Toilet training

When tensions are running high between siblings due to exceptionally hot weather, teenage sensitivities and hunger (the responsible adult in the house only just realised it's 5pm and there's no plan for dinner yet), don't waste the bad feeling they have for each other. Use the time constructively to deliver a short object lesson in cleaning the toilet bowl.

If you are very, very lucky, the stars will align at this moment and when you nip to the toilet before dashing to Lidl, you will discover that toilet user or users unknown have once again left skid marks and pretended not to notice.

Decide that your strategy must change as neither cleaning it up without comment nor cornering spawn one at a time and sensitively broaching the subject to be met with shocked expressions and claims of 'That definitely wasn't me' are clearly not long term solutions.

Instead, gain the attention of all present and temporarily remove screen privileges. Distract with dinner-related tasks and explain what is about to happen. Prepare for resistance, but power through and point out that the pizza will be ready in 7 short minutes, by which time the unpleasantness will be over.

Assemble in the bathroom. Explain to the spawn that they can determine the order they clean in, but that everyone will get a turn. In fact, everyone will get more than one turn if that's what the job demands. Hand out the toilet roll and bleach and supervise the queue.

Be surprised at how efficiently the job can be done. Supervise the squirting of the bleach and the final flush. Congratulate your team as they wash their hands and file out the bathroom.

Da-daaah!

Job done. Not only is the toilet bowl perfectly clean and ocean fresh, but tensions between the spawn will have melted away. They will have bonded with each other during this team building exercise and now be united in their annoyance with you. Luckily you are an adult and your sense of self worth does not depend on their approval.

Eat pizza together 7 minutes later and discuss the best bits and worst bits of your day. The worst bit will be likened to class detentions which apparently 'never work'. I disagree. The object lesson was clearly effective because we're still talking about it and the toilet is clean. 

Old age (part 2)

'The antidote to complaining is thanksgiving' (Pam Hinkelman)

Getting old happens so gradually that most of the time you're completely unaware of it until you try something physical that used to be easy and realise you can't. Or don't even attempt it in the first place in case you break something. The realisation usually arrives slowly - with a vague but growing awareness that things used to be different, but you can't remember EXACTLY what or how they changed. My most recent example of this involves sitting on the floor.

The bit in between is a doddle. I get down there and up again with minimal effort. I can even do those pilates exercises where you stand up from a cross-legged position without using your hands and when you lunge suddenly into a squatting position from a kneeling one by flipping your ankles against the ground. I am a good sitter down and stander upper.

I also really like sitting on the floor, but this is no longer comfortable for long periods of time.

When did this happen? Somewhere in between teaching babies to crawl & sweeping under the table after EVERY meal (circa 2001) and Soul Survivor 2017 - a 4 day youth festival with NO seating in the main arena. The lack of seating arrangements might have been OK if leg room allowed you to wiggle around a bit, but we were crammed in pretty tight. Some people in the crowd had these old people back rest things:



I internally mocked these on day 1. But by the start of day 4, I was wishing I owned one.

But day 4 is the last day! And then I get to sit in a car for 3 and a half hours and drive home. Which will be a welcome relief - even though the whole car smells like something died in there. (I don't know the cause yet, but semi skimmed milk got spilt in the boot during a tip run last week and the car's been parked in direct sunlight with the windows up for most of the time since then).

Between the mysteriously stinking car and the packing and sitting on the floor, I'm not in a place to focus on the worship that's about to happen. I'm feeling empathy for farm animals that spend their whole lives in similar conditions and briefly consider vegetarianism.

Then the guy in front of me shuffles forward slightly giving me more leg room - Hurray!

THEN he immediately lowers his whole upper body back to the floor so I have even less room than I started with. His head brushes against my calf and he doesn't notice or apologise when I move out the way. Annoying.

He's not a small bloke either. I calculate maybe 2 and a half people could sit in the space he's now occupying. Grrrrr.

I watch him lie at my feet. Eyes closed. Completely still. His complexion is quite ruddy, now that I'm studying his face. He looks worn out. His eyes are still closed and he frowns slightly, his lips parting as he breathes in and out. He's maybe 20 years older than me.

I'm suddenly more concerned than annoyed. He's probably fed up with all the floor sitting too.

I nudge his shoulder and ask 'Are you OK?' He opens his eyes and smiles, 'I'm fine thanks. Just praying - I've got such a heart for these young people' (he gestures towards his group).

'Oh - as you were then - and Amen to whatever you're praying!' I say.

Oh. Dear. God. I am an awful person.

The band starts right after this and we're all on our feet. This bloke gets up with a bounce. He is also a good stander upper.

The music is loud and the bass pounds in our chests. The bloke in front of me worships in sign language. I've seen others do this, but have never found it so beautiful. A mix of 8000 teenagers and youth leaders worship together with no distinction.

Thank God for Soul Survivor and the lives that have been affected and changed by it over the years.
Thank God for Mike Pilovachi.
For his humour and sacrifice and willingness to plough into the lives of other people.
Thank God for this bloke in front of me, who loves his youth group.
Thank you that he's given his time to even be here.
Thank you for every sacrifice he's ever made - especially the hidden stuff like sitting on the floor way longer than is comfortable.
Thank God for my own church family.
For all the people we do life with on a regular basis.
For those who love my kids and talk to them when they can't or don't want to talk to me or K.
Thank you that we get to sing and feel alive because we are alive.
Thank you x

Statements you really don't want to hear from your teenage babysitter

'I took a psychcopath test when you were out and it said I have psychotic tendencies but don't worry - I don't think it's that accurate. And I only got 32 out of 80.'

Growing up

Turning 16 is a reasonably big deal in the UK. It brings about a few rights and responsibilities that were previously denied - like driving a moped, changing your name by deed poll, consenting to sexual activity and getting a national insurance number. Whoo hoooo!

This is truly exciting. But the human brain soon adjusts to the new normal and by the time you balk at the idea of going anywhere on a moped, have paid HMRC a proportion of your wage for the best part of the last 30 years and are midway through a lifetime promise to have sex with the same person from this day forward, for better or for worse until one of you dies, you may have decided to purchase a wheeled shopping trolley. Like this one.

This is my Granny Trolley. I absolutely love it. No one else in the family will use it. They think it makes me look like this.

KEEP CALM AND SHOP ON is clearly not the healthiest life philosophy, but it helps reduce our carbon footprint a little and it's not tartan. It's also strangely satisfying the way the kids are uncomfortable to be seen with or near it. Especially after days like yesterday.

Keith was away with work and me and the kids were doing a food top-up shop. Plus ManChild turned 16 last week and we needed pizza and treats for him and his friends who were coming round to celebrate that he can now join a trade union or die for his country.

We walked into town with Granny Trolley because it was sunny. This was uneventful. The shopping itself was equally ordinary, but this was later contested. Here is my version of events:

It was Saturday and therefore busy. We did not have a definitive shopping list and were winging it. This was my modus operandi until 3 years ago when something flipped over in my brain and now I really need a list.

We got a Big Trolley to transport Granny Trolley + shopping. We weren't getting a Big Shop and the kids are really good at not asking for stuff. But they had birthday treat permission-to-ask and made some really good suggestions.

About half way round there was an announcement that today's shoppers can get a free stainless steel peeler. Just go to the top of aisle 2 to claim this. We were genuinely peeler-less until yesterday. The original peeler we got as a wedding gift fell apart about a year ago and the plastic handled thing we bought to replace it lasted only a few months before the blade started twirling round halfway through the first carrot so we chucked it out and kept forgetting to buy another. Now Tesco are offering me a FREE peeler. It's a no brainer. ManChild encourages me to go claim it for our household while he trolley-sits in the Toy and Book aisle.

In aisle 2 there's a very jolly girl in an apron standing by a wooden counter. There's clearly some demonstration about to happen and she beckons us closer to see. The demonstration is NOT for my free stainless steel peeler, but for a Mr Whipstir that froths milk, scrambles eggs and mushes potatoes. I am tempted to walk away but I want my free peeler.

I watch the demonstration. The jolly girl is very thorough. You can whizz skimmed milk with this thing and make it so thick that you can turn the container upsidedown and the froth does not fall out. I start to think about the lattes we could have at home for 17p rather than the ones in town for £2.85.

Watching jolly girl in the crowd is a woman with gorgeous red and orange hair - like flames tumbling down her back. The ends are almost luminous. I am shaving my head in about 3 weeks time to raise money for a local cancer charity. My friend, Lis, who is shaving it off for me is looking for a mad colour to dye her hair as shaving her's off completely would be awkward for her job. Maybe I've found the colour for her?

The demonstration continues with the miniature version of the Whipstir. Like its parent, Whipstir Jr also creates maximum froth with minimum effort. Madi appears at my side wondering why I've taken so long. We watch the rest of the demo together.

Jolly girl finishes up and starts handing out free stainless steel peelers to her audience. I get my free peeler. I also take a Mr & Jr Whipstir pack as I spontaneously decide to start Christmas shopping and did not bring a LIST today to prevent such impulse purchases. I realise I can no longer see Flame Haired Woman who must have taken off as soon as she got her free peeler.

Madi and me make our way back to Big Trolley, me glancing up each aisle for Flame Haired Woman. We don't see her. The boys are still by Big Trolley in Toy and Book aisle playing on their phones and  looking fed up. I present our free peeler. They are impressed. We like free things.

It's now even busier than it was when we got here. Which was a while ago. We make our way to the check outs. I'm heading for self service because in my head, this is still just a top up shop in a Big Trolley.

I suddenly locate Flame Haired Woman and dart off to speak to her without informing ManChild where I'm going or which direction he should continue walking in. I say 'Excuse me...' to her then launch into a full explanation of why I'm drawn to her and ask for details of the colour she uses and Please may I have a photo of your hair because it didn't feel right to sneak up behind you and photograph your head without consent. She initially appears a bit taken aback then realises I'm not a crazy stalker and agrees to the picture. Her hair looks like this.

ManChild is now more irritated as I bogged off to talk to a randomer and left him blocking the aisle with all the shopping and lots of people tutted at him. I sense that if these items were not for his birthday he would have already abandoned us. I also sense we should conclude the shopping experience swiftly.

We reach the self scanner. I place Granny Trolley on the scales and tap 'I brought my own bag'. The self service till does not believe us and a light flashes until Tom appears and overrides it and we begin scanning. Hmmm. There's a lot of stuff in Big Trolley. We scan the first few things before the scanner errors again. Tom comes over and overrides the system again and comments on the volume of things. Would we like to go to a till he asks. No, it's fine, I reply. We like scanning things. Although by this time Madi is playing on the railings by the checkout and J's on his phone catching Pokemon and pretending he is not here. Only ManChild is scanning things and muttering under his breath. Including the Whipstirs, we scan through almost £80 worth of items. The scales flash another 3 times. During this time another shopper tries to squeeze past Big Trolley and the railings. Madi tries to disentangle herself from them in a hurry to let her past, but forgets which way her legs bend and the shopper almost trips over her feet instead.

When we finish scanning there's too much stuff to fit into Granny Trolley, so we buy 4 carrier bags and load them up to bursting point. M and J isolate some items to consume now - like Frijj and cookies and tiger bread - so there will be less to carry home.

We get outside. It is raining. I stand in the drizzle and divvy up the tiger bread. ManChild refuses the bread and says he'll walk ahead. He grumpily takes the heaviest bags and strides off without saying goodbye. J empathises with his brother's discomfort but is not quite far enough into adolescence to be mad at me yet. Madi is 10 and can't understand why there's a problem.

I realise in that moment that as fun as it was to be 10 and as exciting as it was to have new freedoms at 16 and then 18, it's far more liberating to be 44 and not actually care if Tom or a Flame Haired Stranger thinks you're mental. Granny Trolley is heavy and it's raining and the journey home is almost all uphill, but I pretty much giggle to myself all the way there. M and J don't understand why, which only makes it funnier.

(Disclaimer: E has just viewed this account and claims he did not 'mutter under his breath,' but stated clearly and audibly 'This is stupid- we should go to a proper till' without muttering).

Crossing the line

Spawn X approaches me in an overly friendly, affectionate manner, given the conversation we last had and which he has not yet apologised for. The conversation, 24 hours previously, started out friendly enough and involved normal banter, in-family jokes and mild insults. But the conversation was long and there was an undercurrent of Nogadgetwednesday frustration which eventually crumbled into perpetual answering back. Think kid across the street from the McCallisters in HomeAlone, but instead of incessant questioning about the mileage, speed and 4 wheel drive capability of the airport shuttle bus, we had sarcasm. Yay. It might have been fascinating to watch from a sociological point of view, but by the time it got truly interesting I was barely hanging onto control of my own mouth to analyse the situation in a detached, reflective way. However, I am an adult. I possess the filters which Spawn X lacks. I therefore did not verbalise the many comments swirling in my head but dried the dishes with Spawn Y (both of us chanting la la la la la la until I became dizzy), while co-parent Z fielded the comments and comebacks. It was not a fun tea time.

X: I love you, mum.
Me: I love you too, mate.
X: Can I go on the computer?
Me: (Look of incredulity) Are you... forgetting something perhaps?
X: I'm sorry.
Me: (More of the Look)
X: I really am sorry.
Me: For what, exactly? I mean it's really nice to hear from you and everything, but I just want to be clear on this.
X: For being, as you so eloquently phrased it 'A total git'... And oh look you're smiling because it was quite funny- isn't it amazing that I can make you laugh about this?
Me: Yes, your gift is indeed your curse.
X: No, it's not my curse, its-
Me: No, no, no! This really is your curse. You're smart. You're witty. You're fun to be around. And you have NO idea where the line is.
X: See - I think I do know where the line is- I just don't care about crossing over it.
Me: But then this happens - so you need to learn to care. How can we stop things going there? We need a new gesture...

(We used to have a discreet 'You're crossing the line NOW' gesture that I could use on him in company without saying anything, but it backfired on a couple of occasions and lost effectiveness. We spend a ridiculous 60 seconds trying out new gestures, none of which could be used discreetly in the company of other people and one or two that could be construed as mildly offensive).

Me: None of these are working.
X: Hmmm. I shall need to give this some thought. I'll sleep on it and get back to you.
Me: That would be fantastic.

Mind your language

I've never quite got to grasps with swearing. Social situations and generational differences dictate social norms in ways that fluctuate quite a lot which can be confusing for anyone, let alone a pre-teen whose peer group has recently exploded to 6 times the size it was before the Summer. And which now includes much less supervised adult time and far more exposure to people just like him who are all trying to decide who they are by loudly and confidently pushing the boundaries of risqué language now that there are no parents around.

Bedtime, October-ish, year 7
Him: Why is the world so confusing??! Some people say all kinds of stuff that doesn't make any sense.
Me: (Naively thinking this is about homework) Give me an example.
Him: I'll need to spell it out to you cause they aren't very nice words.
Me: Oh, OK. That's fine. Go for it.
Him: Well, I think I know this one, but D.I.C.K.
Me: That's a penis.
Him: (Congratulating himself) Yesssssss! OK - B.I.C.H.
Me: Bitch? (Nods at me) You can use that word properly to describe a female dog, but when people use that badly it's to insult a girl and be really mean to her. Usually for no good reason.
Him: Why compare a person to a dog?!? It's all a bit strange.
Me: I agree.
Him: I have a few more: Doing-it-in-a-girl's-bits-off.
Me: Fuck? (He nods). That's having sex.
Him: Yes, but 'Having sex off??!' That makes NO sense. It's not even proper English. I know that and I'm still learning to spell.
Me: I know babe. It's weird to me too.

Him: People should use their words properly! I'm going to have to tell Coby tomorrow because I'm pretty sure he doesn't know either.
Me: You're probably right there. The thing is - no one wants to be the first to ask the question in front of their mates as they think everyone else knows. It was like that when I was at school too.
Him: OK - Then there's G.A.Y.
Me: Gay? Tricky one. Who says that?
Him: Lots of people. They shout it to people to annoy them, like 'You're so G.A.Y!'
Me: Gay isn't a swear word, it's a feeing. It's when a boy doesn't fancy a girl but fancies another boy instead. Or a girl not wanting a boyfriend, but a girlfriend.
Him: That's so weird!
Me: I think so too - but not everyone feels that way. And it's hard because I think God doesn't want that for anyone but some people DO feel that way, maybe for their whole lives, maybe for just a little while and no one should be bullied for how they feel, should they?
Him: People say that a LOT in school.
Me: But just say someone - maybe even one of your friends - is all stressed out about it and is like 'Oh no - I think I fancy a boy!! And I have no one to talk to about it because if anyone finds out the whole class will know and I'll get called gay and be teased Every. Single. Day.
Him: That would be horrible.
Me: Which is why you never use gay to be mean to anyone. Or any word for that matter.

And then it hits me. Isn't the intention behind the use of language, or the purpose of using certain words or ideas - isn't that more important than the actual individual words we use? Or avoid using?

I mean - you can lie to someone to hurt them, which is not OK.
You can lie to someone to protect yourself out of cowardice - also not OK.
But you can lie to someone to protect their feelings and that's kind of noble.
Then you can lie to someone when you have a surprise birthday or holiday planned and that's completely OK, even though you lied.

And then there's the truth, which should be straightforward, but it's really not always that neutral.

You can tell the truth in order to hurt someone's feelings.
You can tell the truth to gossip.
You can tell the truth to manipulate a situation and gain favour with someone.
You can tell the truth and give far too much information than is useful or helpful or loving.
You can choose to tell the truth for completely the wrong reasons and be wrong in doing it even though what you said was technically correct.

Which brings us back to swearing, because I still don't have the consistent approach to the whole thing that my preteen seems to require.

Me: Do you end up thinking the words in your head just because you're hearing them a lot?
Him: (Sadly) Yes.
Me: Why.... Do you think you don't say those words too?
Him: I just don't think it's a good way to talk. And it's not 'me' - if you know what I mean.
Me: I know exactly what you mean.
Him: It's like I drift.. slowly... away... from God at school (demonstrates with his hands) and then at the weekend when I'm at church I sail right back to him (clasps hands together again).
Me: That's pretty cool actually. Because you can't ever drift away completely. He won't let you.

We talk and talk about this stuff for ages. So much so that ManChild comes upstairs to collect his shower things and hangs around in silence for a while (and maybe learns a thing or two, who knows?) when eventually we are all theorised out and I have to go downstairs because bedtime tonight has taken more than an hour and a half.

Him: Thanks for this. I'm going to write all these words down in case I forget them.
Me: Uh... OK. But where will you keep the notebook?? It has to be someplace safe where no one else can accidentally find it.

He decides on a safe place, which is so safe I'm sworn to secrecy and can't type it because that would be too much of the truth (see above). I continue my theorising downstairs in a more appropriate way with my husband, who can cope with most words in the English language - unless 'tidy up', 'unit' and 'skip' are used in the same sentence.

So.... There has to be a careful balancing of censorship vs freedom in any society that values democracy. It's essential to be able to challenge the status quo or campaign to change stuff that the powers that be are a bit too comfortable with. But isn't it miserable when that freedom is played out in an 11 year old's world with people not bothering to find creative alternatives to 'Fuck off' when they are only moderately (or not at all) irritated by something/someone? Surely the most extreme, emotive and potentially insulting vocabulary that exists in any language should be reserved for things that carry more weight and consequence? Things that mean something.

• the fluidity of the term 'terrorist'
• NHS funding cuts
• climate change
• corruption
• cancer
• injustice
• trident
• tax avoidance
• the arms trade
• FGM
• Walmart stocking guns but not Kinder eggs
• murder of 2 women/week by a partner (UK)
• preventable death of a child every 3 seconds
• carpet bombing civilians who didn't drown on their way to Calais
I don't like the way you just looked at me right now.

• I am full of adolescent bravado right now and you are annoying me
Fuck off

See the weirdness in all of this?

I am all over the place with this post because I'm actually typing my way towards a realisation that started in my head a long time ago that I need to now act on: Blogging / Facebooking / tweeting is a massive waste of time and I need to rein it in. Instead I need to fill my mind with stuff like this and constructive information about the issues listed above and start bugging the hell out of my MP again. Because I used to do this a lot and he's probably missing our correspondence.

BTW, the following bedtime was less intense, quicker and included a sentence I didn't anticipate ever saying to my kid: 'Babe, you forgot the 't' in 'bitch'...'

Cold calling

Junk PPI calls made to a contract phone belonging to a teenager are really not going to make anyone any commission. How many insane conversations do unlucky call centre people need to have before the whole scheme is abandoned as a big fat waste of time?

Today in the UK, 47% of 12-15 year olds have a smart phone. So just under half of every junk phone call made at random to people who have not been in an accident in the last 12 months or accidentally purchased PPI ever in their lives will probably be answered by a teenager who, on average will have far more disposable time on his hands than your average call centre worker on minimum wage.

Teenagers are energetic and fun and full of imagination. As a collective, they possess the ability to think up dozens of creative ways of wasting the time of call centre people. These include:

• Agree that PPI has been mis-sold to you at some point in the past, become distraught and weep down the phone.

• Agree that PPI has been mis-sold to you at some point in the past and then become enraged and shout a lot.

• Ask call centre person how their day is going and what qualifications they got in high school.

• Pretend to speak fluent French and not understand English.

• Pretend to only speak Minion.

• Tell the cold call centre person to 'hold the line please' then mute the speaker for at least 30 seconds. Un-mute to reassure call centre person that their call is important to you and you will be available to speak shortly. Mute once more. Repeat.

• Pretend to fart down the phone.

• Try to order a pepperoni pizza.

• Ask to speak to your friend 'Ryan' at the next desk. (You know Ryan... Yes you do - Ryan! At the next desk along from you! Opposite you then... What - he's not in today then? No, he DOES work there- I spoke to him yesterday... Stop messing with me mate, I NEED to speak to him, Pleeassee!!)

• Pretend to be hit by a car mid-sentence. Have nearby friends scream and call for help.

• Pretend to be deaf and pass your phone to a mate who will adopt one of the call centre handling approaches as detailed above.

I am torn between feeling proud of my teenager's ingenuity, annoyance at the call centre company who invaded his privacy, puzzled that the whole thing was ever considered a sound business model and sympathy for Ryan - who probably did quite well in school and has targets to meet. And probably a massive wad of student debt as well.