The cost of having kids....

Research out this week suggests that the cost of raising a child has hit a staggering £271,000. According to insurance company Aviva, day to day costs including school trips, food, clothes, outings, university fees and childcare means us parents are spending around £271,499 on our kids before their 21st birthday.
These numbers do not, of course, factor in the Irish mammy who still washes, cleans, cooks, fends for and lends her kids money well into their 60s.
Still I’d say those figures are well below average for our four children. I mean, where in all these calculations are the figures for broken remote controls? So I decided to do my own sums and here’s what I’ve come up with.

Broken remote controls
Averaging one smashed, flushed, buried or dismantled remote control every two months approximately, figure does not include the petrol money to ferry child/children to casualty with concussions after remote control-related injuries to heads.
Total £5,040

Smashed windows
Windows getting in the way of speeding footballs and/or rocket-propelled shoes are an unfortunate consequence of having male children. Averaging in a new window every six months, including the ones smashed by yard brushes swung in a spinning motion around head – it may be impressive, it’s still a hit.
Total £1,680

Destroyed mobile phones
Mobile phones make for great hammers with which to bash things, they are great for flushing down toilets and also phoning people in Australia and leaving them hanging on for two days. They also make great beepy noises when you run over them on your bike.
Total £1,890

School Trousers
What with it being First Holy Communion year and all, my boys are always praying out the knees of their standard greys. And ripping them on wire, sticking ballpoint pens through them to see if it makes a hole, finding really tiny bits of loose thread and ripping them out to see what happens, drawing smiley faces on them with permanent marker and spilling olive oil-based consumables on them. Am keeping the recessional wolves from the door of Marks and Spencers by maintaining an average purchasing rate of two pairs per month.
Total £3,528

Cleaning products
In 21 years we would have gone through a positive mountain of baby wipes, a river of industrial strength carpet cleaner specialising in boke removal, hundreds of hard-core car valeting treatments and dozens of sand blasters to remove dried in Weetabix.
Total £4,890

Biscuits
A packet of 30 biscuits lasts approximately 20 seconds in our house. From point of purchase many don’t even make it to the car safely. Despite various camouflaging methods adapted by us, our boys manage to seek out, locate and destroy biscuits like a school of ravenous piranhas, often risking life and limb to achieve their custard cream goal.
So we’ll be averaging one packet of biscuits every 20 seconds for 21 years, not counting petrol and parking money for visits to casualty for fall related injuries acquired while seeking out biscuits.
Total £25,441,418

So in total, we’re not averaging £271,000 per kid. No way. We’re stratospheric in our spending. We’re looking at spending £25,455,146 in total on our children and their various needs, with the greatest bulk of that spend being on biscuits.
I may have to start saving now.

Torture by toddler...

The ‘terrible twos’ doesn’t adequately cover the depth of screaming, howling and pure badness that has taken hold of our house in recent months.
The youngest boy, who once won prizes for being the calmest, most chilled out baby in the entire world, has turned into a crazed lunatic to commemorate his second year on this earth.
We’ve been through the tantrum stage. We’re so over that. Tantrums are very last year. Now we’re on the ‘I own everything’ phase of torture by toddler. The child is the Donald Trump of the kiddies world. He wants everything he sees – from remote controls to the toys of stranger’s children to other people’s houses. He’ll go to any lengths to get them – kicking, screaming, biting, throwing shoes, holding precious stuff to ransom over the toilet bowl.
He strives for household and indeed global domination daily, mostly by howling ‘it’s mine!’ in a high-pitched, screamy voice. Unfortunately it’s not so high-pitched that it’s only audible to canines and we may all need inner ear replacements by the time this particular phase has run it’s course.
Everything is his – the hi-tech remote control cars that Santa clearly marked for the older boys, the Scooby Doo costume that permanently hangs on the washing line next door, the pureed mush that the baby now eats.
The husband and I, obviously at the end of our tether to take such measures, conducted an experiment. The husband pointed at his own hand and informed the toddler that this hand, which was attached to the husband’s arm belonged to himself and himself alone. The boy protested loudly that the husband’s hand was actually his and followed him around the house screaming ‘It’s Mine!’ never further than two feet from his ear.
And he doesn’t just save the screaming for us, he shares with his public also. If he is unleashed in a supermarket he’ll run for the hills, well maybe not the hills but the front door or the frozen chip department at the very back of the store, all the while screaming at random strangers that the contents of their trolley is his. Any attempt at securing him in our trolley is met with violent body thrashing that would put a fresh water salmon to shame.
All the advice books tell us that we should connect with the toddler, meet and eliminate the tantrum before it occurs. But this boy, an absolute force of nature, doesn’t fit into any categories nor follow any of the rules that the books say will work. I’ve tried to alter his diet, attempted to cut down on sugary stuff, cut down on his coffee intake but nothing works. He’s driving us to utter distraction, just as his brothers did before him.
We thought his older brother Caolan was bad. That child, whom we nicknamed Captain Destructo, broke everything in his path. We had considered lending him out to toy companies who needed to stress test kid’s toys for sturdiness but thought that the damages he might cause would counteract any wages he might earn. We sincerely thought that Caolan’s cupboard door wrecking, TV shaking, window breaking terrible twos were the worst we’d ever see. We fondly imagined that no parents would ever have to endure such torture again. We never imagined that the youngest boy – who is known now as Professor Chaos – would out-do him on so many different levels, particularly noise levels.
I took the child into town, just the two of us, for a bit of mother son bonding to see if we could banish the screaming. Since the baby came along he’s been out on the town with his father of a Saturday, while I stay at home praying o Jesus and the patron saint of lost causes that my ears will function properly again.
So I imagined on our jaunt the two of us would skip down the high street hand in hand, nip in for a coffee and cake and we would discuss the whole screaming thing like two proper grown ups.
Instead he stopped outside every bun shop and bakery we passed from the car park to the city centre and screamed bloody murder, pointing at the shop and nearly pulling my arm out of the socket to go in. I thought the child simply fancied something off the gorgeous displays of pastries in the windows and was rather surprised to see many of these different bun shop ladies come out and greet my son by name.
It was all ‘hello Finn’, and ‘where’s your Daddy today?’ and ‘here’s a cream finger’ or ‘is it a jam doughnut you want today, I know you and your daddy love them’. He was gifted a positive mountain of fancy delights just for being a curly haired cutie. It may well take a week for the smell of sugar and fake cream from confiscated cream buns to leave my handbag.
It seems that the husband has been using the undeniable cuteness of our little boy to stock up on fancy calorie-laden, sugary treats which are banned, by the way, in our house. And it seems my boys, big and small, are all ladies men, well bun shop ladies men anyway.
But it all ends here. From now on it’s lettuce leaves and carrots for breakfast, lunch and dinner in the hope that we can exorcise this obviously bun induced screaming demon.

No wonder they're mad.....

Overheard conversation between the husband and middle son...

Caolan: "Daddy what's that green flag flying outside our school that says Eco-School on it?"
Husband: "That's an alien flag, son. It means aliens have taken over your school and they've raised that flag there to say that they've beaten your teachers and conquered the territory."
Caolan: "Really?"
Husband: "Yes, you see they raise the flag on the pole so that other aliens who might be flying overhead knows that they can park there in the playground beside the monkey bars."
Caolan: "Really?"
Husband: "Yes, and by the time you go back after the half term break the aliens will have taken over the minds and bodies of your teachers, so you'll be in for a few more interesting lessons."

Holy Joe....

First Holy Communion fever has hit our boy’s school. And I’m not talking about the kids getting all hyped up about being on first name terms with the big man up above. No, the little dudes are more concerned about how much cash will change hands on the day and the little ladies are all about who’s got the biggest and best dress.
I’ve been watching My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding over the past number of weeks with interest, particularly the traditions followed during First Communion celebrations. And while most of England are up in arms about 7-year-olds from the travelling community wearing Holy Communion dresses that are twice their body weight and getting spray tans before the big day, I’m thinking, judging by the mumpetition at the school gates around these parts, get a Channel Four documentary camera crew over here STAT, you ain’t seen nothing yet.
There are mothers getting dresses shipped all the way from America for their little darlings, mums spending up to £1,000 for a truly impractical white frock which their girl will never get another single wear out of and mums cutting back on grocery shopping to save for princess tiaras. There are limos, dinners in fancy restaurants and function rooms being booked en mass. There are special trips to various cities to purchase mother of the holy child outfits, entire families getting kitted out in designer gear, Christmas day style presents being bought, hairdressers being flown in from Dublin. There was even a rumour of a LED-style dress with accompanying fire extinguisher-wielding assistant, but that is, as yet, unconfirmed.
Maybe it’s because I’m not buying the big flouncy white dress and tiara this year – white isn’t really Daniel’s colour – but I’m not really feeling all the hype.
I have been learning a lot about God and religion with Daniel this past few months and for that I’m grateful. It has been a learning curve for us both. I may not have listened too well in religion during my school years but I suppose through my son I’ve learned everything I needed to know about the big man but was afraid to ask. I have often felt the urge to stand up during Sunday mass and request an explanation – and recipe – for that whole water/wine thing and the logistics of how Moses parted the sea. Also it’s good that my own extensive religious training (standing outside mass smoking and chatting to boys) allows me to answer all his profound ecumenical questions – like why did Jesus commit suicide and why God invented blue bottles, like what purpose do they serve?
My own memories of my First Holy Communion are happy enough ones. My mother and father, in true Breslin fashion, got the time wrong for the mass. We arrived at the chapel – me in all my finery – as my classmates were filing out to go home.
As I stood in the car park actually balling in terror – assuming that because I didn’t receive Communion in my allocated time Beelzebub himself was about to appear and drag me off to the fiery depths of hell for eternal damnation – my mother arranged for me to attend another ceremony up the road, thus saving all our souls.
After the mass we did the rounds of the rich relatives and made a right few quid, which my mother kept safe for me. I must ask her for it back actually, I’d say there should be a fair few pounds interest on it after 20-odd years.
But the thing I remember most about it is the rosary beads my Grandmother gave me. They were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen – pearly white beads with silver links and an ornate silver cross. I still have them in a drawer at home.
As with all things these days – Christmas, Easter, everything – commercialism has blinded us to the real meaning behind the celebration. Christmas equals Santa, Easter means chocolate. Holy Communion seemingly means getting all dolled up for the day and hitting the most expensive restaurant in town.
First Communion is one of the most sacred and solemn occasions in a Catholic’s life, and indeed calls for great celebration. I don’t know if there’s a mention in the big book of rules about spending shed loads of money and booking limos in a recession to do that, though. Maybe I missed a chapter.
Me, I’ll buy my son a nice suit, take everyone to the church (on time) and have a big gathering of our nearest and dearest back at our house. Bring your wallets folks!

Professional worrier...

The baby is now six months old and it’s time I started thinking about returning to some manner of paid work. I saw this advert and thought I might apply:

Positions Vacant
Northern Irish family seeks professional worrier, must be certified (generalised anxiety disorder diagnosis preferred), to perform weekly worrying duties re: possibilities of dissident terror attacks, economic meltdowns, random shootings at supermarkets, cyber attacks, various health scares. English-speaker, references required. Live-in only, need worrying assistance 24/7. Excellent pay and benefits.

So I put pen to paper and posted off this reply:

I am a professional worrier.
I started my career early; at around the age of five-years-old, while on a bus trip to Kinegoe Bay in Donegal. I felt the first explosion of worry erupt then as we teetered along a bumpy cliff top road on a school bus that had seen better days. I looked out that window to the waves crashing below and I worried. I worried that the bus driver (who, if I remember correctly, had only one fully functioning eye) would send us over to a watery demise.
From that day forward I worried on a part-time basis. I worried about earwigs, school, about boys, about if I was smart enough, tall enough, good looking enough, funny enough. I worried so much that when life was going good and I didn’t have anything to worry about I would worry about the ravaging effects the chemicals released by not worrying would have on my mind.
I quite frequently worried sheep just by looking worriedly in their direction.
I took my worrying to whole other level eight years ago when I started off on the path to motherhood. As soon as that little blue line appeared I worried over what I ate, how many hours I worked, how worry can affect unborn babies.
When the boy was born I worried about how much he ate, how many hours he slept and if me worrying would somehow transfer over to him in some kind of worry-vibe mother-son transition.
In the passing years I have diversified somewhat, worrying at great length and depth about subsequent children and also heading off in different paths of worry.
I worried so much about the oldest boy heading into hospital this week for a minor procedure on his teeth that I came out in a worry rash. Quite the achievement I think you’ll agree.
I also told the hospital staff that if they didn’t take great care of my precious firstborn son I would have them all sacked, run out of town with pitchforks and their names blackened in the world of modern medicine. And I vowed, between maniacal sobs, to step out in front of a train, or leap from a tall building, if that was the sacrifice required, to prove to surgical staff the depth of my love for this boy and how so very precious he was in my world. Then I worried for the entire stay at the hospital that they would have me committed. So, you see, I am capable of diversifying to neurotic and even psychotic behaviour.
In my current position I perform weekly worrying duties such as possibilities of asthma attacks, terror attacks, anthrax mail packages, further dislocations in economy resulting from catastrophic loss of life and/or office space, sars, bird flu, flesh-eating bugs, swine flu and MRSA.
In my spare time I worry about my finances, my kid’s futures and if our neighbours will keep burying their deceased family pets in the garden that my kitchen window looks out onto.

I’ve had no reply as yet.
I’m worried.

Lessons I want my children to learn....

The year 2010 will go down in my book as one of the toughest on record. I started the year without my father, after losing him to cancer just before Christmas. What with his illness and death, the recession, job losses, financial worries, grief, birth, sleep deprivation and everything that comes with a new baby the year was a total rollercoaster and, looking back, taught me a few things about myself, my family life and life in general.
There are a few words of wisdom I would like to bestow on my children about life, the universe and everything. I must do it through this newspaper – and pray that they will someday read this – as I am not permitted to hold serious conversations with my children that do not revolve around sharks and robot dolphins and who would fair better in an underwater altercation between the two.
I don’t profess to know it all but I’d say I’ve been down a few roads and, while there, took a few notes for future reference.
These are the lessons I want to teach my children.

Stop and smell the roses
One thing the last 12 months has taught me is that life is much too short. Life should not be spent worrying about material things and their attainment. Live should be lived and loved. Shake every fibre out of it and enjoy every single minute. Stop and smell the roses, appreciate the small stuff. Live well, laugh much and love often.

Money means nothing
At the end of our life we leave this earth with nothing. All that we fashioned, gained and accumulated in our lives is left behind. Love and memories linger, £10 notes do not. Chasing wealth ravages the soul. You’ll never have enough, never be satisfied with what you’ve got. You’ll always be working towards a bigger house, a bigger car. Be still, look around. If you’re standing tall and breathing air you have everything you need right here, right now.

Get tough
You may have scoffed when your Dad taught you to sword fight with the brush pole or trained you up Gladiator-style in the garden but the world is a tough place, kid and you have to be tough to survive. The main reason we haven’t been to Disneyland or bought you a DS yet is to build character and give you some manner of woeful story to tell about your traumatic Irish childhood.
Resiliency is the ability to properly navigate stress, major or minor, and then return to the business of living. Myself and your Dad will continue to ensure you have the tools to better deal with stress and trauma in a positive manner. We will also show you that we can face our dramas head on, deal with them and come out the other side in the hope that it will give you good armour for life’s ups and downs.

Family First
Not to get all Italian mafia on you but family must always come first. Children are a gift, appreciate them, spend time with them, and love them. They are only little once. Time waits for no one. Appreciate your mother and father, your grandparents. Loved ones are taken from us in a heartbeat. Don’t waste time squabbling or being preoccupied with other less worthy stuff.

Be happy
Don’t waste your time with envy. Work hard, have goals, be happy. Be happy in the here and now and have faith that your dreams will come true when they are ready, not one day before.

You are amazing
Never forget that you are a unique and brilliant individual. You have brought so much colour, laughter and joy to many lives, mine and your father’s especially. You are utterly amazing, remember that.

The schoolgate wars...

A parenting website last week revealed the categories school gate mums fall into – from the uber glam model mothers like Elle Macpherson through to the bionic PTA mums who make the rest of us look bad.
Also featured were the lycra-clad, gym obsessed mum, Blackberry clamped corporate mum – either always running late or absent from the afternoon pick-up – and effortlessly glam mum a-la Gwyneth Paltrow.
As if we don’t have enough to worry on, it seems the lot of us have been pigeon-holed into several unforgiving categories including Eternally Late Mum, Mum of Disruptive Child, Competitive Mum, Fashionista Mum and Smugly Pregnant Mum.
Judging your fellow mother and marking her on her shoes, bag, coat and hair at the school gates is the new sport gripping modern parenting and apparently none of us are off limits. Turn up at the school gates looking less than photoshoot ready and you’ll be in for dog’s abuse.
Now I don’t know where the folks behind these various surveys are sending their kids to school – presumably to the same ones as Elle Macpherson and Stella McCartney’s offspring attend – but there ain’t no Elles, Stellas, Gwynnies or Claudia’s at any schools gates I’ve frequented recently and I’ve been at a few different school gates recently, let me tell you.
I dare say that should the people who compile this information take a quick jump over the water from the dizzy heights of middle England they might just discover an entirely new species of ‘ Norn Irish mas’ to pigeon hole.

‘Come as you are’ Ma
Turns up to school in full night attire, fluffy slippers and all. Prefers pyjamas of the pink flannelette variety rather than night dresses as the latter incurs a need to remove leg hair so as not to be ‘affronted’ at the school gates. Hair on head hasn’t seen the second sight of a brush since last Saturday night. Said hair is held in place – a rough off-centred ponytail – by grubby pink ‘scrunchie’. Kids walk 10ft either in front or behind so as to not be associated with ‘come as you are’ ma. Can also be spotted heading for the city centre to round off her pyjama wearing adventure touring various pound shops and budget clothing outlets.

The ‘hard ticket’ ma
Regales everyone with tales of her weekend escapades – involving cider, street brawls and screaming episodes with neighbours – in a loud and brash voice. Wears a t-shirt with an awfully bad word blazoned across it (rhymes with a witch, starts with a b). Shouts at her kids, shouts at their teachers, shouts at other parents, dogs in the street, flowers just minding their own business on the grass. Bullies dinner and lollipop ladies in the playground on her way home.

The ‘working’ ma
Is often found dragging half-dressed children along the path to school seconds before the bell. Is permanently in a rushed and panicked state. The art of finishing getting herself dressed is a well-honed skill to this particular ma. She can ruffle child’s hair while buckling the strap of her shoe, kiss farewell at the school gates while brushing her teeth, sort out lunch money while expertly applying her make-up. Seemingly has four sets of hands. Is rarely seen in the afternoon picking up session.

Organic ma
Has bright red or green hair and large wooden jewellery pieces that could literally render a passing parent blind. Smells of patchouli oil and often rides to school on an old-fashioned pushbike with daffodils in the front basket, regardless of the season. They may be fake.
Doesn’t believe in controlled religion or anti-perspirent.

The Smoke Talk Smoke Talk ma
Stands at the school gates in a large Smoking Talking tribe made up of other pram and cigarette-wielding mas until well after school break time. Topics discussed – the ‘state’ of Organic Ma, the ‘shape’ of ‘Come As You Are Ma’ and the ‘nerve’ of Working Ma.

Me? I don’t know where I fit in. I’d like to think I’m a mix of the best qualities from all of them.