Author: toughmotheruk

My dad used to say it’s three weeks between a good haircut and a bad one. He should know as he used to cut our hair, and I have the family photos to prove it!

I had the opportunity to use that advice when my 14 year old son turned up to the table for dinner wearing a Star Wars-esque helmet. 

Obviously, I’d missed that chapter in the parenting manual so, as I was trying to determine what was going on and the appropriate response, a couple of things became clear:

• he had taken himself for a haircut (yay!)
• he was very unhappy with said haircut (bad),
• but that he had sought advice from his sister (yay!),
• and she was actually being reassuring and supportive (cue warm fuzzy feeling as she can also cut ice with her eyes if she wills it, and is not known for holding back),
• and he could actually cut food small enough so that he could eat without taking the helmet off (impressive…).

As you can imagine, he was not particularly taken with my dad’s advice or the fact that we’d probably really like the haircut (just the day before, I’d thought it would be nice to see my child’s face again).

You’ll be pleased to know that it was much less than three weeks (it’s impossible to play football wearing a helmet after all) and we did like it (although he still isn’t impressed by that).

As part of my son’s Duke of Edinburgh challenge, he has to learn a skill, move (do a sport that increases his heart rate) and serve.

It’s the last one that’s been the most challenging. 

After lots of ideas, and not a lot of follow through, he (we) settled on an hour of picking up rubbish a week. 

On our first day out, he asked whether it was volunteering if you ‘had’ to do it. 

The philosophical conversations have continued from there, including what Trump has been up to (endless content there!), how to resolve an argument (first question do you need to ‘win’?), and the relative benefits of different water pistols (developing his sales skills…).

It’s also given me some time to muse about the effectiveness of marketing. I’m not just talking about water pistols, but the impact of the ‘be a tidy kiwi’ campaign. Apparently it started before I was born but I definitely grew up with it, which means, to this day, I hear it whenever I walk past rubbish. That’s a lot less comfortable in London than in the much less populated (by both people and litter) part of NZ where I’m from. 

I’ve noticed my son has generally been wearing his NZ t-shirt when out on our missions, so I wonder if it will be part of his cultural inheritance as well?

I was out recently with my almost 13 year old daughter when she asked me when is it ok to swear?

It’s obviously very context specific…

Grandparents and teachers lie this side of (almost) never (we needed to leave room for exceptional circumstances…).

With us parents, we thought a little bit closer to sometimes as long as it was in relation to a) something surprising, b) painful, or c) funny, and not aggressively.

Friends, up to your judgement. But it probably doesn’t make you sound as cool as you hope…

And in a situation fast getting out of your control?

Maybe. But she thought the most effective thing might be sticking with your friends and finding the quickest and safest exit.

My job here is done. 

Though I’m still waiting for evidence that she can judge the context correctly…

My son is currently doing the Duke of Edinburgh bronze award. One of the challenges is to go on an overnight expedition (or tramp if you’re in NZ).

His teacher sent out a message to parents to remind them to make sure that “your child understands the importance of independence as part of the trip”.

So taking this to heart, I left him alone to sort out his kit the night before (to be fair this was mostly still scattered across the floor from the practice run). We then did a quick check as he packed the next morning (the frozen milk (?!) could only go in at the last minute so obviously the rest of the bag couldn’t be packed too early). 

We then calmly exited the house with plenty of time to get to the train station and buy a ticket. As we strolled happily, I happened to ask what his plan for lunch was. 

That bought us to a sudden stop.

No panic, as the train station shop has sandwiches. 

Unfortunately, these were apparently too big. 

So he asked if I could run home, make sandwiches and get back to the station, while he bought the ticket. Following a quick mental calculation (5 minutes + 3 minutes (I’m not eating them) + too long, unless I jump on the bike…which still left a few minutes in case he mucks up the purchase), I handed over my bank card and set off.

Having successfully reminded him of the train station he was actually going to and made sandwiches, I then got a call to say he was on the train… with the following response…

I really enjoyed standing in the middle of the morning commuters on the train with my bike and bag of sandwiches. Having already had friends highlight similarities to Paddington bear given my usual carting around, or requests for, honey sandwiches, all I really needed was a hat…

As we made the exchange, I think I got a thank you as he focused on trying to hold on to the sandwiches and find space for him and his backpack. 

It was a very relaxing cycle home in the sunshine with my bank card safely secured, quietly pleased that I had moved my morning work call.

And absolutely confident that he would find his way home… 

For those of you who have been reading along, you’ll know how delighted the kids are to go on a family walk. No drama or exaggeration at all… the ‘who would get eaten first if we never made it back to civilisation’ was a real highlight.

However my husband and I persevere, and even tried to spice it up this time in San Sebastián, Spain, with a zip line experience.

That was enough to get them out the door pretty easily until they realised we left out that the zip line was at the top of a hill. 

My daughter quickly realised, and her pace seemed to be inversely related to both the gradient and her complaints.

This wasn’t helped when we passed another family coming in the opposite direction who told us there was no way to the top on the road we were on. So we had to retrace our steps to find the right path… which together with the perfect storm of hot, steep, and sub-standard snacks, was not the recipe for familial harmony and good cheer.

At this point, my husband, usually the most patient person I know, volunteered to go ahead to reassure the company that we were actually on our way. As none of the rest of us had our phones, this risked us not showing up at all. Perhaps a calculated move?

My son also found his halo, pointing out if we hadn’t indulged (!) his sister, she would have been powering up the hill (like him obviously).

All of which had the net result of both children receiving the benefit of my wisdom on important life lessons while I, mostly figuratively, pushed them to the top. 

Luckily, this was all put behind us as we zipped around the course and enjoyed the views.

Until next time…

The other day I was hunting for something for my daughter. Even to the point of digging around under my bed, where I came across a pair of my son’s shoes instead.

The soles were worn almost smooth, there were no ‘inners’ at all and they gave new meaning to ‘threadbare’.

I remembered I’d stashed them there a couple of years ago, so he might have been 11 or 12.

We’d purchased a replacement pair that had sat pristinely on the mat by the front door for at least two weeks. 

It’s times like those when I hear the voice of my mother-in-law in my head asking me if he’s really going to leave the house dressed like that… the answer was usually yes…

However, I’d obviously felt the need to take more drastic measures. 

Now at 14, he’s matured and that would never happen again…

My husband was also (pleasantly?) surprised that I hadn’t just thrown them in the bin…

We were unloading the car on Christmas Day after a decadent celebration with family when I heard my son ask why the front door was open?

Obviously, everyone was very quick to deny any knowledge or responsibility.

It took me back to growing up, where we didn’t have keys for any of the doors into the house. I think you could ‘lock’ them internally but it only briefly slowed down an invader (normally a sibling) because you could just lift the door in the frame to jimmy it open.

We did have keys for the car and tractors, which were stored safely… in the ignition. 

That might have been ok in the middle of nowhere down south in New Zealand, where it was a big event for another car to be on our road, but it’s not the way things work in London. 

So it was with a lot of trepidation that we looked around.  

Stepping back through our departure, one of the kids admitted they may not have checked the door closed after they ran in for a last minute item. 

While the door could have been partly open for hours, nothing had stirred in the house (although I can’t confirm about the mouse). 

So while I may have been on the cynical side of Christmasteria, I definitely found the joy. For the cynics amongst you, it had nothing to do with the extensive lecture the kids then received…

So, to be honest, I’m still deciding the exact definition.

It’s either the perfect word to describe my 12 year old daughter’s current obsession with all things Christmas and the sense of anticipation of the immense joy her proposals will deliver. 

Or, it is the sinking feeling I get on listening to said proposal knowing I’m probably moments away from popping said anticipation and immense joy…

This manifested in a Christmas list early November (in PowerPoint).

Then a plan to make our own advent calendars. Gone are the days that opening a cardboard door to a picture of something was fun. Instead the plan was to each sew our own and fill someone else’s with goodies. This got watered down to one for her, and glued because the sewing machine doesn’t work, and some chocolates because skincare products every day for 24 really was only an insta pipedream… (pop!).

Then there was the seasonal pajamas, which of course you have to get early in December to fully get the value… only she made the tactical error of raising this before my birthday (it really is early enough in December for there to be minimal Christmas chat before that), and not appreciating the equally festive offering I sourced (post-birthday) that was significantly cheaper but not as soft… (pop!).

So as I’m making up the term ‘christmasteria’, maybe it can be both, and we leave it to a flip of a coin as to which will win out at any particular point.

Excuse me while I go find my Christmas joy and work on subduing my inner-grinchness…

My son has turned 14 and seems to be taking the whole teenage thing to heart. This is after he swore he was never going to turn into one – he might have been 10 at the time…

Mostly, this has played out with him vaguely grunting to acknowledge us and then us reminding him to find his words. This rolls as smoothly off the tongue as it did when he was three… 

However there are some occasions that seem to break this pattern. 

The standard – after he is supposed to have headed to bed.

When it is just the two of us – and I then can’t prove to my husband that we had an actual conversation.

And when he has a plan.

Unfortunately, this generally means he can’t think or talk about anything other than the plan. So then a bit like Dug, in the Disney movie ‘Up’, while you think you’re having a good chat, you’re actually only ever moments away from him spotting the squirrel if you will. In this mode, it seems you either have to be like a ninja or a sledgehammer to successfully disrupt the programme.

So actually, perhaps it’s a relief when the plan has been implemented and normal programming resumes…

As part of our recent mid-winter Christmas family get-together in New Zealand, we decided to import a much loved festive English tradition – the After Eight game.

For those new to the game, the aim is to move chocolate from your forehead to your mouth without using your hands. So even if you lose, you’re still a winner!

The first challenge was finding the After Eights. They aren’t really a thing in New Zealand – we have mint chocolate biscuits and peppermint chocolate slabs but the wafer thin square coated in dark chocolate, not so much. After an exhaustive search of both supermarkets in town, we found a couple of boxes – on the international food shelf!

Then there was the conundrum of how best to play when you have potentially forty people participating. Inspired by the Olympics, my son calculated the heats, semi’s and finals. There was a picture and everything. Although, the most debate was about whether all those with receding hairlines needed to have their own heat…

Luckily, it didn’t take long for the team to understand the objective of the game. My nephew managed a cracker of a heat with a single movement head snap and catch. It was even caught on camera with multiple slow motion replays, which the judges (me) scored top points for both style and speed. 

Unfortunately, it couldn’t be repeated in the finals…

So what did we learn:

• My family aren’t very good at following instructions. Apparently it’s difficult to remember what numbered heat they were allocated.
• My family is very competitive. Once they’d seen the demonstration, the gloves came off and the elbows came out.
• Practice does help. The English contingent had the benefit of experience and were difficult to beat. Although due to the aforementioned point, the next competition could be tougher…

And, of course, we confirmed the universal truth that it really is hard to take someone seriously when they have a chocolate trail down their face!