Intelligent Parenting: In My Dreams

When I began writing these blogposts eight years ago, I think I envisaged a light-hearted look at the humorous escapades of my growing family. I don't think I realised that they would, in fact, be much more revealing of my own flaws and parental inadequacy. 

Take yesterday, for instance. After a week of living in close proximity to both the nuclear and the extended family over the festive period, my ability to cope with the constant mess resulting from incessant meal-making and food-production reached its limit.

'Right,' I snarled, staring in horror at all the crumbs on the floor at the end of lunch and after I'd already vacuumed once that morning, 'Things are going to change around here!' 

I paused, realising that I hadn't quite thought through precisely how they were going to change. 

Thankfully, inspiration struck. I stood Gertie, Gilby and Eddie in a line. 

'You are each going to take it in turns to clear up after every meal, including getting the Hoover out,' I yelled in the manner of Gunnery Sergeant Hartman in Full Metal Jacket. (Actually, it's a Dyson, but we're quite partial to a propriety eponym in this house.) 

I circled, menacingly, to deliver the final learning outcome. 'Perhaps that will make you more careful about dropping crumbs!' I finished firmly, and with a self-congratulatory nod to myself at the end.

There was a short pause, then some shrugs of acquiescence.

'But Mummy, I don't know how to use the Hoover,' remembered Eddie, suddenly.

Um, OK, well. I didn't realise that- how remiss of me - but it was easily solved. I was very patient and parenty as I helped him to do it for the first time.

When it came to Gilby's turn after dinner, I reminded him to wipe down the table before doing the floor. 

'No problem,' he agreed. 'Where's the cloth?' 

Now, I can just about cope with the fact that the youngest hasn't used a Hoover, but if Gilby doesn't know where the kitchen cloth is kept that must mean that he has never, ever wiped anything down in his eight years on this earth. 

And whose fault is that? It can only be mine. 

Luckily, Maternal Hearth-Grandpa sent me this:

I am confident that this 1944 edition is going to sort me right out.

Hearth-Father also saw fit to present me with this for Christmas:

So, between the two of them we are about to work out a few things in this house. 2018 is going to be a whole different place.

Currently reading: The Faithful by Juliet West (as well as the above!)

Misery Driving Obsessive Compulsion: Back to School

I hate this time of year: the dread of returning to work, coupled with the change in the weather that means that tans fade faster than you can say, 'back to school'.

And it is even more bitter-sweet this year as number three finally begins his formal education and my last baby dons a school uniform for the first time.

So now there will be three sets of school shoes to find, three coats, three school bags, three water bottles, three lunch boxes; three times the level of stress in the morning.

A miserable, wet Saturday afternoon has therefore driven me to this:

So, for approximately five minutes, I think we might be one of the most organised households in Sussex.



Currently reading: Restoration by Rose Tremain

Talking Turkey

Now that summer's finally here, Gertie and Gilby went to Fishers Farm at the weekend.  Much fun was had by all until they were waiting in the queue for the pony rides.  A large and unexpectedly free range turkey approached them with a waddle that might be described as 'aggressive'.  When you are just three years old and of a similar height to a fair-sized and threateningly-approaching turkey, they can look pretty fearsome.  With round, wide eyes, Gilby grabbed hold of his sister's hand and asked in a tiny voice if turkeys ate people.

Big sister, with all the experience and authority of her nearly-six-years, considered his question carefully.  "No, Gilby," she said, after a moment.  "People eat turkeys."

Gilby the Boring and Gina the Cleaner

Today we were heading off to a birthday party late-morning, so I negotiated a 'deal' with Gertie and Gilby. They had to tidy their rooms and play 'nicely' for an hour, enabling me to get all the housework done. We could then all troop off happily to the party.

I should point out that since my return to work last month we have employed a cleaner - Gina - who is a marvel. She comes on a Wednesday and my house is beautiful for an entire evening. We usually return home late on a Wednesday because Gertie goes Irish dancing after school, so there is no chance to mess it up. Of course, by Saturday, especially in a 'holiday' week, it is its usual chaotic self again, requiring significant intervention on my part.

After briefly offering to help with the vacuuming, which he enjoys for all of about ten seconds, Gilby starting huffing unhelpfully around the place. "I am so boring," he kept repeating, clearly not realising the implications of his words. I chose not to correct him because it made me laugh.

Gertie the Good sat quietly reading in her bedroom, whilst Eddie helpfully took a nap, and all was well. We duly went off to the party, returning three hours later to an exceptionally clean and tidy house (even if I do say so myself.)

"Oh look, Mummy, Gina must have been while we were out!" observed Gertie, cheerfully, as we came through the front door.

Grrrr....

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New Year, New Title

First day back at school today, and a chance for me to attempt to return the house to some sort of order after the glorious chaos of the Christmas holidays. By the time I came to collect Gertie, things were ship-shape and Bristol fashion. Ish.

She had a friend round to play after school, and in their excitement they ran in, dumping coats and shoes on the floor in the kitchen. I had to trip over them whilst carrying baby in car-seat and was not best pleased, so I called them back to tidy up.

Gertie picked up both coats and handed them to me.

"That's not quite what I meant. Why don't you hang them up?"

"Because I can't reach. And anyway, you're the hooker-up of coats. Hooker-Mummy, Hooker-Mummy," she called as she ran back up the stairs.

Just hoping she doesn't remember to call me that whilst in the supermarket. I suspect it could be misinterpreted.