Author: toughmotheruk

How do you teach the value of money?  I’d tried using an app for a while for pocket money. They were very excited to get a star when they completed a job and saw the dial move closer to whatever they were saving for. Then their attention and enthusiasm for making their bed, tidying up, taking out the rubbish, waned. Funny that.

So we ‘cashed out’ from the app and moved to tracking progress on a piece of paper stuck to the fridge. Old school! They both made it to £34, which for simplicity converted to €34 (foreign exchange lesson is next year).

Of course, even before we went away, they were dying to spend it. Any potential opportunity to buy plastic tat (aka junk for those outside the UK) was like a black hole sucking them in…

I was very proud of my son on a couple of occasions, when after much internal and (usually) external debate, he decided to save his money instead of getting something for the sake of it. He’s growing up!

That is until the boat incident. When trying to decide between an inflatable (mildly useful on holiday) and a plastic fantastic boat (awful), the decision was made when the boat was dropped… and broken. €10.

Not long later, an entire bottle of coke was spilt. As this was the fourth occasion and immediately followed a warning from my husband, he had to pay for his almost drink. €4.

We somehow managed to avoid the shops for a time, until the last day of the holiday, when we made the mistake of going into a toy shop. My daughter had long since spent her money, so while she did her best to convince us she would be good for a loan, she was introduced to the concept of ‘browsing’.

In a similar vein, our son found two things he liked. Neither of which he could afford. He attempted his best sales pitch: if he went for the cheaper option, we would save money, he’d get three aeroplanes, a boat that made noises, and it came in a big box…. all for €34.

As he stared longingly at the box, I watched the moment of dawning comprehension as he realised he would have been able to afford it but for the above mentioned events.

I couldn’t have planned a key life lesson better had I tried. Some consolation as we carried both children out in tears?

There has been a lot of discussion in our household recently about our origins.

My daughter, being born in New Zealand, considers herself more Kiwi than her brother. My son’s usual counter is that he lived there for longer, so he is at least as kiwi as she is.

As you can imagine, this gets quite circular and very heated.

However, he must have decided recently that this line of argument did not carry sufficient weight as he has been carrying out additional research.

Going back a few generations, my husband has English and Scottish heritage. There was brief excitement when we thought there was some Welsh as well, but that has since been discounted. While it was disappointing, it has made the maths easier.

The net result – he’s more Kiwi than English.

Everyone likes to find qualities that make them unique, so I can’t help but wonder what his approach would have been had we still lived in NZ. I haven’t wanted to suggest going back even further as it would get much more complicated!

I therefore had a lot of sympathy for the lovely Italian lady we met, while in Lake Como, who got the full breakdown after innocently asking where he was from. I think she may have lost the thread soon after “Well I live in England, but …”

 

School’s out and we joined the annual summer migration of Brits across to the continent.

We tried a Eurocamp for the first time. On the drive through the campsite, I felt a little ripped off to discover there were also ‘local’ campsites. Have we been sucked in? Anyway, that’s beside the point.

The camp was a paradise for kids – extensive swimming pools (my son drooled at the pirate ship), waterslides, swimming lake, fishing lake… which we all felt a lot of love for given the heatwave we were right in the middle of.

It was intriguing watching the kids gain confidence in a new environment, particularly my daughter,

Day one was focused around the ‘little’ pools. Day two, my daughter was keener to try the waterslide – as long as she went down with me. I was more inclined to try reading my book on the lounger we’d managed to snag in a shady spot so tried to bolster her courage to go it alone.  After the first time, she then wore a groove running, I mean walking, up the stairs.

From there, day three, she graduated to the pontoon. My son thought a significant run up was necessary (picture fast bowler, rather than spinner). She too thought this was a great idea. She paced it out, built up speed… and came to a screeching stop at the edge, paused for a look, then jumped in.

I thought next time she might go for it, or at least take a shorter run up. But no, she was adamant. It had to be the entire length of the pontoon. To then stop. And repeat the process.

However, sometime between try three and 10 it all came together – the run up smoothly moving into a dive/belly flop.

Best day ever.

Well, obviously my face cream isn’t living up to its promises!

My defensive response to my son’s question was to point out that the Wright brothers and lesser known Richard Pearse, a Temuka farmer, battled out who was the first to fly well over 100 years ago. (Just in case it comes up in a pub quiz, it appears Richard pipped the brothers at the post, flying in 1902 v December 1903.)

Going back to my son’s question, it made me realise that technology does have a way of ageing us. Generation X, Y, and Z doesn’t mean a lot when you compare it to gramophone, record player, portable stereo, walkman, iPod, iPhone…  A few of those are before my time in case you’re wondering, although I do remember the excitement of being given a walkman for a (to remain unspecified) birthday. They are the tangible memories woven into the every day or the moments of new discoveries that mark our lives.

This was particularly apparent recently when the children were given a disposable camera as part of a birthday party scavenger hunt reward. Almost as one, the kids ripped into the packages, to then stare in some bemusement at the cameras.

“I can’t see the picture.”

“Why isn’t the button working?”

“You can delete them right?”

“How do you get the picture out?”

How things have moved on! While the instructions were pretty straightforward, it was harder to describe the agonising indecision of choosing between the five day (or, for me, more like two weeks as we didn’t get into ‘town’ very often) or, the excessively priced, one hour photo developing. Then the anticipation and crushing disappointment when only 16 of the 24 photos were printed and in focus.

We haven’t finished the film yet, but I’m looking forward to seeing how many photos we get of the sky or my husband’s right nostril!

This morning the kids were awake, dressed in their uniform, and comfortably ensconced on the sofa by the time I was getting ready for work. They put in a breakfast order (politely), which I made them (also politely) assist with. I said goodbye and then walked to the train.

It is only now, hours later, that I realised… how easy it was.

This is in stark contrast to previous mornings where there has been breakfast comedy worthy of a Michael McIntyre show.

A highlight was when my daughter asked for red jam (strawberry) toast about two minutes before I had to run for the train. Feeling virtuous (and happy with our decision to buy a toaster 28 times faster than other toasters on the market), I duly presented it to her – for her to immediately burst into tears and wail “not toasted”!

Explaining with gritted teeth that the definition of toast is that it’s toasted didn’t cut it.

I had a flash back to my brother having a very similar ‘conversation’ with my nephew. In my blissful pre-child state, I had judged him for modifying the toast preparation.

I now realise the waste – in time, tears and toast – that he was trying to prevent.

So an apology to my brother… and to my husband for leaving a wailing child to eat her toasted toast while I dashed to the train.

In case you are wondering, my daughter’s breakfast order became red jam toast, not toasted, buttered, crusts cut off and cut down the middle (the diagonal cut being reserved for special occasions).

Unfortunately, this was after my unsuspecting brother-in-law made the same mistake…

Is the toast order a rite of passage (or is it just my family!)?

As I was doing up my laces the other day, my daughter asked me why I run.

To be honest, it’s not something that I’d really stopped to think about.

I started running when I went to university. Before then, I’d played team sport and walked or scrambled up and down hills and gullies on the farm to round up sheep so there didn’t seem to be any need.

It was then a bit of a shock to move to the city and discover I couldn’t enjoy uni hall food without also upping my activity. Running was cheap, a great way to discover new places, and also gave me the sense of space and movement I missed.

It also gave me a most salutary lesson that has been particularly relevant recently.

On a return visit to Christchurch years ago, I decided to run a loop around the Rapaki Track. It is a pretty brutal uphill climb before meandering around the hills overlooking the city.

I set off well and I was on my way back when I passed an old gentleman also out for a run. Even now, with a few more years under my belt, I would still swear he was at least 90.  I also say run, he was taking the smallest steps so it was more of a shuffle.  I remember marvelling that he was still making the effort.

However, not long after, my lack of training, and perhaps some jet lag, (I’m sure there were lots of other reasons as well!) hit hard. I ran into the ‘wall’ and it wasn’t pleasant. As I was walking home, the elderly gentleman overtook me.

As I had my tortoise and hare moment and watched him disappear over the brow of the hill, I was struck that even the smallest steps in the same direction help to keep you moving forward.

My husband normally gets the kids to school. He’s cracked the morning routine (including an alarm for shoes on, which seems to have solved that insanity), but for the hair.

My daughter is not keen on brushing her hair and tying it back.

One evening, my husband asked if he could practice. It triggered an unexpected nuclear reaction. She flat out refused and went into melt down. This then escalated to me declaring that we would need to get it cut if dad wasn’t able to practice.

To my surprise, she agreed… and went to get the scissors.

This presented the parenting quandary of the follow through.

I started rolling up my sleeves

This isn’t as unprecedented as it sounds. Living on a farm, we didn’t go into town much when I was growing up, so my father used to cut our hair. This worked ok for the boys (I don’t think there was a bowl used but I can’t be sure), however, it was less of an option for us girls. So I took over. Mum and Dad seemed happy but my sisters have been a bit more reserved.

However, that night, my husband bravely intervened to deactivate the situation. He suggested that we both might want to go to the hairdressers.

What, wait, is that feedback?

“Grandad, I don’t think this is safe…?” were words I wasn’t expecting my son, then four, to say.

My Dad was over from NZ to help look after the kids during a tricky time, and thought it would be a good idea to cut down some trees in our garden. Our son was his eager helper.

That is, until he got sent up a tree to tie a rope around a branch and Grandad was urging him to go a wee bit higher.

I had been busy doing something inside, when my attention was caught by my son’s question. It bought back memories of Dad sending me up a very rickety ladder into the loft above the stables to throw down some straw bales. There were multiple moments which felt a tad risky but coming down was definitely worse than going up!

Somewhat torn about whether to step in, I observed out the kitchen window. With Grandad’s (gentle) encouraging, my son managed to climb the next few inches, tie the rope, and then shimmy back down.

They were both very proud of themselves.

My husband was less pleased when the knife (?!) they were using came back into the kitchen with a massive notch out of it.

They just don’t make knives for cutting down trees like they used to.

With Father’s Day fast approaching, have you had a classic Dad moment?

Not long after my son started school, we were walking home one afternoon with some friends. We were still at an early stage in our friendship – a bit beyond the superficial “how are you doing” at the school door but not quite at the “coffee (or wine) at yours?” stage.

We were just navigating the narrowest point of the school commute, which can feel a bit like pushing through the crowds in Oxford Circus, when my son stopped an older gentleman walking towards us and asked “are you a grandad?”

Even with the press of people at his back, the man very kindly paused and responded saying that no, he wasn’t.

At which point, my son observed “so you’re just an old man then.”

There is little I could do other than hope that a grimace and apologetic shrug is a universal sign for sorry, I can’t believe he just said that/kids!

We followed this event up with a discussion about tact – not a topic I expected to be covering with a five year old. What’s that? Basically it’s not saying what you’re thinking. Why? So that you don’t hurt someone’s feelings. Why? Because you have to think about how other people might feel about what you’re saying.

Pause (thank goodness, as I wipe the sweat from my brow following that volley), but mum, you told me I shouldn’t lie.

Have you had a ‘kids say the darndest thing’ moment?!

 

The other day, my son and I were doing some (of his) homework, reading about the Arctic Circle.

We had just reached the end of the page looking at what and where the Arctic Circle is when my son took a closer look at the map. That can’t be right he said. I looked again.

Admittedly, it was a bad photocopy but everything seemed in roughly the right place even with my scratchy geography of the area.

He was adamant though that the map was wrong, the North Pole couldn’t be there because there was no land, so where would Santa live?

Ah.

I usually try to be as honest as possible with the kids but we do celebrate Christmas, get visits from the Easter Bunny, and have dental removals by the Tooth Fairy.

However, when put on the spot, I couldn’t face revealing the explosive truth (this is the boy who was heart broken when we removed a tree, and it wasn’t even a very nice tree, from the garden).

Instead, I seized on the fact located on page 5 (thank you Index) that there are parts of the North Pole that are covered in ice all year round. At least, for the moment… (I also decided it was not the time to get into global warming).

Luckily, this seemed to appease his concerns and there were no specific questions about Santa’s location.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should also reveal that the first page of the exercise (which he had ripped off) also explained that the entire thing was optional. A valuable lesson to always read the instructions!

How have you wriggled out of similar situations?