activities to someone else on occasion.

Babies are fundamentally boring in the very early days, and not even you broody types can tell me otherwise. For the first few weeks, all they really do is pooh, cry, feed and sleep-at-all-times-except-when-you-really-want-them-to.

Number 2 daughter proves the benefits of box-sleeping

I remember before I had children of my own, a colleague with two daughters who were then roughly the same age as my own two daughters are now said to me that secretly she wished she could have had her maternity leave then, instead of when they were tiny. While to some it may be sacrilegious to admit it, I can totally see her point.

Now that my children are at school, I hear a lot of mums who have stayed at home until now say to me that it might be time they also now looked for a job. My tongue-in-cheek advice to them; don't do it. Yes, you may have a couple of extra hours free in the day while your offspring are at school, but believe me, you will need this time to do all the added administration that comes with school-age children. Dentist appointments, playdates, after-school clubs and school forms don't magically arrange themselves!

Then of course, once they have finished with the school day, there are extra-curricular pick-ups and drop-offs to be negotiated. A logistical nightmare with more than one child, as you can guarantee they won't ever be in the same place at the same time. Hockey practice will clash with choir rehearsals, and Brownies will never handily be at the same time as Rainbows... Plus there's always the odd child who will insist on having a birthday party on a school day. Try telling a 5 year old that they have to go to after-school club instead of a birthday party because mummy's working!

Plus, one major (dis)advantage a school-age child has over a baby is of course the power of speech. Yeah, so maybe your baby will cry when you drop them off at nursery or with a childminder, but a nice cinnamon latte with your colleagues later, and you kind of get over any guilt you're feeling. A child, however, can look you in the eye and ask the question all working parents dread; "WHY MUMMY?". Why can't you drop them off at school every day, why do they have to go to childcare, why can't you come and help in class, why can't you come on a trip... They're manipulative little beasts that know exactly which buttons to press and which heartstrings to tug for maximum effect.

And yes, they are actually more fun - you can do so much more together! My daughters like rollercoasters, and music and riding bikes, just like I do.

Finally, working full-time is a real bummer for your social life. How are you supposed to accept invitations to blogging events, pop round to your neighbour's for a cuppa and a natter, or meet up with lovely blogging friends if you have to book a day's holiday to do it?!

So, yeah, maternity leave is wasted on babies. Who's going to sign my petition?

Made in the UK

Eldest daughter and I had a conversation a while ago about how lots of things these days were made in China, which must have stayed in her mind a little bit, for she came into our bedroom the other morning and declared that she had found something that wasn't made in China, namely her pillowcase, which was made in Pakistan.

This led into a lengthy conversation about what other countries manufactured, and how some countries specialised in certain goods - e.g. "all the best watches are made in Switzerland".

"Yes", came the inevitable question, "but what is made in England?". "Lots of things", I replied, quickly racking my brains. "I tell you what, I'll go through the house and show you all the things I can think of off the top of my head".

So I did. Here, therefore, is a completely, random, unscientific post of things made in the UK (yes, I'm going slightly wider than "England") that I came across on a random morning - deliberately excluding food.

First, there were the obvious handmade items, like my lovely jewellery from Natalia Lovat:

Easy.

I was also grateful to see that a few of my cosmetics were made in the UK:

as were the tissues for my snotty nose:

...and when I had my mid-morning cup of tea, at least my kettle and mug were home-grown:

This probably indicates how old my kettle is, more than the state of British manufacturing!

I'm not sure this is scientific enough to really draw any conclusions from, but it was certainly an interesting exercise for both me and my daughter, and it's made me wonder whether I need to make a more active effort to think about the heritage of something, as I already do with the food I buy.

____
(not in any way sponsored!)

The Introvert's Guide to Parenting

I like solitude. I generally like my own company, even though I sometimes worry about the slightly nuttier depths of my overactive imagination. All of that is kind of fortunate really, as I spend a lot of time working from home, devoid of any sort of human contact other than that which comes as a disembodied voice on the other end of a phone. I appreciate it would probably drive seriously extroverted types completely bonkers, but being happily far along the introverted scale, it suits me down to the ground.

There's only one slight snag to this whole thing, however - you see, I went and had children.

The discomfort starts with pregnancy - all of a sudden, friends, acquaintances and complete strangers start to make small talk about intimate details of your anatomy. Doctors and health workers poke around in places normally reserved only for the most intimate moments. Your body is suddenly no longer your own, and sometimes you wonder if your mind is, either.

Maybe you start going to ante-natal classes. More complete strangers you suddenly find yourselves thrown together with. Actually though, you think, it's not too bad. At least you have something in common, so the small talk comes fairly easily. Heck, even the dads start showing an interest and doing a spot of male-bonding over their collective fertility.

The general indignity of the actual birthing process passes you by in a haze of gas and air. "Student midwives? Hell, yeah - the more the merrier! Come and look at the stitches on this!"

The first few weeks are weepy and sleep-deprived, and you wish you still had that gas and air handy. But, generally, people at least appreciate that you kind of have your hands full, and are happy to ask if you need help or appreciate company. Soon, however, there comes a point when you can no-longer use newborn chaos to delay your return into society.

Then comes the dreaded baby group.

Is there anything worse for an introvert than the prospect of a noisy room full of other people and wailing children? You don't want to seem like too much of a grump, but really all you want to do is quietly read your book in a corner while little Tarquin* plays with the building blocks. That would be "weird" though, so you reluctantly feign interest in conversations about nappies, weaning and sleep patterns.

Really though, it's not that bad. Worse is yet to come. Your children start to communicate with you in ways other than screaming red faces. And once kids start to talk they generally don't stop much. Permanent chatter fills your home from the time they get up to the time they pass out from over-stretched vocal chords. The endless questions wear you down as much as any arguing or shouting (if someone could invent a volume button for children, please?) and the endless chatter. Oh God, the endless chatter. The commentary about EVERY LITTLE THING makes you idly wonder if someone would employ them to do those audio descriptions for deaf people. Still, they're your kids, you love them, and they can be kind of amusing at times, so you kind of forgive them and put up with it, silently looking forward to the days when they toddle off to childcare or school.

Rookie mistake.

Yes, the start of school gives you more time to yourself, but it also brings with it the introverts greatest fear; OTHER PEOPLE'S CHILDREN. Your own children will insist on inviting them round as play dates, where they will jointly cause absolute chaos in your homely sanctuary.. No longer can you ignore the infantile whys and hows as you can with your own kids - you have to show an interest in the little dears, despite the fact you patently really don't have much interest in them other than as playmates to keep your own children from bothering you.

So, one day, when your now 5 year old youngest daughter states that she doesn't "like people talking AT her", you smile, and advise her under your breath never to have children of her own...

Source

(*just stating for the record that Tarquin is not the name of either of my daughters)

Hobbies, Homework and Trying to Silence the Guilt.

A few unrelated things this week have got me mulling over this post that's been going round in my head for a while. I've never quite got around to posting it before now as I could never quite work out what exactly I was trying to articulate.

Before I go rambling on, I feel it's probably useful to post a remind of my general schedule: Mon-Wed I work 8.30 to 5pm, and the kids are in breakfast and after-school club from around 8am, until I pick them up just after 5. Thursdays and Fridays I am lucky enough to work a shorter day - 9 till 3, which allows me to take them to and fetch them from school.

Up until now, the kids have not been involved in the round of endless classes and hobbies that other children seem to participate in - no ballet, gymnastics, swimming, tae-kwon-do, piano lessons etc etc. We simply haven't had enough time, and it has seemed unfair to push them to what is effectively another childcare setting on a Thursday or Friday afternoon when I don't see them much beyond bath and bedtime the rest of the week.

The exception to this has been Rainbows, which one or both of them have doing on a Wednesday evening for just over a year now (mainly, I confess, down to the fact that a friend put their names down a couple of years ago when she did the same for her own daughter!). DD1 has now moved on to Brownies on a Thursday, and expressed a wish to do both gymnastics at some point and participate in the school choir, which takes place after school on a Tuesday, a day she would normally be picked up by the after-school club. After some soul-searching and logistical juggling involving my parents offering to fetch her from school and take her to after-school club, I have (perhaps somewhat reluctantly) agreed. I may yet come to regret it.

So far, so good. It will probably appease some of that working parent guilt that comes with "Oh my God, I am not letting my children reach their full potential", and hopefully they will get enjoyment out of it. However, with Year 3 comes the thorny subject of  more homework. (My feelings on this summed up quite nicely by Mostly Yummy Mummy in her post on how much she hates homework.) I can't help worrying that our non-planned time together will become even more scarce.

We recently visited some good friends of ours, whose eldest son is in a private school. From what I understand, it prides itself on academically high standards (he had to pass a sort of entrance exam to go from the infant to the junior school, for example), and rumours abound of children quietly "disappearing" to other schools if they don't quite make the grade.

As well as fencing (!), drama, chess club etc, they are also paying for their son (8) to have private tuition in Maths. He follows something called "Kumon", which apparently is very popular in his class, with most children doing at least one or both of Maths or English to ensure they keep up. (I can't help thinking that it is a bit of a vicious circle...) I am certainly not judging them at all - they have invested a lot in him going to that school, so it is in their interests to ensure he stays there, and I suspect I would probably do the same in their situation, despite my initial reaction of horror. We all want what's best for our children.

I can't help worrying that, whether it is school pressure, time-poor working parents, or time take up by too many hobbies, children these days don't have enough time to just be children. If all their hours are mapped out for them, when will they learn to be independent and explore on their own?

School Summer Holiday Thoughts

Ah, the long, lazy summer holidays...right?

Wrong.

As a working parent there's really no such thing. No lie-ins, no lazy days in the garden, no end to the "school run" and the rush to work (only this time it's the "holiday club run"). It can be hard sometimes not to feel a pang of jealousy when you are rushing to get children ready for childcare with half an eye on Twitter, when you read about others sipping coffee in a peaceful house. (This of course assumes you are lucky enough to have few childcare issues over the holidays - not necessarily always a given!)

By around day three, however, and mentions of "boredom", grumbles about the cost of activities, wailing at ruined houses start to appear, tales of kids eating into adult time by staying up late... By the middle of that blissful six-week period, when the "MY KIDS ARE DRIVING ME CRAZY, WHEN ARE THEY GOING BACK TO SCHOOL" desperation kicks in, I am reminded that it's not easy for anyone - no matter how much greener the grass sometimes looks like from the other side. 

Then there's the fact that, without fail, one of my family can be guaranteed to come down with some kind of illness during a school holiday. It's as though the lack of routine is too much for the body to cope with, so it forces a relaxation. Last weekend it was me, and at the time of writing it appears to have affected daughter number 2. There's nothing like spending a sunny day in bed to really feel like you are wasting precious "leisure" time!

All of that, however, doesn't seem to matter at the moment, for when the sun shines the mood is instantly lifted. So - whatever you're doing - I hope you have a lovely summer!

I would do anything for love...

Two totally unrelated things last week had me mulling over the sacrifices some people will make for those they love.
Firstly, the lovely Amy at and 1 more means four...and 1 more blogged about giving up her bedroom to make space for her children. Secondly I heard of a former colleague who had left her husband and kids and was moving to New Zealand to be with "the love of her life".

Two slightly different scenarios, I think you'll agree, but it did get me wondering what sort of lengths I personally would be prepared to go to if push came to shove. I occasionally idly throw out the "I would do anything for my children" line without thinking about it too much, and in a lot of ways I mean that - but let's face it, even that has some limits. I won't tattoo their names on my face, for example, no matter how much they begged me....


In all seriousness and at the risk of sounding horribly smug and privileged, the only thing could think of having done was changing my holiday preferences. I've blogged before about how I grit my teeth and go skiing for sake of my husband's love of the sport, and since the last year I guess I can add camping to the mix too. Whenever I tell anyone that knows me well, but that maybe I have not seen in a while, that we have recently bought a tent and I have (semi-)willingly spent several nights under canvas, their reaction is always the same dubious expression and a "I can't see you as a camper". It seems my love of the little luxuries in life is well documented. The thing is though, the kids LOVE camping, and, similar to skiing, we've always been with other people, making it a very sociable holiday. The expressions on their muddy little faces makes up for the lack of en-suite facilities...just.


(That, however, is a piece of cake in comparison to what some people do for their children - let's face it, even camping isn't the cheap holiday it's often sold as if you have to invest in some of the equipment, and I'm well aware there are those that can't afford a holiday of any description.)

Putting up with a couple of nights in a tent is nothing compared to deciding to give up your bedroom and permanently move into your living room, as Amy and her husband decided to do. That is probably also a drop in the ocean in comparison to the decision to leave your children and not only move to a different country, but to the other side of the world. I'm not going to judge this person at all - I don't know too much about the circumstances. However, much as I sometimes curse my own little blighters, I don't think any romance could ever make up for the fact of only seeing my daughters twice a year.

I don't think I could do that.


(Anyway, I'll leave you with this. Because THAT'S how much I love you all, and I know you're already humming it anyway...)

The One In Which I Remember The Point I Forgot to Add To My Last Post

(.....also known as The One In Which The Sun Shines Out Of My Head.)

My previous post about the signs of my mid-life crisis already included the vaguely fashion-related point, but as we old people are allowed to be scatty and generally fickle, I'm going to blather on about a vaguely clothing-related subject for a bit longer.

I've never really classed myself as a major fashionista. In fact, since working from home, I ashamed to say that my "style" is more slobby than smart. It may therefore come as a bit of a shock to most people to discover that I do actually have a vague interest in fashion and clothing - almost as a "spectator sport", or as one would appreciate art - I wouldn't necessarily hang all of it on my walls, but I can certainly appreciate the design that has gone into it. I think it's fair to say that my personal aim, however, has always been to be "stylish", rather than "fashionable" (a vague dalliance with high fashion in the 80s has left me with enough photographic evidence to prove that slavishly following trends is not always a Good Idea).

My head tells me about the importance of the capsule wardrobe and regularly warns against the dangers of the impulse purchase that does not follow my self-imposed rules. Having said this, there are generally one or two items in my wardrobe that probably go against this general principle. The interesting thing is that some of these items are much loved by myself, and yet appear to create great consternation amongst both my husband and my children when I wear them.

Exhibit one - this fabulous Pringle kimono cardigan that I bought a few years ago at the height of my "I'm never buying anything black ever again" phase. (Note the colour). Some things are bargains you just fall in love with and simply blow any rules out of the window.

Needless to say, the photo above does not do it justice in the slightest. The reason I love it is its versatility  - it can be light and airy for a cooler summer day when worn with a vest top underneath, and yet also fabulously warm when I hide my arms in the vast billowing sleeves.

And yet whenever I wear this much-loved item, I can guarantee that at least one of my children will ask why I am wearing it, or comment about me "looking funny". The adult me should respond in a perfectly rational, grown-up way, maybe explaining why this item is so beloved....and yet what seems to happen instead is that I suddenly turn into my teenage self and have flashbacks to the sulky reactions I had whenever my mother used to gently criticise my fashion choices.(It is at this point I should probably grudgingly agree that she may have had a point about the stripey purple cropped dungarees).

In conclusion - if middle age is about finding the things that make you happy and not caring what other people think, I'm definitely all in favour.

Conflict Management, or Do Men Do Housework?

There's not much I hate more than argument or conflict. You might say it's my Libran love of balance and harmony, or an introvert's dislike of offloading, but either way I'm not one of these people that can put forward my gripes in an apparently neutral and constructive manner. I try, oh dear me yes, I try. I'll run through little speeches in my head that sound reasoned and calm - yet when it comes to the crunch, 9 times out of 10 I am likely to burst into tears after I have sounded nagging and depressing (even to my own ears). Therefore, I'm likely to let things stew until they eventually explode in a weird irrational sulk (or tears, viz above). 

I'm explaining all this because essentially this blog post is an argument with my husband...Before you are all horrified that I'm washing my dirty linen behind his back, I have to state that my husband reads my blog, and I figured getting things down in a carefully thought-out manner might help get my current gripes off my chest. He often says that reading my blog is the best way for him to know what I'm thinking anyway. 

I think I've stated before that my husband works,  relatively long hours, exacerbated by an hour's commute every morning and every evening, often not returning until after the children are in bed. It is physically impossible for him to do housework, sort the children, cook meals, do shopping, laundry etc etc during this time. My rational mind understands this. Yet if I am completely honest, my irrational mind has recently become resentful that I not only have to do all these things but also hold down a full-time job, that, to be honest is currently looking quite unstable and therefore pretty stressful. The thing is, Mr Tin is very good if I ask him...it's the fact that I have to ask him in the first place that is getting me down.

There was a survey in the news around a year ago, undertaken by esure that stated that couples argue almost two and a half thousand times a year. I looked at this list of things and instantly felt better by how petty and insignificant they actually were (77 arguments a year about parking the car? 90 arguments about walking past stuff that is at the bottom of the stairs to be taken upstairs? Not closing cupboard doors, etc etc), and instantly felt better that "it's not just me". I'm sure my husband has plenty of little things that annoy him about me. (Leaving stuff ON TOP of the dishwasher instead of putting it straight in - yes, I've been known to do that, but he does it more... ;-p)

Does there come a point where we need to realise we are never going to change our partners? How long do we need to spend "educating" them in the things we want them to do (or stop doing)? At which point do we give them up as a lost cause and come to terms with the fact that some things just aren't going to change? Can you train men, or should I just get a dog; or would we then just argue about whose turn it is to walk it...?

Jokes for Children, part 2 - 6/7 year olds

It's not hard to tell that I'm a pretty rubbish blogger. The perils of a full-time job and two children mean that I don't often have the time (or, let's face it - the inclination) to write regular posts. In some ways, I envy those that do, although I like to hope that maybe my sporadic approach means I only post true nuggets of golden quality (ahem).

Anyway, good bloggers are supposed to be on top of their stats and traffic, know their audience inside out and tailor their approach accordingly. Here again I fail pretty miserably, having been so totally bamboozled by the last update of google analytics that I never darkened its doors ever again. Still, blogger doesn't let me totally forget that I am supposed to worry about my stats, for it gives a handy little guide in my dashboard that I have been known to idly glance at on the odd occasion.

Pretty much consistently without fail, the one search term that brings the most people to my blog on a regular basis is either "jokes for four year olds" or "jokes for five year olds". Go on, I dare you - go google those search terms and see who comes up around halfway down the page (number three spot on the five year olds, I'll have you know - people pay good money for that sort of ranking!). Yep, yours truly with a post I wrote nearly two years ago now begging for inspiration for jokes for children.

The thing is, while my youngest daughter is now starting to appreciate the jokes aimed at this age range, eldest daughter has now turned seven, and as any parent of a seven year old will tell you, this is a vast step up in sophistication from a five year old when it comes to humour. While her little sister is still at the "why did the chicken cross the road - to get to its house" school of comedy, DD1 can be found rolling her eyes, sighing loudly and muttering "that's not even FUNNY" under her breath at her younger sibling's efforts.

I have therefore decided that now seems like an appropriate time to update my own, very limited, repertoire of jokes for children to reflect that increased sophistication. (Once again, I take no responsibility whatsoever for how funny or not these jokes are - they are purely based on those that either I, or a just-turned-seven-year-old can remember...)

Current favourites include doctor, doctor jokes, e.g.:

"Doctor, doctor, I think I'm a strawberry"
"Here's some cream for you"

or

"Doctor, doctor, I feel like a pair of curtains"
"Pull yourself together"

or a series of jokes revolving around deer and their various body parts (or lack thereof):

"What do you call a deer with no eyes"
"No idea"

"What do you call a deer with no ears"
"A d"
 (particular favourite, that one)

"What do you call a deer with no eyes and no legs"
"Still no idea"

You get the picture...

So, as before, I'm throwing the floor open to you - help me out here -what are you favourite jokes for children, for any age range?

When Polly Pocket met Chessington World of Adventures (or the one with dolls, vampires and big fish)

Last week saw the annual "I can't believe my baaaabyyyy is X*" hand wringing that takes place around mid-April, with eldest daughter's birthday. We had already arranged a party, but when I found an email in my inbox inviting us to a Polly Pocket event at Chessington World of Adventures on the day itself, I couldn't really say no...My two have only relatively recently discovered Polly Pocket, having been given some figures for Christmas, but they were already big fans, so it seemed a bit of a no-brainer.

When we got to the hotel where the venue was, the kids totally conformed to type, as DD1 headed straight for the computers with the new Polly Pocket website, and DD2 got her face painted:

 ....but mostly they were just happy to play with all the Polly Pocket toys on offer:

When the fun was over, we were allowed free reign inside Chessington World of Adventures. I think I've blogged in the past about my love of theme parks and especially rollercoaster-type rides, so I suspect I may have been a bit more excited about this bit than the children...

We started off gently with a quick trip round the zoo, and the Sealife Centre, before heading towards the rides. To be honest, an odd number of people in a theme park is never the best idea, and we really could have done with Mr Tin being able to join us for the day - sadly he was shackled to his desk, so couldn't make it. Therefore, random adults had to be found for DD1 to pair up with on some of the scarier rides - both of my children being rollercoaster freaks like their parents.

Both kids loved the "Vampire" - their first experience of a "hanging underneath" rollercoaster - despite the fact we had to queue for nearly two hours, thankfully our longest queue. In the end, the combination of the park being busy due to school holidays and starting the day relatively late after the event meant that we probably only managed to see a third of the attractions. The cries of "please can we go again mummy" started on the way home, and I must admit the new hotel looked very tempting....

DD1 declared it the "best birthday ever" - I only hope I can live up to the next one!

Many thanks to the guys at Mattel and Chessington for a fabulous day.
____

(*7, in this case)

(P.S. Head over to http://pollypocketbestdayever.co.uk/ for a chance to win more fun days out, including trips to Chessington World of Adventures)

The Gift of Time

There's a phrase I've recently become conscious of muttering a lot, and I am starting to hate myself for it:

"We haven't got time"

Yes, I'm a full time working mother of two, so it's logical "time" isn't going to be on my side. The mornings involve rushing the kids to either breakfast club or school, then straight back to my desk to log on. Evenings three days a week involve picking up the kids from after-school club and pretty much starting the end of the day routine straight away. Not much time for "mummy, can I make a rocket", or "mummy, can we bake some cakes".

Of course, winter is worse, when the evenings are dark. At least as the evenings get lighter the pressures of bedtime somehow never seem as pressing. The truth is, I've always got very stressed about timekeeping. Friends laugh and say that I spent too many of my formative years in Germany, and that their reputation for punctuality has rubbed off on me. This may be true, but whatever the underlying reason, I hate being late for anything, and it makes me horribly agitated.

In the spirit of opposites attracting, I therefore of course went and married a man who is perpetually ten minutes late for everything. The kind of man who insists on starting something just as we're getting ready to go out or as food is on the table. Also, as every parent knows children have no concept of time, or what it really means to be "late" for anything. You might therefore appreciate that circumstances conspire against me 99% of the time in my quest to be both relaxed and punctual. Heck, even most of my blog posts are rushed!

However, I am very conscious of the fact that I don't want to be one of those mothers who is forever screaming at her children to hurry up. Do I really want them to remember me as someone who used to rush them from place to place, never letting them do what they wanted to for "lack of time"?

I'm going to try picking up sticks and looking at leaves on the next home run, but in the meantime, if someone could please invent a time machine, I'd be most grateful.

Of Chalk and Cheese

Two very different incidents over the weekend have got me marvelling about how truly different my children are from each other. Little did I know, when I rashly exclaimed at number two's birth "My goodness, you're your sister", how wrong I would be proved. The physical changes became gradually apparent; after the shock of jet black hair they shared at birth had faded, DD1's colouring turned to my dirty blonde, whilst her younger sister stayed stubbornly brunette.

Physical differences are of course less interesting to me than their differences in character. In many ways this too became obvious when they were still tiny. Problems with reflux meant DD1's first few months were emotionally fraught and physically exhausted while her sister ate and slept well almost immediately, and it seemed reflected in their general temperament.

We popped to the shops on Saturday to pick up a few bits and pieces, and the familiar cry of "mummy, I need a wee" was soon heard. I looked around and mumbled something about trying to remember where the toilets were. When I looked back, number 2 had disappeared. I headed towards the toilets with DD1, only to  find DD2 purposefully striding towards the back of the store already. "It's ok, mummy", she said, "the toilets are over there - I asked a man". It truly amazed (and worried) me to see her confidence at age four - I barely dare ask strangers for directions at *cough* years older! Needless to say, even at two years older, it's not something her sister would ever consider either, which I must confess saddens me a little - I'd love to give her a bit of a confidence injection sometimes.

Yet an incident on Sunday reminded me that she has her own positive attributes where her sister may perhaps be "lacking". We went for a lovely bike ride with some friends along a canal. All was going well, when, around an hour in, DD1 slipped when pushing her bike up a hill, and fell. Her friend behind her struggled to stop, and ran over her arm at the elbow. From the initial cries we could tell something was not right, and my husband hurried back to fetch the car to the nearest point (thankfully close). From that point, through to being diagnosed as having a broken arm, having had it x-rayed three times and cast twice until we were ready to go home around 6 hours after the incident had happened, she was incredibly calm and uncomplaining, and her bravery really impressed me. It's probable that her younger sister would have howled and complained through the entire process.

I suppose it will never cease to amaze me how the same set of genes mixed slightly differently can result in such different little personalities, and seeing that mix develop and grow truly has to be one of the most fun aspects of parenting.

Review: Cottage Croquet Set

Before I start, I can almost hear you exclaiming - "Croquet? In December?!" To be honest, it was also my first reaction when I was offered a croquet set by Garden Games for me to review. However, I have always wanted a croquet set and I also figured there could be no harm in finding an excuse to get the kids outside in the garden at this time of year. (I must confess my imagination got a little carried away and I had visions of "ice croquet" on a blanket of crunchy grass. Any excuse for a nice hot toddy afterwards...)

Anyway,  back to the set. The set contains four mallets, four balls, metal hoops, a winning post and a set of rules in a nice sturdy nylon bag:

(as you can see, someone was so keen to get going, she refused to keep out of the picture so you'll have to take my word for it that there are four of each...). The quality of the mallets and balls feels really great, but in a silly way it was the metal hoops that impressed me the most. A lot of croquet sets I have seen in the past have included basic wire rings, but these ones are solid and sturdy and definitely won't end up bent out of shape:

The set retails for £79.99, which may seem like a lot I suppose, but I do think this set would certainly last. This is a good thing, as to be honest the only downside I could see what that I think my children (4 and 6) are still a little young for it, and could probably do with smaller mallets. It is definitely intended for adults or older children, and I can see us getting more use out of it in future when they are a little older.

All I need now is for someone to buy me a house with a large lawn so I can do it justice...

Wait Until Your Father Gets Home...

Source

...seems to be a phrase most of us remember our mothers uttering at one point or another. The dreaded "father as disciplinarian" is something I certainly remember from my own childhood (which is strange considering how much of a pussy cat he is now with his granddaughters...).

Whilst I would not go as far as saying that my husband and I have a good cop-bad cop thing going on when it comes to parenting, it is very true to say that the girls tend to respond to us differently on different occasions. For instance, I am normally better at cajoling them into getting ready for school in the mornings, while their dad has more luck with them at bedtime for some reason. Of course this is all very well and good when you are both around to take on your roles, but it only takes one of you not being around to throw the precarious equilibrium out of kilter.

Take Wednesdays, for instance. Wednesday is the day I officially start early (historically the day I have gone into the office, vs working from home), and him indoors therefore takes the kids to breakfast club. Or rather; it's the day they refuse to get dressed, howl like banshees over brushing their teeth and have to be dragged kicking and screaming to the car...

I like to think we have a more or less similar approach to disciplining our children, which I think is incredibly important. It's still funny, however, funny to see how our daughters still try that age old tactic enjoyed by generations of children, of playing one parent off against the other. Why do they think asking a different parent will get a different answer? At which age will they learn that the standard answer will always be "what did daddy/mummy say?" And at which age will they finally learn that, in general, we do not issue empty threats, but follow through on any threatened punishment...? (I suspect the answer, as with any questions related to children, is; when they reach 21... )

Holiday Memories, or How To Not Have Sex on Holiday

September. Holidays over. Back to work, back to school, back to reality with a big bump. Leaves are falling off the trees, the nights are drawing in, and Hallowe'en decorations are jostling for shelf space with Christmas crackers in the supermarkets. (This last point may be a lie, I haven't actually been near a supermarket since coming back from holiday - oh, the delights of online shopping - but let's face it, this year isn't going to be any different from previous years on that front, is it?)

Holidays are funny things though, aren't they? All that pressure on a couple of weeks somewhere different and away from home... if you ask me, they should be up there in the top 10 of most stressful life events. Divorce? Break-up? Death of a close relative? Losing a job? Not half as stressful as spending 10 hours straight in a car with children and their infernal "Are we there yet" questions. Thank heavens for the advent of portable dvd players...

Once you get to your chosen destination, maybe you look forward to some time by yourselves? A little time as a couple? A little time to - dare I mention the "s" word - indulge in the activity that brought about said little darlings in the first place? There is, after all, such a thing as Holiday Horn(TM), which seems to rear it's head (pun intended) when sunny climes result in fewer items of clothing and excess sangria/red wine/babycham loosen inhibitions.

If you will allow me to give a top tip to those looking forward to holiday hanky-panky; do not spend the first few days sleeping in the next room to your mother in law. Now, for some people, being under the same roof as a parent may excite them by reminding them of their teenage fumblings. Let's just say I am not one of them, and no matter how well I may get on with my mother in law, there's something about the thought of her listening through the plasterboard that doesn't really induce lustful feelings.

Never mind, you may tell yourself - this holiday is in several parts, and only the first few days are spent in the company of relatives. Maybe you hope that the prospect of staying in a hotel later in the holiday will reinvigorate things? Think again. Holidaying with children in a hotel rarely lives up to the expectations that you might have had of Egyptian cotton, fluffy robes and room service. Instead you find yourselves in the dreaded "family room" - essentially a normal double, with an additional sofa bed squashed into one end of it. If you are very lucky (thank you, Novotel), this will fold into two separate single beds, thus avoiding the inevitable duvet fights that ensue should two children not used to sharing a bed together find themselves having to do so (thanks for nothing, Disneyland Paris).

Your children will of course have managed to grab forty winks in the car on the journey from wherever you have come, and will be rested and full of beans when you reach said hotel. Not for them therefore the early bedtime you had hoped for and that had you dreaming of the smuggled cans of beer and gin and tonic you had packed with tremendous optimism and foresight. Instead, they will join you in the hotel restaurant, demand televisual rights and generally fidget and be wide awake so much that you are forced to employ the final weapon in your arsenal.

Yes, it's time for the "but it's so late even mummy and daddy are going to bed" argument. This involves you putting on nightwear, brushing your teeth (so much for the sneaky alcoholic drink), getting into bed, extinguishing lights and feigning sleep in the vain hope that for once in their lives your children will follow your example. Of course, the inevitable happens, and you reawaken at midnight, dribbling, thirsty, and slightly disorientated by the fact you were asleep at 9pm...

So it is that after two weeks of sunshine, fun, Mickey overdose and 2000 miles of driving, you return home, tired, sexually frustrated, and in need of another holiday...

Nostalgia is for Old People

The date stamp on the draft of this post says 8th June, so let's just pretend this post is inspired by recent events and gloss over the fact I've been meaning to write it for nearly two months and failed miserably, can we?

Two unrelated events over the past couple of months have got me thinking about nostalgia. Firstly, our half term holiday to the Peak District brought back a flood of familiar names that I remembered from my childhood. There I was, transported back to the age of 12, sitting in the car outside an antiques shop in Buxton while my parents rummaged around and oohed and aahed over "boring old junk". Or maybe thinking back to freezing in a cave with my friend Alison, laughing as the water dripped onto our heads from the stalactites above. Lyme Park hadn't changed much in over 20 years - unless you counted the state of the art playground that now seems de rigueur for any self-respecting tourist attraction.

Driving home after our holiday, we detoured to try and beat the inevitable South Manchester traffic jams, until there they were - the really familiar names from my childhood. Cheadle. Gatley. We passed my old school - the school where I spent only two years, and yet where, if I close my eyes I can still see the crowds of uniformed pupils meandering down the corridors, or smell the fear of going into the girls' toilets in case the older girls were in there smoking.

The day after we came back, myself and a few girlfriends - all now in our 30s and (shhh) 40s - went to a local 80s night, where Limahl (he of Kajagoogoo fame) and various other artistes transported us back to our youth, along with a crowd of other similarly middle-aged people.

I tried explaining all of this to my daughters, whose blank incomprehension finally made me laugh. The thing is, nostalgia is completely lost on the young. Try telling a six year old that there were only 3 television channels and no tv in the mornings when you were young - or that nobody had mobile phones, and music came on giant black discs. The look of withering pity and incomprehension is enough to make you sob into your snakebite and black...

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go and put my legwarmers on.