Time, which is all we have

Life has been busy recently and there has been little time for writing.  There has been a wealth of material ….. Thatcher, Katie Hopkins, Michael Gove.  All the usual suspects.  However something has happened this week which has stopped me in my tracks.

A friend of mine died.   We were not close, and indeed hadn’t seen each other for nearly two decades.  However we were classmates all through high school and, through the modern wonders of Facebook, had got back in touch.  We commented on each other’s lives, shared jokes and admired each other’s children.  Her updates were always positive (not like my cynical old gripes).  They weren’t boastful or showy – just contented and grateful for her life and her family.  Her love for her children, family and pupils was clear to see. On Tuesday, her status said that she had enjoyed a lovely day in the sun.  Yesterday, it was updated to say that she had died.

She had a good heart, better than most.  My fondest memory of her is trekking up a mountain in Wales on a school trip, as I told her an elaborate tale of how they mined Kendall Mint Cake in the Lake District.  She was so good-natured, I have no idea whether she was just humouring me or did actually believe me; she did get me up that mountain though.  And she played the piano beautifully, in that way that only those who really can do, playing it without thinking or realising that their fingers are moving.

And now she’s gone.

There has been a kind of numbness amongst us.  All our stresses have suddenly paled into insignificance out of respect for the overwhelming grief her family is facing.  It has caused us all to stop and take a moment.

I have spent some time this morning reading my end of sixth form notebook, which everybody had signed.  We went to a girls’ Grammar school at a time when we were all expected to save the world single-handedly, leaving men trembling in our wake.  Every entry is full of hope & bravado, bordering on  arrogance, for everything we were going to achieve, all the places we were going to see.

She wrote.

As explanation, I should point out that we applied together, and neither of us got in. She was far more philosophical about it than I was.

I am not Chancellor of the Exchequer (although there’s still time).  Like so many of my classmates, I am a mother, juggling everyday tasks, work and family.  I live half a mile from where I started.  Very few of us have saved the world.  However she is right, none of it has made a mile of difference.   On the whole, we have normal happy lives full of normal happy things which we take for granted on a daily basis.  We complain of missed opportunities, misfortunes and injustices but most of them are anything but.  Marie has made a massive difference to her pupils, friends and her family.

On the last page is a quote from Ernest Hemingway, written by Mr Hartley, our Latin teacher.  Given our girl-power credentials, feel free to replace the ‘he’ with ‘she’

It reads:

There are some things which cannot be learned quickly and Time, which is all we have, must be paid heavily for their acquiring.  They are the very simplest things but, because it takes a man’s life to know them, the little new that each man gets from life is very precious, and the only heritage he has to leave.

I think Marie has left us all a great deal.

Philpott – Why we’re still looking in the wrong place

Mick Philpott is a nasty little man.  An idiot, but a nasty idiot nonetheless.  One who will be spending the next 15 years, at least, in prison.  I have watched enough crime documentaries in my time to realise that this is no criminal mastermind.  And yet the story has received more coverage than any crime of recent times.

In essence, The Philpott media story is of a man, subsidised by the state, who controlled the people in his life for his own ends, with horrific consequences for his own family.  That isn’t particularly unusual.

Six children have tragically lost their lives, but that is not what is making the news.

What is making the news is how Mick Philpott spent his life, and how he came by the money that he lived on.  The conversation has now shifted to how the popular press are covering how he spent his life and how he came by the money that he lived on.

Once again, just like in the Savile case, politicians and influencers are using the suffering of children as ammunition in their own self-interested battles.  Now George Osbourne wants a go.

However those six children remain dead and the discussion is in the wrong place.

Cases like this happen all of the time, and they will continue to happen.  Look at how the Daily Mail reported the case of Christopher Foster.  He was a millionaire who set fire to his house, killing his wife Jill and daughter Kirstie, because he was in danger of losing his fortune.

Here was a ‘striver’.  A man who had worked his way up from nothing to achieve vast riches, a product of the capitalist, entrepreneurial system.  And therefore the story is pitched a little differently. We are supposed to feel pity for this man, or at least a deal of understanding.

 “The position of his body suggests to Enid and others his motive was one of love  -  trying to protect Jill from the humiliation of his financial troubles.”

And he actually meant to do it.

“But Foster’s impending financial ruin makes his actions consistent with a man who would sooner murder his own loved ones than endure the shame of penury.”

Not poverty you notice, but the loss of the ridiculously, disproportionately extravagant riches he had been enjoying until that point.

The unifying theme in these two cases, like so many others like them, is one of control.  A man’s need to control the the world around him, and particularly the women in his life.

I have no idea what went on inside Philpott’s idiotic little head but I doubt the loss of the £1,000 in benefits that he was losing was the real issue.  It was the loss of control over a woman who had the audacity to leave him.  It was the need to punish her, a need so strong that he didn’t give his children a second thought.  He didn’t want them to die – he just thought that he had control over everything, even fire.

The chances are there will always be people like Christopher Foster and Mick Philpott, just like there will always be men like Savile.  It isn’t the welfare system that creates them, or Jeremy Kyle.  The world is full of nasty little people.

But actually Philpott would be not be a story without the women in his life, to skivvy for him, to give birth and look after his children.  He’d be a loud old man in a pub corner.  It was the women who received the majority of the benefits, even though both did also go out to work.  Their wages and benefits that they and their children were entitled to, were paid directly to him.

It’s difficult to feel sympathy for Mairead Philpott.  Any woman who can put her own children in such mortal danger is difficult to comprehend.  Why she would go through with it, why she would cover it up?

It is difficult to understand why a woman would ‘be prepared to go to any lengths, however humiliating, to keep him happy’.  This included allowing another woman to share her husband and have his children.  It’s very easy for me, as a privileged woman, to say how could you!

However, that is the trouble with controlling and abusive relationships.  All of his relationships were abusive, and the judge’s sentencing remarks make for chilling reading.  This is a man who had already been in prison for viciously stabbing a partner who left him and who abused every woman he was with.  People find it all too easy to sit in judgement, to ask why people didn’t leave, or speak up or complain.  The argument goes round in circles.  People ask why vulnerable people (usually women) don’t speak up, don’t say no, don’t get out.  Then, if they do, no one cares, no one believes them, or they have nowhere to go.

It is no surprise that all the women involved were in their teens when they got involved with Philpott; vulnerable and with few options in life.  It’s not an excuse.  It’s not to say that, today, standing in the dock, she deserves sympathy.  However in countless places around the country, there are teenage girls entering into similar relationships and few of them will end well.

To nick Tom Stoppard, ‘There must have been a moment, when we could have said no, but we missed it”.   And we will keep missing it.

If you look around you, there are still high street shops selling T-shirts making light of domestic violence.  Look at the Rochdale case, and the ‘lifestyle choices’ young girls were accused of.

One of the largest group suffering in abusive relationships are teenagers and single young people in need of a home receive no help, often with only the Mick Philpotts of this world to turn to.

He does need you love, but you don’t need him.

Young girls listen to Rhianna standing by her man and think that it’s OK. Controlling and abusive men are romanticised into misunderstood heroes.

We still have an education system where your success owes a lot to the sharpness of your parents’ elbows, leaving those with a rough start even worse off.  Sure Start centres have been closed down and women’s refuges are full and under funded, leaving abused women and children in dire situations with fewer and fewer choices.

I don’t have the answers, but I know they won’t be found by using the tragic death of six children as an excuse to make people poorer, with fewer choices and opportunities.

In the same week that the Government has cut benefit payments, is discussing cutting the minimum wage, has withdrawn legal aid for those seeking divorce or leaving abusive relationships, it’s probably time we put a stop to powerful men, determined to get their own way, doing irreparable damage to the very people they claim, on television at least, to care for.

Like I said, there’s a lot of them about.

Childcare again – because it still makes no sense

Today was another day for shouting at the radio, and then shouting on the radio.

At last the Government has unveiled its plans for financial help for working parents.  It has been months in the planning and the subject of bitter negotiation (apparently).  All are delighted an agreement has been reached.  I shall dig out the bunting.

Cheers Dave!

It was heralded as a major boost to ‘hardworking families’.

However, on closer inspection, all is not what it seems.  It seems that this is yet another ill thought out policy which ticks a box on the To Do list without actually giving any thought to how it will work out there on the coal face (where all those hard working families live).

To look at the maths.  Working parents will, from 2015, be allowed to claim back 20% of childcare costs up to £6,000.  Under the current system, parents can receive employer vouchers which are exempt from tax.  This means, in reality, a 32% saving on the first £243 a month, or £486 if both parents work.  This is about £1,800 saving on a cost of £5,800.  Most parents’ costs are far greater than this, but there you have it.

The new system will give a £1,200 saving on £6,000.  It’s less, but it will be per child.  So a family with 2 children will save £2,400 etc.

However, there are flaws and anomalies which cause the policy to make no sense, or at least, penalise as many families as it helps.

It doesn’t come in until after the next election, which is quite frankly no good to anyone.

It is only payable if BOTH parents work.  “But why would you need childcare if one parent doesn’t work?”  I hear you cry.  Well, maybe one parent has lost their job and is looking for work, but doesn’t want to lose a childcare place.  Maybe, one parent has been at home looking after children for some time and now needs childcare to retrain, or gain some qualifications, or work experience.  Under current regulations, the working parent would be able to receive vouchers to cover childcare costs.  Under the new system, they will get nothing.

Never mind the fact that it is also yet another policy that completely undermines the concept of Independent taxation.

Secondly, it will begin by only being applicable to those children under 5.  At the moment, childcare vouchers are available up until the age of 15.  Therefore every parent who currently uses childcare vouchers to pay for before and afterschool care, holiday clubs etc. will now receive no help.  It has been said that it will ‘expand’ to cover children up to 12 but no timescale has been given.

Single parents will benefit, and that is a positive result (just don’t tell The Daily Mail).  The only other beneficiaries will be working couples with two or more children under 5.  Everyone else will be worse off.

I’m known for my cynicism but I can’t help feeling that the Government has another agenda here.  It does nothing to tackle the underlying problem of soaring childcare costs.  It gives another excuse to trot out the rhetoric of hard working families and rewarding strife, whilst taking money out of the back pocket while they’re talking, hoping that no-one will notice.

However, I’m someone who’s all about the solutions not the problems, so here is my own little mini budget-recommendations.

1. Increase the threshold of current voucher scheme to a realistic level and incentivise employers to register for schemes, including help for small businesses.
2. Don’t bother introducing vouchers for the self-employed.  Just allow them to write it on the their tax return.

There, done.

But more important than that, there needs to be a fundamental shift in the Government’s, and society’s attitudes towards parents, especially those who work.  Accept the reality that, as an economy, we need people to be in work and we need people to raise educated and capable children.  Current thinking in the press and politics at large, is that parents are a burden on employers and the state and should be begrudgingly endured.  I know I shouldn’t read the Mail Online comments but I tire of comments along the lines of ‘you had children, why should we help you pay for them’.  Well because basic economics will tell you that the economy needs people to spend money if it is ever going to recover, and there is no group in society more easily parted with ready cash than parents.  They just don’t have very much left these days.  And because working parents and their children will be paying for your pensions love, and your winter fuel allowance, and your NHS care when that hip finally gives up the ghost.

What would be revolutionary is a culture that reduced the need for paid for childcare, rather than pitting generations against each other.  An expansion of flexible working for men as well as women, including incentives for more school hours, term time only contracts; affordable housing and a decent transport system which cuts down on commuting time; an investment in technology that promotes the ability to work from home.

Now there’s an idea.

Now We Are Four – party like you mean it

My youngest son is now 4.

In the words of Vinnie Jones, ‘It’s been emotional’.

On reflection, this momentous occasion seemed to propel me into some sort of maniacal frenzy which almost led to my unravelling.  I have no idea why.  I would love to think it was born out of the overwhelming desire to make my child happy and give him the birthday of his dreams but the jury’s still out.

I decided that, being 4, he needed a party.  I conveniently forgot the fact that he doesn’t like parties; blocked out that I’ve had to unpeel his fingers from the car door and coax him from my knee at every birthday party he’s ever been to.

A party he shall have.

I considered a local soft play centre but then remembered that they are hell on earth.  As my nearly 7 year old headed off to Laser Quest, it occurred to me that the ‘Pass the Parcel era’ is all too fleeting.  One minute they’re crushing Organix crisps into the carpet and the next they’re demanding bowling and a sleepover.  No, keep the music playing as long as possible and go old school church hall.

15 children, a musical statue, a sandwich and a balloon.  What more could a child ask!

It was to be a Batman party.  He loves Batman, it would be great.  I began to see the cracks however when he began vetoing the invitation list on the grounds that they didn’t own a Batman costume.  Superman, Spiderman, Buzz Lightyear would not be tolerated.  Only Batman would be allowed.  This could spell trouble.  I had a vision of him standing at the door, like a tiny sullen bouncer sending pint sized superheroes on their way.

Never mind, the excitement of the day will overshadow his draconian dress code and all will be well.

To the cake.  I had decided to make a Gotham City cake and also some jaunty POW iced biscuits for the party bag.  I’d seen them on Pinterest – how hard could they be?  And so began the baking frenzy. There was something strangely satisfying about lovingly distributing blood red icing with a tooth pick whilst watching Silent Witness on iPlayer.  Emilia Fox may dissect a good body but she has nothing on me with a piping bag.

The following day I proudly showed my son my triumph; his eternal awe and gratitude would be mine.  ‘I hate it’ he said ‘I wanted a bat cave and I don’t like biscuits’.

Holy Sandwich Tins!

This was not going well.

When party day arrived, things were not much better.  He didn’t want to go, declared he would prefer to stay at home, claimed to dislike all of his friends and still would like me to conjur up a bat cave cake.  I put my head down and ferociously cut Batman shaped sandwiches.

My husband grew ever more bewildered.  He followed instructions well enough but they were all met with a slight shaking of the head and a ‘why are you doing this again?’

The actual party was OK.  He refused to greet his guests or receive the presents but he warmed up soon enough.  Everyone else seemed to have a lovely time bashing each other over the head with balloons.  The only real protest was when he refused to play pass the parcel until the very last layer, at which point he joined in and objected loudly when he didn’t win.

But all in all, parcels were passed, candles were blown, party bags distributed and we all escaped unscathed, with only a few emotional bruises.

It’s only now that I realise that this is in fact the joy of being 4.  The ability to tell it exactly as it is.  Of course he didn’t want a party; of course he wanted a Bat Cave.  My motivation probably ranged from guilt, through peer pressure to a disturbing need to store up some emotional blackmail when he announces he’s not coming home for Christmas is 20 years time “I made you a Gotham City cake you ungrateful oik!”

From here on in, we teach our children to manage disappointment with politeness and grace, to be aware of other people’s feelings and expectations, to ‘be nice’.

But, at 4 years old, just for a brief and shining moment, it really should be all about them.  It’s their party and they really can cry if they want to.

*** I would like to add that I am writing this as a diversionary tactic in order to delay sorting out the thank you notes, which in due course will bring on more guilt and self-flagellation ***

Childcare: No parent is asking for less attention, however good at fractions.

***Update***  In the months since writing this post, following the announcement of the reforms to childcare ratios, there has been almost universal opposition to the proposals. It has even caused the online parenting sworn enemies Mumsnet and Netmums to join forces.   Mumsnet invited Childcare Minister Liz Truss to take part in a webchat.  Due to massive opposition across the Mumsnet boards – in multiple threads as well as on the webchat – they are now backing the “Rewind on Ratios” campaign led by the Pre-school Learning Alliance. If you’re against the changes, sign the petition and share the link. ***here endeth the update***

This was originally posted on January 29th 2013.

Shouting at the radio is part of my normal morning routine.  It waxes and wanes through outrage and indignation into resignation and despair.

The present Government provides ample ammunition.  Sometimes, I think they are doing it on purpose.   Whether they’re dismantling the NHS or trying to build a train line through my favourite pub garden.  This morning’s announcement on childcare reform was enough to snap me, whiplash like, from despair straight back to incredulity.

Apparently this Government understands the problems childcare can bring.  Apparently it understands the needs of modern families.  However, I strongly suspect that their experience of childcare headaches involves trying to find a nanny who’ll fly economy with the kids.  I am willing to put good money that none of them have ever attempted to take care of 6 two year olds.

It is a policy born out of think tanks and workshops.   You can picture the away day with them all wearing their party hats and coming up with the next radical solution.  Except that they forget that these are numbers, or budgets, or P&L lines, these are children whose parents, on the whole, actually quite like them and want the best for them.  It is the same process which revolutionised school dinners, making them suddenly cheaper and more efficient on paper, without anyone giving a thought to what was actually in them.

I have used a variety of childcare over the years.  When I first returned to work, still living in London, my eldest son went to a fairly low cost (i.e. only slightly crippling), friendly kind of nursery in an old church hall with ridiculously cheap rent and kind, warmhearted staff.  Sadly, after a while the church decided that the rent was indeed ridiculously cheap, changed its mind and the nursery closed.  He then went to a far bigger and more expensive ‘chain’ nursery that cost more than half my salary, look very professional but had massively high staff turnover and an incompetent manager.  That was the only choice I had if I wanted to work.

When son number 2 came along, now out of London, we decided that he was a little more sensitive than his older brother and a nursery didn’t seem right for him.  We found a wonderful childminder nearby who he has now been with for over 3 years.

I had all of the angst, guilt and hand wringing about each and every choice.  Although cost was a consideration, it was never just a numbers game.  Never, at any point, when collecting the children or paying the bills did I think ‘if only there were more children here’.

However it would appear that this is the answer to the nation’s childcare woes.  Not cheaper rents, not Government subsidy, not investment in training, not more tax relief. No, let’s give childcare workers more children to look after.  It’ll be fine though, because they’ll have been on a course and have a maths GCSE.

My childminder is amazing in her ability to calm toddlers and get them all to move in the same direction (a skill that eludes me) but even she would struggle to ever leave the house with 6 of them.  I don’t actually think the Government understand childminding at all – why parents choose them or how they work. I genuinely think they are confused as to why people don’t just get a nanny.

So really, the new rules are only practical when applied to nurseries – but even then they make no sense.  The reforms aim to reduce costs and raise the quality and pay of staff.  It can’t easily do both.

I find it very difficult to believe that nursery fees will go down significantly.  Staff will command more pay for having more qualifications to look after more children but the costs will stay the same.  And even then, all the GCSE’s in the world are still going to leave you with one pair of eyes, arms and one lap to sit on.  Parents want to know that their child will be loved, and cared for, and attended to.  I can think of no parent who would believe this represented better care for their toddler.

What I suspect it will do is raise the profits of private nurseries, with little being passed on to parents.  I fully expect to see a rise in ‘gold star’ nurseries which proudly display their child ratios in their glossy prospectus, and have the fees to match.  Like the private school system which shout their small class sizes from the rooftops, the gap between what people can afford will grow ever wider.

For the rest, they will have the existing safeguards removed and be forced to choose the only childcare they can afford, which is now worse than it once was.  It is a difficult decision at the best of times to decide to leave your children with someone else.  For many, with crippling house prices and rising bills, they don’t even have a choice.

There are countless other ways to reduce the cost of childcare without compromising safety or quality.  It doesn’t feel like these have ever really been on the agenda.

For a government that claims to know the dilemmas that families face, it is seems an odd move.

I’ll admit, it’s not their oddest, but that’s no excuse.

Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

I’m not one for New Year’s Resolutions.  I make the usual stab at the traditional stocking fillers of losing weight, saving money and drinking more water and with them come their inevitable companions of failure, disappointment and resentment.

This year, following on from my fallow 2012 (see previous post), I’ve decided to bother.  It’s inspiration comes from my eldest son, with a helping hand from the films of Kevin Spacey.  Not Se7en obviously, that would be weird.

My first born is 6 and several weeks ago I took him to the local pool to do his swimming badge. He’d concocted with a friend that they would go together and swim their 200 metres.  He was confident that he could do it, despite only having his 5m.   His friend, to be fair, had already swum his 100m and therefore had maybe more realistic expectations.

He swam 50m.  His friend swam 400.

He got out of the pool and his face crumpled into sobs.  They were sobs that didn’t stop all the while he was getting dry, dressed and into the car.  I was at a loss.  I tried telling him that he had swum 10 times further than he had ever done before.  I tried telling him that he should be incredibly proud and to not compare himself with others.  He spluttered that he hated swimming and was never going again.  Here was my child, feeling terrible and I couldn’t help him.  I went through my own feelings of pity, pain, and helplessness.

By the time the seatbelts were on, these feelings were replaced by a growing anger and frustration.  I turned round and unleashed what, even if I do say so myself, was a kick up the arse lecture rivaling Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross, possibly with a touch of the bald chap from Top Gun.

I told him that if he couldn’t be proud of his own achievements then no-one could make him.  I told him that if he wanted better he needed to pick himself up and have another go.  I was in full flow, and then I stopped.  I realised that I wasn’t really talking to him and I saw the look on his face that I recognised as mine.  Just like the denouement of The Usual Suspects, after Spacey has left the station, I saw a fast cut edit of all the decisions I’d made; all the things I’d wanted to do but hadn’t, because I worried I’d never be brilliant; all of the things I’d ditched  because I was only ‘alright’ or even ‘a bit rubbish’.

My Dad had always drilled into me that ‘If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well’.

Well that’s not true and it’s used time and again as an excuse to not bother, or beat yourself up that it’s not good enough.  I don’t want that for my children.  I want them to fail spectacularly and do it anyway.

So I’ve decided that if a job’s worth doing it’s worth making a half-arsed attempt at rather than not bothering.

That’s not a resolution I hear you cry! You need SMART objectives, what’s the goal.

So I have signed up for this.  http://www.thewolfrun.com 

I have three months.  It’s 10k, with some assault courses and a touch of open water swimming.

Now I admit, I did take up running last year, which has been something of a revelation.  However, I am not an outdoorsy type.  I’m very much the indoor girl.  I don’t really do mud, or rain, or any real physical effort let alone pain.  It is so far out of my comfort zone it makes me a little hysterical.  What’s worse (and secretly, even more alien to me) is that I’m in a pack!  We start together and end together.  I’m not a team player.  I know it’s probably on my CV somewhere but I can’t cross my heart and tell you otherwise.  The thought of group exercise frightens me considerably more than the seven foot wall.

However, signed up I am.  Not only does it tick the ‘more exercise’ box, I will be proving to my children that it’s OK to do things that aren’t ‘your thing’ and it’s OK to be proud of yourself for doing things others would find easier, or do better.

Mainly though, a secret dream may finally be realised.  Although never an athletic person, I always had my sneaky role model for physical fitness.  For me, you can keep your Jessica Ennis and your Victoria Pendletons.  Mine has always been Jodie Foster in the opening scenes of Silence of the Lambs, sweating her socks off through the woods in an FBI T shirt.

Admittedly, it might be all a bit ‘desperately random’, but a girl’s got to have a goal.

The year where nothing happened (or how I learned to stop worrying)

2012 has been a revelatory year in that nothing actually happened.  Well, there were the Olympics, and the Jubilee and the usual tempests, storms and floods but for me, not so much.

Over the past decade a lot has ‘happened’; a whirlwind of marriages, births, deaths, four house moves and an array of dramas and distractions.  I have the sense it was slightly like going on a stag weekend to Amsterdam and waking up, confused, tied to some railings.

In the words of Thom Yorke ‘what the hell am I doing here?’  In short, I was knackered.

At the beginning of the year, the lack of something life-changing to keep me occupied and on my toes left me feeling slightly at a loss.  Admittedly, I had work to do, children to care for and my husband no doubt still wants to know why I still haven’t sorted out the under eaves cupboards. Nonetheless the lack of drama brought with it a certain twitchiness.

It followed that it was a fallow year in the truest sense of the word.   The vacuum left by the lack of ‘events’ has been filled with top notch navel gazing and some restorative reflections and revelations. Initially, they were met head on with my usual brand of cynicism & scorn but (whether eventually categorised as fertiliser or bullshit) look at me, learning and growing.

So in the spirit of fair play I now feel it’s only proper that I share them (and say thank you to the friends who gently pointed me in their direction).  You may find them helpful, you may not but these days I’m all about spreading the love.

• Letters to My 16 Year Old Self – Get the book, write your own.  It’s not nearly as difficult as you might think and was actually far more life affirming and uplifting than I feared.   Warning: it maybe followed by an intense period of introspection which may involve revisiting your All About Eve albums (go on, you know you want to).  http://www.dearme.org/

• Dr Briffa – It would seem carbohydrates are not my friends after all.  It took someone explaining that it’s a right-wing political conspiracy that I love cake to have any effect on my lifestyle but there you have it.  http://www.drbriffa.com

• Dr Brene Brown – The only self-help book I’ve ever read.  I nearly bought a kindle so that I could read it in public without anyone noticing, then realised I’d fallen at the first hurdle.  I discovered that my hitherto refusal to consult a self-help book was, perversely, the very reason why I should.  You can watch her here, and feel better about the world. http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html

• Bob Newhart -  An old favourite and an old sketch, but I’m grateful to him for providing this year’s catchphrase. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ow0lr63y4Mw
• Oliver Jeffers – Very much a late entry of the year but special commendations must be awarded for the most charming and life affirming of children’s books. http://www.oliverjeffers.com/picture-books/up-and-down

A boy and his penguin

So I end the year much better off than I started with new ideas, new plans and a new resolve.

Welcome to 2013.  I have high hopes.

Girls on the High Seas

Modern Girls

This week, my youngest son declared that girls cannot be pirates.  The conversation went as follows:

“What would you like to be Mummy?”

“A pirate”

“You can’t be a pirate, you must choose something girls are allowed to be”

“Girls can be pirates”

“No they can’t, you can be a princess and that’s it”

My heart sank.  All of my Woman’s Hour principles and best endeavours had come to nought.  The fact that, this week, it coincides with the selling of his beautiful wooden silver kitchen was a double blow.  The visual representation of all my hopes and dreams exchanged for hard cash to be spent inevitably on Hot Wheels.

There had been debate about the purchase of the kitchen, when our eldest son was 2.  My husband wasn’t keen.  He thought I was making a stand, that I was buying him a ‘girl’s toy’.  I was at pains to point out that, in its elegant gender-neutral glory, it was no such thing.  He did most of the cooking – therefore our toddler would never think of it as such.  (I was also at pains to point out that any time he fancied knocking up some shelves for the alcoves in the front room, I’d be happy to buy a ‘just like Daddy’ workbench).  It was just a toy.

I’m trying to find reasons not to blame myself that my child thinks girls are rubbish.  I’ve currently settled placing equal blame on me, for straying from Cbeebies, and Nick Jnr, for the extraordinary amount of adverts he manages to watch in between Peppa Pig bonanzas.

Watching, I have to admit, he’s got a point.  To a novice outsider, girls appear to be vacuous, pointless individuals who do nothing but get distracted by glitter.

Now Christmas is a time when toys are uppermost in my mind, and is almost certainly a time for nostalgia.   So I make no excuses for pointing out that things were not like this in my day.  I was a pre-school child of the 70s.  There was no pink.  There was brown; there was possibly some orange.

I’m not remembering some androgenous utopia – there were very definitely girls’ toys, and the majority of women very much knew their place, and that was at home.  However, they had a purpose.  They did something.

Sindy, for example – the no-nonsense, stiff upper lip British alternative to Barbie.  Very much the Camilla Parker Bowles of the doll world, she looked like a nice girl.  More importantly, she had something to do.  There was Nurse Sindy, Ballerina Sindy, Showjumper Sindy – all delightfully accomplished in their own special way, if a little pigeon holed.  They were never going to burn their bras but at least they had constructive tasks.

The cheap, mass produced fancy dress imports were nowhere to be seen but I did have a nurses outfit (Nurse Nancy from Twinkle was my poster girl).  OK, so Germaine Greer probably would have sneered but it least it involved a positive action.

 

And the rest of it was just stuff.  It was just toys.  There were the same roller skates and lego but they didn’t come in a pink box, weren’t rolled in glitter.

 

And what has 30 years of female emancipation given us?

 

Princess to Popstar Barbie and Barbie Hair Artist, not to mention Barbie fashionista.  No Olympic showjumping medals for Barbie, instead we have the Barbie Puppy Playpark!  “Barbie knows puppies are cute, but they also require training. With the Barbie Puppy Play Park Playset. Barbie can train and play with her two puppies outside. Press the lever on Barbies back to move her arms in a clapping motion or clap your own hands and the larger puppy will obediently come to Barbie or go up and down the slide!”

 

It’s no wonder he thinks girls are rubbish.  The board game where the girls pretend to make a phone call to a mystery boy probably hasn’t helped.

 

How on earth did it come to this?

 

I’m a big fan of girls, after all I used to be one (technically I suppose now I’m a woman but I struggle to use the word without channelling Whitney Houston).  Most of the girls I know are fabulous (and to be fair none of them own a Barbie puppy play park).  I’m not entirely sure who’s buying all this, or why.

I blame Disney, and their creation of the Princess money press.  The sudden cheapness of production, and the disposability of toys means it probably doesn’t need to be handed down from brother to sister anymore – but it doesn’t quite explain it away.

As a child of the 80s, I grew up with Alexis Carrington, Margaret Thatcher (completely interchangeable of course) and Madonna.    As a teenager of the 90s I was constantly being reminded that feminism meant that we could have it all, be anything that we wanted to be.

 

But apparently, now that girls can be anything that they want to be, they seem to be told from a very early age that they are probably better off not doing very much at all.

 

Lego ‘friends’ is a hilarious, if depressing illustration.  Why build really cool stuff like houses, or rockets, or funfairs.  All that construction belongs to the boys – they’ve done focus groups.  What girls clearly want is “Stephanie’s Outdoor Bakery”, “Andrea’s Bunny House”, “Emma’s Splashpool” and lest we forget “Mia’s Puppy House”.  They can have a little box of lego, but it will come in a pink box and you can’t expect them to follow instructions.

 

It is a far cry from the advert at the top (I saw this on someone else’s website last week and I can’t remember who, otherwise I would credit them!).

 

It isn’t really a boys’ toys versus girls toys’ thing, although I maintain that boys’ toys are infinitely better.  It’s that the ‘ just toys’ section of the Venn diagram is all but disappearing, with the boys snatching all the cool stuff and the girls’ section being ever more relegated to the pink and the fluffy.  **On a tangent polemic, it’s the same reason why even grown women are not really allowed to eat cake anymore, unless they’re pastel  and beautifully decorated with flowers, or lustre, or glitter.  For God’s sake what’s wrong with a slab of Victoria sponge!**

 

What we are really telling girls is that they don’t need to take themselves seriously, and that they shouldn’t expect other people to either; that everything especially designed for them has to be shiny and sparkly to keep their concentration.

 

Now arguably, I’m the one taking the Argos catalogue too seriously, and this is all really an irrelevance.  Arguably, I am stereotyping girls just as much by assuming that this is all that they play with.   It is unlikely that the toys they play with at 4 define their life’s path.  I, for example, am as far from medical profession as I could be.

 

However, it’s an insidious beginning that tells girls what they should be and what is expected, even if they choose something different.  It tells them that the things which are ‘especially for them’ are ridiculous.  In a world of infinite possibilities for girls it seems that some people are desperate for them to choose not very much.

 

I’ll be the first to admit, I’m not stating anything new or radical, and there are plenty of other parents and girls to fly the flag.  The ‘Pink Stinks’ (http://www.pinkstinks.co.uk/) and Let Toys Be Toys campaign (look them up on Facebook) is a powerful one and long may it continue.  All the girls I know give me confidence that we are not rearing a generation of pet groomers.

 

It’s just that it’s a difficult job at the best of times to teach ones sons to be feminists.  And when Kiera Knightly becomes my pin-up girl, I know I’m in trouble.

Happy Feet

The time has come for our youngest child to get a new bed.  His cot bed no longer contains his flailing limbs in the night and, by his own admission, he needs a big boy’s bed.  This, coinciding with eldest child’s wobbly tooth, is a milestone I was ill-prepared for.  Two large children in proper beds always seemed such a fanciful notion.

All the beds in our house come from Warren Evans.  They used to have a showroom round the corner from our flat and, even though we’ve moved 100 miles away, they are still our first port of call.  And browsing on their website this week saw a call for tales of the toys that protect us in the night.

Every child has a favourite toy – one that can always be relied upon to stay by their side in times of trouble or adventure – usually both.  For Fred, that toy is Superted.  Yes Superted – the 1980s Derek Griffiths cartoon classic.  He was kindly donated by our friend Dan in a scene reminiscent of the closing scene of Toy Story 3 and is never very far away.

Arthur, on the other hand, has Happy Feet.  Far from being a toy, Happy Feet truly has become part of the family.  He is a rather large polyester penguin which I believe came free from WH Smith with some or other purchase some years ago.  It irks me more than I can say that both favourite toys are, quite literally, irreplaceable (actually a friend does also have the same penguin and she has offered to part with him for £50 when the inevitable day comes).

It’s not just at bedtime that Happy Feet excels.  He can usually be seen, dragged around the village.  He often holds onto the handlebars on the scooter run to school.  He often has the only seat in the Supermarket trolley or his own bowl at breakfast.

I would be sad to see the back of Happy Feet because Happy Feet, unlike all other mere stuffed toys, doesn’t just protect our dreams; he lives the life that we can only dream of.  Some children have imaginary friends – figments of their imagination who represent the insecure, vulnerable sides to their nature.  Not Arthur.  Arthur has Happy Feet and Happy Feet can do anything.  More to the point, Happy Feet can do everything you want to do – only just that little bit better.

For example, in conversations with his father over breakfast, it will become clear that Happy Feet owns a Ferrari.  He has told me several times that Happy Feet lives in Italy.  However it is Fred that bears the anguish of watching Happy Feet live out his unfulfilled dreams.  An advert for amazing new toy Fred doesn’t yet have? – ‘Happy Feet has that’.  Most weekends Happy Feet will have spent at a party, or a fun fair and is a regular visitor to Legoland.  More importantly, at Happy Feet’s gymnastics class ‘everyone is allowed on the big trampoline’.

The cruellest so far had to be on our return from holiday, when asking them what had been their favourite thing to do ….. ‘Happy Feet really enjoyed the Torture Museum’  – the one place Fred had begged to be taken and was repeatedly refused.

It’s not yet clear whether Happy Feet’s adventures come from a genuine desire to see good in the world or a vicious display of one-upmanship.  As I creep in to see him tucked under Arthur’s arm as he sleeps, I’m inclined to think the former but who knows.

And now, apparently Happy Feet has an imaginary friend.  He’s called Chappy Feet.  I have a feeling things could get a lot more complicated.

All About My Mother

Yesterday would have been my Mum’s 70^th birthday.  There would have been catering.  There would have been a lot of catering.

It would also have been my Dad’s birthday 2 weeks ago.  I did remember, I did think about it but I was busy, I had work to do.  He wouldn’t have minded.  But Mum’s birthday feels like there should be a little more ceremony to it.

As a rule, I’m not very good with ceremony, too often I mistake it for sentimentality and have second thoughts.  However, given certain friend’s threats of glove puppets and emotional dance, maybe it’s about time.

I was at a parenting seminar recently (yes, I know ….) led by Alain de Botton.  One of his opening gambits was that, as parents, we can expect no rewards or gratitude from our children.  They owe us nothing.  Our only reward is to see them have children of their own.  Whilst I’m not entirely sure that’s true, I do believe that you never really understand the things your parents have done for you until you are a parent yourself.  Until then, you have no idea of the strength of feeling, the sacrifices you are willing to make on their behalf, and that your parents made on yours.

Neither of my parents saw my children but I’m pretty sure that they would have liked them.  I suspect that my Mum would have liked to see them a little less crumpled, and my Dad would probably find them a ‘bit lippy’ but I’m sure that they would think I was doing a good enough job.

To nick someone else’s phrase recently ‘She was not perfect but she was perfectly my mother’.  By many people’s standards, she wasn’t terribly accomplished.  She wasn’t educated, didn’t have a career, wasn’t well read or cultured, never played an instrument or painted watercolours.  In fact, all she really passed on was a love of Neil Diamond and an in depth knowledge of 1950s musicals.  Arguably, that was gift enough.

There are many ways in which I am nothing like her – and there are things she really could have taught me but didn’t.  It is her fault that I am ridiculously untidy and incapable of cleaning.  This is mainly due to the fact that I didn’t do any until I was at least 25 – and even then she would visit on a quarterly basis to do it properly for me.  I was a cossetted and indulged child in lots of ways which I am eternally appreciative of but probably, as a result, far too incompetent to do that for my own children.  Quite frankly, the quicker they can manage the hoover the better it will be for all of us.

The one thing my mother taught me, was how to be a mother.  It’s not often she reminds me of Lawrence of Arabia – except for the scene in which he is asked how he is able to hold a burning match right to the end….  ‘the secret is in not minding’.  I have no idea whether she really minded or not – but I was certainly never made to feel that she did.

What she excelled at, was her never ending capacity for listening; not just to her children, but to anyone who came her way.  In fact, my Dad used to tease her about the position she used to adopt in restaurants – both hands round a glass or cup so as better to ‘pick up the signals’ from neighbouring tables.  She had incredible friendships which lasted a lifetime, which I can only hope to emulate.   ‘The Coven’ as they were (usually) affectionately named by my father, were part of the family.  Even further than that, it was something that always amazed me – the sheer number of people who used to turn up on our doorstep and sit themselves at our kitchen table.  I used to be sitting in the dining room, doing my homework, or watching TV and hear the kettle go on and woes unfolding.  She would listen patiently, make the odd suggestion then off they would go.  There were unhappy marriages, unhappy children, affairs, money troubles, and usually from people who would never have been considered close friends really – but thought it might be a good place to turn up in times of trouble.

She had a very firm sense of right and wrong but managed to maintain this without ever appearing judgemental.  There were no decrees or absolute directives, merely a gentle suggestion that maybe, just maybe, they might want to think again.  Usually they wouldn’t, and she would come into the dining room shaking her head that ‘there’s no telling some people’.

But it is something that never left her.  Through my Dad’s illness and after his death; through her own illness, the chemotherapy, the tiredness …. still the people kept coming and never once did she feel like telling any of them to bugger off.

And for my own part, I did my own share of whinging, my own share of being terribly misunderstood and terribly complicated.  I had all the meltdowns and neuroses of a typical young person, wrapped around the firm belief that it was everyone else that was trouble.  All of which would be listened to patiently until I had gone on long enough to receive the look.  It’s a look I’ve tried so very hard to recreate but am so far found wanting.  It is a look that tells me that enough is enough, it’s time to stop whining and sort myself out.

Glove puppets or no glove puppets, I feel like I have been doing a lot of whinging lately, mainly of the self-indulgent, terribly misunderstood kind.

So it is memory of my mother that I make a cup of tea, whack on The Jazz Singer and pull myself together.

This week Channel 4 are launching Stand Up To Cancer week.     You can donate here, should you wish to.   http://www.standuptocancer.org.uk