The baby girl is 4 months old now, sitting up, smiling, laughing and chatting. Not intelligent conversation you understand, we're not conversing on world issues or discussing the diabolic state of the economy just yet. I'll give her a few weeks...
Monday 29 November 2010
Baby girl....
The baby girl is 4 months old now, sitting up, smiling, laughing and chatting. Not intelligent conversation you understand, we're not conversing on world issues or discussing the diabolic state of the economy just yet. I'll give her a few weeks...
Swotty parent night...
If you have a child of primary school age you’ll be well aware of the InCas tests and will probably know by now if you’re child is above, below or just about average in the old smarty pants stakes.
It has to be said I’m not a big fan of testing and labelling kids. Every single child is different, learns at different speeds, and excels in different things. Although these tests are great gauges for the education system I feel that the best judge of a child’s ability is their teacher, who works with them every day.
I went to a parent’s meeting last week where the teachers discussed the progress of our children and outlined the work the kids would be doing in the next year.
Our teacher introduced us to Inky, the friendly little cartoon computer dude who will help our children prepare and take part in these tests.
I know it’s a cartoon character, I know he’s not real but the voice was so irritating that I could have easily listened to and enjoyed fingernails being scraped down a blackboard or dentists drilling teeth instead of his, probably very important, instructions.
It’s an over exaggerated Belfast accent, like the ones the Hollywood stars do. The little person who owns the voice no doubt has a beautiful accent, but I imagine that he was asked to explain everything super slowly in order for the kids to understand. Speech that would normally have taken two seconds to produce was dragged over two minutes of slow and over exaggerated drawl.
I’d say had I sat the InCas test that night the computer would have had just enough time to register my name and average reading age as five years old before I deposited the thing through the window into the watery depths of a blue recycle bin below the window.
Children at my son’s school, and I imagine schools across the north, were talking in Inky’s annoying voice for days after the tests. I would also hazard a guess that the increased rate of head flushing and playground walloping skyrocketed in direct correlation to those mimicking incidents.
After that ordeal we were introduced to the ‘new way of doing stuff’ in education. Back in the olden days, when I was a lass, we multiplied and divided numbers in a normal fashion. But that way was wrong and now we have to learn new, more complicated ways to do the same things that we already knew how to do perfectly fine before. Are you with me?
Things were running along fabulously, that is I understood largely what they were talking about, until we got to the maths part. The teacher explained that the kids would be partaking in a bit of multiplication, division and the like. She did a sum on the board and took us through it, step-by-step so we could help our children with the homework.
Now I like to think that I’m an intelligent woman, I have been through the education system and run my own business. But as my son’s primary four teacher explained the division sum I was completely and utterly baffled.
Then she asked if anyone would like to come up to the board and work it out.
The swotty parents at the front all put up their hands, other ‘not so sure I want to make a fool of myself’ parents smiled and threw knowing looks at each other, some counted on their fingers, some nodded and some coughed so that they wouldn’t be asked the answer. A few up the back, myself included, slouched on our seats, folded our arms, stretched out our legs and chewed gum violently, rolling our eyes intermittedly. A few of the Mums went the whole hog, twirling their hair around their fingers and popping gum bubbles. I opted more for the ‘slack-jawed, slouchy, please don’t pick me’ look.
In those few moments that old feeling of school nerves came flooding back…. What if the teacher picked me to go to the board? What if I don’t know the answer in front of all these people and they think I stupido? What if I choke on the chalk fumes and collapse in a snivelling heap on the floor and they have to call an ambulance and they can’t get the vehicle in because the grumpy Dad who drives the 4x4 has blocked the school entrance gates again and I die right here on these boring beige coloured slip-proof floor tiles? Oh dear God, what if?
So I did what always worked for me back then. I made no eye contact and pretended to look for something really important in my bag until a swot parent was picked and I could breathe easy again.
School’s tough kids, I don’t envy you.
It has to be said I’m not a big fan of testing and labelling kids. Every single child is different, learns at different speeds, and excels in different things. Although these tests are great gauges for the education system I feel that the best judge of a child’s ability is their teacher, who works with them every day.
I went to a parent’s meeting last week where the teachers discussed the progress of our children and outlined the work the kids would be doing in the next year.
Our teacher introduced us to Inky, the friendly little cartoon computer dude who will help our children prepare and take part in these tests.
I know it’s a cartoon character, I know he’s not real but the voice was so irritating that I could have easily listened to and enjoyed fingernails being scraped down a blackboard or dentists drilling teeth instead of his, probably very important, instructions.
It’s an over exaggerated Belfast accent, like the ones the Hollywood stars do. The little person who owns the voice no doubt has a beautiful accent, but I imagine that he was asked to explain everything super slowly in order for the kids to understand. Speech that would normally have taken two seconds to produce was dragged over two minutes of slow and over exaggerated drawl.
I’d say had I sat the InCas test that night the computer would have had just enough time to register my name and average reading age as five years old before I deposited the thing through the window into the watery depths of a blue recycle bin below the window.
Children at my son’s school, and I imagine schools across the north, were talking in Inky’s annoying voice for days after the tests. I would also hazard a guess that the increased rate of head flushing and playground walloping skyrocketed in direct correlation to those mimicking incidents.
After that ordeal we were introduced to the ‘new way of doing stuff’ in education. Back in the olden days, when I was a lass, we multiplied and divided numbers in a normal fashion. But that way was wrong and now we have to learn new, more complicated ways to do the same things that we already knew how to do perfectly fine before. Are you with me?
Things were running along fabulously, that is I understood largely what they were talking about, until we got to the maths part. The teacher explained that the kids would be partaking in a bit of multiplication, division and the like. She did a sum on the board and took us through it, step-by-step so we could help our children with the homework.
Now I like to think that I’m an intelligent woman, I have been through the education system and run my own business. But as my son’s primary four teacher explained the division sum I was completely and utterly baffled.
Then she asked if anyone would like to come up to the board and work it out.
The swotty parents at the front all put up their hands, other ‘not so sure I want to make a fool of myself’ parents smiled and threw knowing looks at each other, some counted on their fingers, some nodded and some coughed so that they wouldn’t be asked the answer. A few up the back, myself included, slouched on our seats, folded our arms, stretched out our legs and chewed gum violently, rolling our eyes intermittedly. A few of the Mums went the whole hog, twirling their hair around their fingers and popping gum bubbles. I opted more for the ‘slack-jawed, slouchy, please don’t pick me’ look.
In those few moments that old feeling of school nerves came flooding back…. What if the teacher picked me to go to the board? What if I don’t know the answer in front of all these people and they think I stupido? What if I choke on the chalk fumes and collapse in a snivelling heap on the floor and they have to call an ambulance and they can’t get the vehicle in because the grumpy Dad who drives the 4x4 has blocked the school entrance gates again and I die right here on these boring beige coloured slip-proof floor tiles? Oh dear God, what if?
So I did what always worked for me back then. I made no eye contact and pretended to look for something really important in my bag until a swot parent was picked and I could breathe easy again.
School’s tough kids, I don’t envy you.
Monday 15 November 2010
Merry Christmas....
Happy Christmas one and all!
Yes I know that it’s early November, the aroma of pumpkins and toffee apples still hangs heavy in the air but the world has, once again, gone Christmas mad.
I heard the first tinkling of silver bells as I was shoving vampire capes and witches hats into the attic. The TV showed me pictures of perfect families, on perfect sofas, with perfect clothes and perfect lives.
This advert and the one following it told me that what I have isn’t quite good enough, my family aren’t quite well enough dressed, and if I really want to be happy, deep down happy, I need that white sofa and I need that gorgeous jacket and my kids need the very latest, most expensive gadgets. And I need them all NOW! I need them to properly celebrate Christmas. If I don't have them my Christmas will be, quite literally crap.
There are times when I find myself almost hypnotised by these adverts promising a beautiful family Christmas, complete with snowy scenes and laughing relatives all exchanging gifts in a exquisitely cosy living room with an open fire.
Then the guilt kicks in. Why can’t I give my children that kind of perfect Christmas? One where the house is packed to the rafters with expensive gifts, every one of us is kitted out in fancy designer gear, the house is decorated to perfection with brand new sofas and furnishings and there are gentle flakes of snow fluffing about our shiny new BMW X3.
For two seconds those advertising geniuses take over my brain and make me stressed, make me panic and have me think I need all this stuff to have an actual happy Christmas.
But let’s be honest folks, no one’s Christmas is that perfect, unless you’re Twiggy or Danni Minogue.
I’d say if one of the big shopping stores were to make a Christmas advert about our family – with me being the star of course – it would go something like this…
Camera pans into star’s bedroom. Clock says 4.02am. Parents have just climbed into bed after spending the night assembling Thomas the flipping Tank Engine tracks and ‘test driving’ and ultimately breaking remote control cars. Middle son bursts into room screaming that it is the morning and that Santa has been and gone. He screams that he can hear a remote control car singing 'Who Let the Dogs Out' and wakes rest of family. Baby screams, toddler demands to be let out of his cage, oldest child shouts obscenities from under duvet.
Camera breaks to star’s husband – wearing fetching Christmas jumper and big grumpy face – outside house with engine hood popped. Jump wires are dangling around neck in the hope that one of the neighbours – who are indoors having one of those perfect Christmases – will assist him in jump-starting the car.
Camera moves to star’s mother’s home. Smoke bellows from kitchen into beautifully festive hall. Smoke alarm rings out as various children run screaming up and down stairs, hitting each other with toy swords and sweeping brushes.
Star’s brother stirs ‘mulled wine’ concoction on the stove and talks loudly while ignoring smoking turkey quite clearly on fire in the oven. Star’s sister offers to be mulled wine taster and critic, while she consumes half a tin of Roses at the kitchen table. Star’s older brother tries to dismantle latest fancy gadget he got for Christmas with a screwdriver.
Camera breaks to dining room where star’s younger brother and older sister look drunkenly from squinted eyes at dinner and assure each other that if you keep one foot on ground the room will stop spinning. A gigantic jug half-filled with boiling wine and unpeeled oranges sits between them on the dinner table.
In the corner older brother reassembles his Christmas present which started off life as a DVD player, but is now a toaster.
Star’s husband presents his world-renowned sage and onion stuffing to a chorus of cheers. Star and sister hold a minute’s silence for the deceased turkey.
Gathered family eat, drink and are very merry indeed.
Near the window lights twinkle on a 35-year-old artificial Christmas tree which has branches missing and branches taped on but is still just about able to carry a vast array of sentimental decorations and skinny tinsel.
Children fight, babies scream, dogs bark. Star is surrounded by the people she loves dearly and they’re all laughing.
Camera pans out the window, where a real Christmas tree – bought in haste at a petrol station, positioned in the front garden and dangerously decorated with indoor lights – falls down, fusing the lights.
That’s my kind of Christmas. You can keep your perfect one.
Yes I know that it’s early November, the aroma of pumpkins and toffee apples still hangs heavy in the air but the world has, once again, gone Christmas mad.
I heard the first tinkling of silver bells as I was shoving vampire capes and witches hats into the attic. The TV showed me pictures of perfect families, on perfect sofas, with perfect clothes and perfect lives.
This advert and the one following it told me that what I have isn’t quite good enough, my family aren’t quite well enough dressed, and if I really want to be happy, deep down happy, I need that white sofa and I need that gorgeous jacket and my kids need the very latest, most expensive gadgets. And I need them all NOW! I need them to properly celebrate Christmas. If I don't have them my Christmas will be, quite literally crap.
There are times when I find myself almost hypnotised by these adverts promising a beautiful family Christmas, complete with snowy scenes and laughing relatives all exchanging gifts in a exquisitely cosy living room with an open fire.
Then the guilt kicks in. Why can’t I give my children that kind of perfect Christmas? One where the house is packed to the rafters with expensive gifts, every one of us is kitted out in fancy designer gear, the house is decorated to perfection with brand new sofas and furnishings and there are gentle flakes of snow fluffing about our shiny new BMW X3.
For two seconds those advertising geniuses take over my brain and make me stressed, make me panic and have me think I need all this stuff to have an actual happy Christmas.
But let’s be honest folks, no one’s Christmas is that perfect, unless you’re Twiggy or Danni Minogue.
I’d say if one of the big shopping stores were to make a Christmas advert about our family – with me being the star of course – it would go something like this…
Camera pans into star’s bedroom. Clock says 4.02am. Parents have just climbed into bed after spending the night assembling Thomas the flipping Tank Engine tracks and ‘test driving’ and ultimately breaking remote control cars. Middle son bursts into room screaming that it is the morning and that Santa has been and gone. He screams that he can hear a remote control car singing 'Who Let the Dogs Out' and wakes rest of family. Baby screams, toddler demands to be let out of his cage, oldest child shouts obscenities from under duvet.
Camera breaks to star’s husband – wearing fetching Christmas jumper and big grumpy face – outside house with engine hood popped. Jump wires are dangling around neck in the hope that one of the neighbours – who are indoors having one of those perfect Christmases – will assist him in jump-starting the car.
Camera moves to star’s mother’s home. Smoke bellows from kitchen into beautifully festive hall. Smoke alarm rings out as various children run screaming up and down stairs, hitting each other with toy swords and sweeping brushes.
Star’s brother stirs ‘mulled wine’ concoction on the stove and talks loudly while ignoring smoking turkey quite clearly on fire in the oven. Star’s sister offers to be mulled wine taster and critic, while she consumes half a tin of Roses at the kitchen table. Star’s older brother tries to dismantle latest fancy gadget he got for Christmas with a screwdriver.
Camera breaks to dining room where star’s younger brother and older sister look drunkenly from squinted eyes at dinner and assure each other that if you keep one foot on ground the room will stop spinning. A gigantic jug half-filled with boiling wine and unpeeled oranges sits between them on the dinner table.
In the corner older brother reassembles his Christmas present which started off life as a DVD player, but is now a toaster.
Star’s husband presents his world-renowned sage and onion stuffing to a chorus of cheers. Star and sister hold a minute’s silence for the deceased turkey.
Gathered family eat, drink and are very merry indeed.
Near the window lights twinkle on a 35-year-old artificial Christmas tree which has branches missing and branches taped on but is still just about able to carry a vast array of sentimental decorations and skinny tinsel.
Children fight, babies scream, dogs bark. Star is surrounded by the people she loves dearly and they’re all laughing.
Camera pans out the window, where a real Christmas tree – bought in haste at a petrol station, positioned in the front garden and dangerously decorated with indoor lights – falls down, fusing the lights.
That’s my kind of Christmas. You can keep your perfect one.
Monday 8 November 2010
Stupid technology....
If you are one of those parents who needs to know every aspect of your child’s existence when they venture beyond your line of vision then inventors in Japan might be rolling right up your street.
An experiment currently running there is allowing full-time working parents the opportunity to watch every aspect of their little darling’s day while they are allegedly hard at work – you know checking Facebook and shopping on Amazon.
These suspicious mums and dads can not only know the exact location of their offspring, but a camera connected to a heart monitor will take a snapshot of what their youngster is seeing should their pulse rise to a level indicating that they might be under stress.
The Japanese say that the data from the brilliantly named ‘gyroscopic accelerometer’, GPS device and compass can only be accessed through a password-protected website which contains live updates of the kid’s play – pictures and all. Future designs will also include a microphone, which will mean parents can eavesdrop on conversations also.
The manufacturers say these devices will start at £400 a pop, more if you want a microphone. So for a mere £1,200 I can listen to my boys discuss loudly the merits of Red Power Ranger over Spiderman at school as well as at home, complete with pictures of them whopping each other over the head with schoolbags and large branches. I can wince as I watch them tussle violently with their mates like mini World Wrestling Federation players in the playground or tune in to see them jump from high walls or trees.
This is what I imagine they do of a day, this new technology could reveal their true lifes – my boys could well be criminal masterminds, hustling dinner money from classmates and throwing thinly veiled threats around like confetti.
It will also save me asking about their day when school’s out which will be a big plus. Today these conversations go a little like this.
“Hello darling son, I’m delighted to see you. School is really too long, I missed your smiling face.”
Grunt.
“How was your day son?”
Shrugs shoulders.
“The school curriculum really is fantastically choc-a-bloc with all things educational. What did you do all day?”
“Nothing”.
“What did you get for lunch in that delightful establishment one calls the canteen?”
“Crisps”.
“I imagine we have loads of fascinating homework to complete tonight eh?”
“Shut up”.
All this new technology is all well and good when it works in your favour, but when it hampers your very existence it’s not so hot.
A few days ago I took the passenger side off our car when I had a tussle with a trolley bay in a supermarket. The thing just jumped out at me from nowhere. I dented the two doors badly and left a considerable amount of stone silver paint behind as a reminder of how women shouldn’t really be allowed to operate machinery any more technologically taxing than a vacuum cleaner.
Yesterday I decided that since the kids were off school for half term I’d have a nice day, go off the air and head for the park. I packed the car with all the stuff one needs when heading to the park with four kids – tent, puncture kit, first aid supplies, pram, tranquiliser dart and gun, substantial refreshments, mountain of wipes, vast amounts of money, mountain rescue contact numbers, nappies, sheep dog etc – and put all the kids in as well.
The car wouldn’t start. It made a ticking noise and a sign screamed ‘Engine Malfunction, Engine Malfunction!!’
You see the car is one of those fancy pants hi-tech vehicles that flashes instructions to tell you what’s wrong. It has also been known to shout some of them in an annoying computer voice, presumably for the benefit of blind drivers.
So I took all the kids out and phoned the mechanic – who is tellingly on speed dial. The guy came out and asked me if I was the wife of that poor, long-suffering man who has no end to car troubles. I said I most probably was.
He asked me if I was the one who accidentally blew up her husband’s car in the town centre one Christmas. I said I was. He asked me if I was the one who had an almost magnetic attraction to gates and gateposts, mysteriously burnt out five clutches and if it was me who crashed into her father’s car in his own driveway. I said I was.
After assessing and presumably having a conversation with the car he told me that due to the fact that I had crashed into yet another inanimate object the door’s hi-tech sensors were damaged. He says the car had spent all Sunday night and the early hours of Monday morning shouting and flashing at no one in particular that ‘This door is damaged and won’t close properly’, ‘this door, this one here, won’t close and it’s making me anxious’, ‘This door!!! Won’t close!! Wasting the battery, Arggghhhh!!’ The result being that unless we spend ‘big, big money’ on two new doors we’ll have to jumpstart the car every time we go out.
So it looks like I’ll have to use the cash I had wished to spend on super spy technology on stupid car technology instead.
An experiment currently running there is allowing full-time working parents the opportunity to watch every aspect of their little darling’s day while they are allegedly hard at work – you know checking Facebook and shopping on Amazon.
These suspicious mums and dads can not only know the exact location of their offspring, but a camera connected to a heart monitor will take a snapshot of what their youngster is seeing should their pulse rise to a level indicating that they might be under stress.
The Japanese say that the data from the brilliantly named ‘gyroscopic accelerometer’, GPS device and compass can only be accessed through a password-protected website which contains live updates of the kid’s play – pictures and all. Future designs will also include a microphone, which will mean parents can eavesdrop on conversations also.
The manufacturers say these devices will start at £400 a pop, more if you want a microphone. So for a mere £1,200 I can listen to my boys discuss loudly the merits of Red Power Ranger over Spiderman at school as well as at home, complete with pictures of them whopping each other over the head with schoolbags and large branches. I can wince as I watch them tussle violently with their mates like mini World Wrestling Federation players in the playground or tune in to see them jump from high walls or trees.
This is what I imagine they do of a day, this new technology could reveal their true lifes – my boys could well be criminal masterminds, hustling dinner money from classmates and throwing thinly veiled threats around like confetti.
It will also save me asking about their day when school’s out which will be a big plus. Today these conversations go a little like this.
“Hello darling son, I’m delighted to see you. School is really too long, I missed your smiling face.”
Grunt.
“How was your day son?”
Shrugs shoulders.
“The school curriculum really is fantastically choc-a-bloc with all things educational. What did you do all day?”
“Nothing”.
“What did you get for lunch in that delightful establishment one calls the canteen?”
“Crisps”.
“I imagine we have loads of fascinating homework to complete tonight eh?”
“Shut up”.
All this new technology is all well and good when it works in your favour, but when it hampers your very existence it’s not so hot.
A few days ago I took the passenger side off our car when I had a tussle with a trolley bay in a supermarket. The thing just jumped out at me from nowhere. I dented the two doors badly and left a considerable amount of stone silver paint behind as a reminder of how women shouldn’t really be allowed to operate machinery any more technologically taxing than a vacuum cleaner.
Yesterday I decided that since the kids were off school for half term I’d have a nice day, go off the air and head for the park. I packed the car with all the stuff one needs when heading to the park with four kids – tent, puncture kit, first aid supplies, pram, tranquiliser dart and gun, substantial refreshments, mountain of wipes, vast amounts of money, mountain rescue contact numbers, nappies, sheep dog etc – and put all the kids in as well.
The car wouldn’t start. It made a ticking noise and a sign screamed ‘Engine Malfunction, Engine Malfunction!!’
You see the car is one of those fancy pants hi-tech vehicles that flashes instructions to tell you what’s wrong. It has also been known to shout some of them in an annoying computer voice, presumably for the benefit of blind drivers.
So I took all the kids out and phoned the mechanic – who is tellingly on speed dial. The guy came out and asked me if I was the wife of that poor, long-suffering man who has no end to car troubles. I said I most probably was.
He asked me if I was the one who accidentally blew up her husband’s car in the town centre one Christmas. I said I was. He asked me if I was the one who had an almost magnetic attraction to gates and gateposts, mysteriously burnt out five clutches and if it was me who crashed into her father’s car in his own driveway. I said I was.
After assessing and presumably having a conversation with the car he told me that due to the fact that I had crashed into yet another inanimate object the door’s hi-tech sensors were damaged. He says the car had spent all Sunday night and the early hours of Monday morning shouting and flashing at no one in particular that ‘This door is damaged and won’t close properly’, ‘this door, this one here, won’t close and it’s making me anxious’, ‘This door!!! Won’t close!! Wasting the battery, Arggghhhh!!’ The result being that unless we spend ‘big, big money’ on two new doors we’ll have to jumpstart the car every time we go out.
So it looks like I’ll have to use the cash I had wished to spend on super spy technology on stupid car technology instead.
Monday 1 November 2010
Bad day....
Ever have one of those days when nothing, NOTHING, goes right?
Decided to go off the air on Monday and enjoy a nice, relaxing day with my delightful kids.
Youngest and middle boys had me awake all night with feverish jibber jabbering about people building roads through their beds, projectile puking and the like. Rose in the morning to find a nice letter from the bank to inform me about charges.
Packed everyone into the car and it wouldn't start.
A few days ago me and the car had tussle with a trolley bay in Dunelm Mill. The thing just jumped out at me from nowhere. I ripped off a good portion of the passenger side and left a sizeable amount of 'stone silver' paint on the bay.
The battery was dead because the doors wont close right. The car is one of those super intelligent ones which speaks it's mind. It tells you when you need petrol as well as flashing a 'you need petrol' sign, presumably for the benefit of blind drivers.
So the thing spent an entire Sunday night telling no one in particular that 'the door's not closed', 'the door's not closed', 'HEY STUPID!! THE DOOR, THAT ONE THERE, IT'S NOT CLOSED!!!!! It said it and it flashed it so much it exhausted the battery.
Stupid car.
Brought the kids back into the house and the youngest boy puked everywhere while the baby screamed backing vocals and the older boys gagged and provided a running commentary of what said puke looked like.
Phoned the mechanic who said he'd be out in 10 minutes. Eight hours later he arrived, told me the battery was dead and that I need two new doors for the car which will cost 'big money'. When asked to converse in monetary terms he puffed out his cheeks and said 'big, big money'.
And it's raining.
Have had better days.
Smile, please...
If there’s one thing I hate it’s being made to feel like a bad mother.
Believe it or believe it not, it has happened to me before. People judging me – whether that be for rugby tackling my toddler before he lifts a £300 bowl in Debenhams or encouraging a passion for bad 80s music – flings me way out of my comfort zone.
I have my parenting faults – we all do. But I put my all into it. I’ll be the first to admit that I maintain a deathly grip on my ‘fabulous mum’ crown and take great exception to anyone suggesting that I’m not a 100 per cent perfect parent.
This week I was given a telling off by a dentist who appeared to be 12 years old. I had taken the oldest boy for a check-up and was told he needed a filling in one of his milk teeth.
She discussed the matter using fancy dentistry related terms – all primary and secondary incisors this, right-side molars that – and suggested that my terrible parenting literally bored a hole in my son’s beautifully white teeth.
As she examined his teeth she cross-questioned me on exactly how many fizzy drinks the child has in one day.
I informed her that I can count on two fingers the amount of fizzy drinks the child has had in his entire seven and a half year existence – once when he drank a mouthful of cola at a wedding in 2006 and again when he consumed a glass of fizzy orange at his friend’s birthday party. I told her I remember these reckless incidents of extreme parenting as we had to endure the crazy sugar rush and severe grumpy slump afterwards and wished not to repeat them.
I could barely fit my high horse into her cramped dental surgery.
The dentist smiled like she knew I was lying. She wrote in a folder – presumably ticking the very, very bad mother box, and threw professional glances at her assistant who also made a ‘you’re so lying’ face.
They were making me nervous. And when I’m nervous I talk.
I told them that my boy drinks nothing but spring water. Water and milk, maybe, but only on special occasions like birthdays.
She asked me if the child ate sweets. I gasped in a horrified manner, pointed and told her that the child never, ever ate sweets. Never. I covered my boy’s ears and told her that my children were yet to discover that sweets had actually been invented and I would thank her not to mention those sugary works of the devil in my presence.
I told her that in fact I often gave them small pieces of fruit and pretended they were sweets. I told her that there is more sugary content in the Lough Derg pilgrimage diet (as in bread and water) than in what he consumes daily.
She asked me to explain then, with this ferociously strict diet, how he managed to get a big, bad decaying hole in his tooth.
I told her that I was totally bewildered by this development, that I couldn’t explain it. That the boy brushes his teeth 20 times a day. That his tooth brushing actually borders on obsessive and that I encourage this obsessive behaviour by carrying a toothbrush and paste around in my handbag. And that I also have a stopwatch with an alarm – that I never let him go more than 40 minutes without brushing. And that for his last birthday I bought him a supply of dental floss.
It was probably the most uncomfortable half hour I have ever spent. I’ve been in some strange spots before but never had I had to lie more profusely to protect my ‘Fabulous Mother’ crown. I wasn’t going to let some 12-year-old dentist scrape the shine off it with one of her implements of torture.
Truth is the kid eats sweets, like every other kid on the planet. May God forgive me the child drinks diluted orange the odd time. I know these dentist types would have all our kids eating apples and drinking sparkling water the daylong but outside influences – like wicked grandmothers who ply kids with lollipops – do exist. This is the real world.
Hopefully this bump on the road to perfect parenting will pass soon, the kid can get his tooth filled and I can make my way back to Mother of the Yearsville.
Believe it or believe it not, it has happened to me before. People judging me – whether that be for rugby tackling my toddler before he lifts a £300 bowl in Debenhams or encouraging a passion for bad 80s music – flings me way out of my comfort zone.
I have my parenting faults – we all do. But I put my all into it. I’ll be the first to admit that I maintain a deathly grip on my ‘fabulous mum’ crown and take great exception to anyone suggesting that I’m not a 100 per cent perfect parent.
This week I was given a telling off by a dentist who appeared to be 12 years old. I had taken the oldest boy for a check-up and was told he needed a filling in one of his milk teeth.
She discussed the matter using fancy dentistry related terms – all primary and secondary incisors this, right-side molars that – and suggested that my terrible parenting literally bored a hole in my son’s beautifully white teeth.
As she examined his teeth she cross-questioned me on exactly how many fizzy drinks the child has in one day.
I informed her that I can count on two fingers the amount of fizzy drinks the child has had in his entire seven and a half year existence – once when he drank a mouthful of cola at a wedding in 2006 and again when he consumed a glass of fizzy orange at his friend’s birthday party. I told her I remember these reckless incidents of extreme parenting as we had to endure the crazy sugar rush and severe grumpy slump afterwards and wished not to repeat them.
I could barely fit my high horse into her cramped dental surgery.
The dentist smiled like she knew I was lying. She wrote in a folder – presumably ticking the very, very bad mother box, and threw professional glances at her assistant who also made a ‘you’re so lying’ face.
They were making me nervous. And when I’m nervous I talk.
I told them that my boy drinks nothing but spring water. Water and milk, maybe, but only on special occasions like birthdays.
She asked me if the child ate sweets. I gasped in a horrified manner, pointed and told her that the child never, ever ate sweets. Never. I covered my boy’s ears and told her that my children were yet to discover that sweets had actually been invented and I would thank her not to mention those sugary works of the devil in my presence.
I told her that in fact I often gave them small pieces of fruit and pretended they were sweets. I told her that there is more sugary content in the Lough Derg pilgrimage diet (as in bread and water) than in what he consumes daily.
She asked me to explain then, with this ferociously strict diet, how he managed to get a big, bad decaying hole in his tooth.
I told her that I was totally bewildered by this development, that I couldn’t explain it. That the boy brushes his teeth 20 times a day. That his tooth brushing actually borders on obsessive and that I encourage this obsessive behaviour by carrying a toothbrush and paste around in my handbag. And that I also have a stopwatch with an alarm – that I never let him go more than 40 minutes without brushing. And that for his last birthday I bought him a supply of dental floss.
It was probably the most uncomfortable half hour I have ever spent. I’ve been in some strange spots before but never had I had to lie more profusely to protect my ‘Fabulous Mother’ crown. I wasn’t going to let some 12-year-old dentist scrape the shine off it with one of her implements of torture.
Truth is the kid eats sweets, like every other kid on the planet. May God forgive me the child drinks diluted orange the odd time. I know these dentist types would have all our kids eating apples and drinking sparkling water the daylong but outside influences – like wicked grandmothers who ply kids with lollipops – do exist. This is the real world.
Hopefully this bump on the road to perfect parenting will pass soon, the kid can get his tooth filled and I can make my way back to Mother of the Yearsville.
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