Parenting fail

I am a bad, bad mother. For the last 2 mornings I have milked & fed cows, collected eggs & fed chickens and harvested the corn before getting out of bed and checking on my actual real live children downstairs. My only defence is that E is playing this too and we are trading goods.

PS (Thinking Big)

I did my 9 year old a disservice on here with the whole Thinking Big post. His world may be small but he's always pushing the boundaries of it. He can be amazingly ambitious when he's enthused about something. To illustrate, his current excitement revolves around these 2 pieces of wood and a half bald bit of sandpaper.

Thinking Big

Once again, thanks to the amazing seasonal generosity of family and friends our kids ended up with £30 - £110 worth of Christmas money/vouchers to spend in the sales this year. (They did receive exactly the same amount of money each- our relatives are very equal that way- but there is a sliding scale of purchasing power in our house which correlates to age lest we all suffocate underneath cuddly animals, lego and squinkies).

The kids' wish lists were very modest, considering:

M: A bag of marshmallows and a big stuffed Spot the dog (A character she has shown NO interest in whatsoever since the age of 3, so that was a bit unexpected. However he's huge and cuddly and therefore appealing)

J: An Anakin Jedi Interceptor Lego ship and a BIG cup of Wilkos pick'n'mix sweets

E: An iPod with the capacity to download apps and take photos (which his previous one didn't because it was so old)

These items were duly sought and purchased in the days following Christmas day and the kids LOVE them and play with them lots. All were bought in real shops from real live people who work there- aside from J's Anakin lego model which was ordered online cause it was cheaper. 

The 4 days in between securing the purchase on Amazon and the magical package arriving via courier to our door were long and punctuated by sighs of, 'Oh I WISH it was Thursday because then my Anakin Jedi Interceptor Ship would get here,' and 'Mum, do you think my Anakin Jedi Interceptor Ship might get here tomorrow, even though they said it would be Thursday?' and 'If my my Anakin Jedi Interceptor Ship does get here tomorrow I can't play football with Jack cause I'll be too busy building it then playing with it...' 

Day 2 of waiting for Anakin Jedi Interceptor Ship. Bedtime.
Me: What prayers are we going to say tonight then Jackson?
J: Please God help my Anakin Jedi Interceptor Ship get here on Thursday, Amen.
Me: .... Amen... Anything else?
J: Nope- that's it.
Me: Jackson, God can do anything, yeah? And when you pray you can talk to him about anything! Isn't that amazing? Let's think of something else to pray about... I know what-
J: (interrupting) Dear God please make my Anakin Jedi Interceptor Ship get here BEFORE Thursday!!

This cracked me up completely. He's 9 years old. The entire focus of his world is about 2 meters wide and is packed with nerf guns, lego and cola bottles. It's a place of smallness and safety, cushioned from real life by a network of family, adult friends and his posse of mates who look forward to football in the yard at lunchtime more than their lessons, just as he does.

The WORST thing to happen to him last week was when I finally threw out his favourite jogging bottoms which have had a hole in the right knee for the past 3 months (Somehow they kept emerging, clean and damp from the washing machine, so I'd think- OK he can wear them just this one more time...) 

My world is somewhat bigger than this. 

My world involves solicitors, contractors, internet Tesco shopping and parentmail. There are banking dongles, hair straighteners and estate agents. There's also midnight email conversations, school dinner money reminders and an almost- teenager who is part toddler/ part mastermind contestant (specialist subject: Apple). There are landlords and ex-landlords, ex-tenants and bailiffs. There are bills to be prioritised, conversations about tampax (No, you don't need them yet), sexting (Great- you know what it is but haven't yet done/seen anything? Let's keep it that way) and a tick list of things that I never quite get to the end of.

Sometimes I think I am envious of the small safe world of my kids. And then I remember how excruciating adolescence was and how I glaze over at mindless youtube videos which feature singing dogs, uploaded by 10 year olds who boast 'You won't watch this without laughing,' while the kids crease up on the floor next to me, proving that if you are a child, then this is perfectly true. 

So my life is bigger and a bit more complex than theirs, but has God grown (in my head) to match?

God can do anything. And when you pray you can talk to him about anything! Isn't that amazing?

I need to apply this to me too and stop only praying about what I can see and hear and worry about. You can scale everything up from the world of my 9 year old, but mine too is small and limited. 

God knows we need people to pay on time so that we in turn can pay contractors/ staff/ the VAT man. He's fully aware of the date we need accounts by and that it must coincide with the pension people doing their bit so we can (hopefully) get a mortgage before stupid season starts again and we're not at home long enough to move house. 

So why do I insist on telling him???

I tell him about lots of other stuff too, though. I prattle on and on about family things (so many of them far from him), my friend's mum who is dying of cancer (Why don't you always heal? Help them to remember all the memories they are making now), my friends who lost their son last year (I still don't get it God, but I know you do. Use what happened- somehow) and my other mate who is finally pregnant after ages of waiting (Thank you/let them be OK/Thank you/let them be ok).

As good and as right as these prayers are, I stall and get overwhelmed when I look further afield. There are some massively ugly things happening that I don't quite know what to do with or how to pray about. So in all honesty I don't. Because the more you look the more mess you see and before long it's less of a prayer and more like a Billy Joel song:

Hunger
Dirty water
Tax evasion 
Genetic modification
Corrupt politicians
Genocide
Celebrity culture
Preventable child death
Nestle
Meow Meow
Trident
Rape culture
Suicide bombings
The LRA
Human Trafficking
School shootings
HIV
Jimmy Saville
The arms trade
Whistleblowers
FGM
Austerity
Child soldiers
The Middle East

When the problem gets so big I have less to say about it. I have no solutions to offer so other than fire off petitions of complaint (often via Avaaz.org) I concentrate on the things I can pray semi-coherently about. It's kind of a back side forward approach.

I'm forgetting who He is.

I AM.

History is not the history of man. It’s not the history of civilization. God was there first. Do we sometimes invite God into our story? Are we like ‘We’re going to let you be in our story God,’ and he’s like, ‘Excuse me? But your history is my story. Your existence is my story. Your nation? My story. The world that you live in? My story. The history of your civilasations (thank you very much) is my history and it started long before you were around. History is MY STORY and I am inviting you in. 

My name is I AM. Your name is I am not. 

I can take anybody and do extraordinary things. 

You are one of 6.4 billion people on this planet so you've got to just get over yourself. Do you think the world is going to screech to a halt if you fall off of it? I don't NEED you to do this, I'm inviting you to be part of My Story. I could use a sheep if I wanted to, I don't need anything or anybody to help me do this but  I. Want. You.

Stop insulting God with tiny prayers and a shrunk down life and your little teeny idols. (Louie Giglio)

Potatoes

Me and Eldest are having argument animated discussion about the baked potatoes that he made in school 2 days ago.

The recipe sounded really good but far too fiddly for me to ever consider. It involved scooping out the innards halfway through cooking and mixing them with cheese, nutmeg, double cream and 2 others I can't remember (I am especially excited about the double cream part) then re-inserting into the skins for further baking. 

Seriously- what a faff! Stab them, oil them, then shove them in the oven and WALK AWAY for 30 minutes I say.

However, I was reaalllyy looking forward to us all eating them. I pictured us all fighting over the last potato as the other kids would be so enthusiastic about this new labour-intensive baked potato, the head chef would feel all quietly smug and happy about the positive yummy noises everyone was making and (most importantly) the whole scenario would serve to further advance my redundancy by stealth programme, as outlined here. 

But then he forgot to bring them home. 

The following day he discovered his potatoes safe and well inside their tupperware... on top of a radiator. And he left them there. All day. Then he forgot about them again and arrived home potatoless for a second time. The cheesy creamy labour-intensive baked potatoes spent a further night slowly incubating invisible yet powerfully emetic microlife on top of their radiator, little colonies of life in the deserted school. Tonight after a third day of sitting on top of the radiator he brought the tupperware home- and helpfully put it straight in the fridge.

Me: Mate- these can't stay in here. They need to be chucked.

E: You're chucking out my potatoes?

Me: Yeah cause they've not been in the fridge. They're no good anymore. 

E: It wasn't my fault- someone put them on the radiator.

Me: Yes, because you left them in school.

E: But I didn't leave them on the radiator- someone else stupidly put them there!

(Is he buying his own argument or winding me up? I really can't tell. I'm losing my edge)

Me: Which they were only able to do because you left them. Twice.

E: Yes, but I didn't leave them on the radiator and make them inedible!

Me: They are your potatoes mate. You should have brought them home.

E: I left them on a desk though- not a radiator. 

Me: Hey! YOU are responsible for your OWN potatoes- no one else! You get me?

E: But it wasn't my fault!

(Do I laugh, cry, change the subject or hit him? I go for 3)

Me: Do you have a debating club at school?

E: Uh no. Don't think so.

Me: You should start one. You'd be really good at it.

E: No I wouldn't!

(Should have gone for MORE of 3. Or just 4. I give THE LOOK instead. He holds my gaze for 10 whole seconds then looks at the floor. THE LOOK doesn't need continuous eye contact to be effective. It bores through to the very soul. He's breaking... It's like the final flailing attempts when I beat him at arm wrestling... Just a few seconds more...)

E: (Getting up to leave) I'm going now. You're looking at me in that freaky way. I don't like it.

And it's all over for the potatoes and the head chef! Do not mess with THE LOOK! I allow myself a brief moment of satisfaction, then realise I've still got to cook tea.

(In)dependence

I don't like cooking. I could blame this on my child's preference for his own snot rather than my culinary efforts, but this aversion is a long standing thing that began years before any of the kids got here, so that would be unfair. 

Cooking has always been a necessity rather than an enjoyable activity. As a student I survived 3 years in halls of residence on pasta, beans on toast and Farleys rusks.

When we got engaged, my mother pulled my future mother-in-law aside and whispered confidentially 'You know she can't cook, don't you?' (She did know as it happened and didn't care).

When I was pregnant with our eldest my mother-in-law broached the issue herself with, 'Well you'll have to start cooking now my love, won't you?' But I had already thought this through and outlined my cunning plan to her: Breastfeed until it's old enough to work the microwave. Sorted.

This more or less happened and Ethan learned to make porridge in the microwave before the age of 2. I also taught him how to scramble eggs, heat up beans and make packet noodles. We spent many happy minutes counting down the seconds together then shouting BEEP really loudly when the timer was up. The whole thing was FUN and enhanced his numeracy skills enormously- although it did result in him counting backwards rather than forwards for a while.

At the age of 8 he had a best friend next door to us who was 3 years older. This little boy was taught to make cups of tea by his mum and when Ethan found out, he wanted to learn too. I though Why not? and taught him. Not because I enjoy parental competition, but because I enjoy drinking tea. Lots of it. And by that time there were 2 younger kids in the house and less time to make tea. As long as he took his roller blades off first I was happy to share the load.

Nowadays I have a reasonable repertoire of meals but cooking remains a chore. It should take as little time as possible so I can get on with other stuff and (rather crucially) I prefer the kitchen to be tidy, and making food for lots of people generates mess. 

It's also tedious thinking up what to make then deciding the thing I really want can't be done as the central vital ingredient is missing. Of course I could PLAN our meals properly, for every night, but that would involve being organised which I do for a living, and in non-work time I'd rather wing it. Occasionally I'll attempt a tried and tested recipe by a proper actual TV chef but I usually loose concentration halfway down the first page, get annoyed that the contents of the pan look nothing like the nice picture in the book, then improvise and start adding things of my own.

Luckily Keith enjoys cooking (you know, actually enjoys it) so we mostly share it when he's around. Ethan's early interest in cooking has increased as he's grown and fuelled by food technology classes at school, his input into family meals stands at around a meal a week.


Isn’t that cool? Eventually I plan to be redundant. I want all 3 of them to be doing my job by the time youngest is 12 so I can lie in bed while they get ready for school, emerge from under my duvet to kiss them good bye and if I haven't heard anyone moving around by 8.30am maternal instinct will kick in and compel me to text them.

I think we’re on track for this already. Due to a combination of a reward chart scheme and primal survival instinct at 6, 9 and 12 years old the kids:

• Make their own beds
• Make their own breakfast and clear up afterwards
• Sort out their own laundry: dirty stuff in basket, clean stuff (which I've folded or maybe ironed) back in drawers
• Make their own lunch boxes
• Wipe out their own lunch boxes and take care of any leftover bits
• Set table (Whoever wanders into kitchen complaining of hunger)
• Help cook (Eldest- as above)
• Clear table (Whoever finishes eating first)
• Wash/dry up (All- a dish for every year of their lives, cutlery counts as a quarter, tupperware as half)
• Bath/shower themselves then clear up afterwards
• Feed the cat

Of course when I say 'Make their own beds', there's a certain standard which I would prefer and then there's the standard that I get as it's the one they are capable of. But that's FINE because they’re doing it independently and future daughters and sons-in-law will love me for it.

Throughout the Bible God's relationship with his people is described as a parent/child one too. Isn't it weird how our ultimate parenting goal diverges from the perfect divine one? Our relationship with God flourishes best when we press into him more and more, depend on him more and more and acknowledge our utter reliance on him for each and every breath we take. In a paradoxical way we grow as children of God by embracing our helplessness. 

But our goal as earthly parents is completely the opposite- we expect our children to gradually need us less and less, we encourage them to make their own decisions about bigger and weightier things (as their experience and age increase) and eventually we celebrate that they become autonomous people capable of functioning and contributing to society without parental involvement. 

So what happens to the dysfunctional among us? 

In the extreme, a christian who is prideful, self reliant and individualistic to the point of not really needing God at all probably isn't one.

And in the extreme a child who is overtly dependent on parental approval and assistance may be requesting Harvey-wants-Bitty.

(NOT normal)

Raising food critics

It is bedtime. I'm reading 'My Friend Fred' to J & M when out the corner of my eye I see J insert his index finger up a nostril, dig around for a bit, then eat whatever it is he found there.

Me: Mate- do you mind? You can do that as much as you like when no one is watching, but not when other people are here, OK?
Keith: Yeah, cause mum will want some if she sees you doing that.
Me: No- other people's bogies never taste as good, do they?
J: You're right there mum, they don't.
(Me & Keith exchange worried glances)
Me: So... Have you tried someone else's then?
J: Yeah, Kobe's. They were horrible.

This from the fussiest child ever who refuses to eat most green things, anything remotely crispy (aside from crisps) and who is deeply suspicious of strips of pasta as he usually has penne. I don't get it. 

• Cheese on toast with Hellman's, done under the grill so that the cheese sizzles and goes all crunchy at the edges:
Eww- no thank you.

• Self produced nasal mucus:
Oh yes, dee-licious.

• Mushroon and Leek pasta strips with peppers and parmesan:
I'm not even attempting to eat that. I will say I'm still full up (lunch was 5 hours ago) then yawn repeatedly in an attempt to be asked to go to bed rather than put ONE forkful of that near my mouth.

• Someone else's nasal mucus: 
OK then, I'll try it just this once- since you're offering.

I have no way of rationalising this habit except that if he was a cat he wouldn't suffer from fur balls.

Me: Oh dear Madi- WHAT happened here?


Madi: Well I had a bit too much fun.

Weather

Trees have rings, rocks have carbon dating and lobsters have growth bands in their gastric mills. People can also be grouped according to age by this very simple test. 

What is your immediate reaction to this?

a) Hurray! School will be shut- get the sledge!
b) Arghh! I've got to drive in that later. I hope the main roads are clear...
c) Oh no! Will I break a hip if I attempt to go to the Spar?

Granted it's not as accurate as the tree method and my theory would need adjusting for the residents of Canada where they have real snow, (see below) but I think you know what I mean.

I love wakening up to a blanket of whiteness, especially if it's on Christmas morning- which in my living memory has happened only twice ever. 

I love making crunchy footprints on a big swathe of nothingness, being the FIRST one to leave evidence of my being there. It's like being the first knife in a new butter.

My backside is still small enough to fit on the kids' sledge so that's fun for an hour or so. But then I get cold and start to mentally calculate how much radiator space we'll need for all our hats, scarves, gloves, coats and other assorted outdoor wear which has become sopping wet, so just want to go home for hot chocolate and embark on the drying out process (whether the children are ready to or not).

By day 2 of snow I have defaulted overnight to category b). I have a tick list of things in my head but am wetting myself at the prospect of driving anywhere and I just want to get the grit out.

How did this happen? I used to HATE grit. The snow killer. 

At this rate I have approximately 30 years before progressing to category c). 

Will it be a slow steady decline or an Aaaaaarrrghhhhhhh-thump-crack into decrepitude?