Supermarket Fury

Going to the supermarket. Christ, is there anything worse? They just get bigger and bigger and when I finally leave I’ve lost 3 hours and wonder if I’ve been abducted by aliens. I know, I know. I’m lucky to have a supermarket to go to. Nonetheless. I feel like I am there every single day of my godless life. And you can’t just go in and buy the one thing you actually need, or at least I can’t, there are always half a dozen other things. Ooh, that’s on sale! Ooh, that’ll be good for dinner! Ooh, my favorite piece of junk food that is not at all good for me but I like to eat anyway! So, even though all I freaking needed was a loaf of bread that I can buy for 40 pence- I end up leaving with £35 worth of groceries. Granted, I buy a lot of reduced stuff that can be frozen and used for future meals, so I save money in the long run. I’m trying to bring my family round to trying the paleo diet, which I gather is just meat and veg and the money I’d save by shopping at the green grocer and the butcher and never setting foot in a supermarket makes me giddy with possibilities, I might finally be able to fix my sons bike! Lo and behold my family likes their carbs, thank you very much, so I may have to employ the use of stealth when making the switch. Though there is always the possibility of the old “I’m paying for the groceries, if you don’t like what I’m buying, get a job and buy your own.” That tends to stop the whining in it’s tracks…

What annoyed me recently (well, ok, a month ago) at the supermarket was the cashier. Usually they just ring the stuff up and make small talk (occasionally with me, usually with a colleague or the customer in front who won’t pick up their damn bags and GO already) but this one decided she needed to comment about what we were buying. Grrr. We’d gone in for only a few items but I’d come across quite a few sale items, of course. So we had three boxes of ice cream bars at 50 pence each for the kids, an apple tart that I thought would be a nice dessert one night for £1. Two boxes of my favorite cornettos, 2 for £2. And some other bits and bobs. Yes, there was a bit of junk. I joked about it to my husband. Yet this cashier decided she need to tell me all about weight watchers. And how half her grocery shopping is always vegetables. I tried to keep things light, and said something about how it’ll be nice when the kids go back to school and arent clamoring for ice cream all the time. To which she replied “Well that’s when you tell them they can have a piece of fruit!”

Sorry, guys. Kids with fat mommies aren't allowed ice cream!

This annoyed me. I didn’t say anything to her, other than just a “Oh, I do!” but the sheer audacity pissed me off. Why pass judgement on my purchases? I have three slim, healthy, active children. One of which prefers to snack on carrots more than anything else, and two who love salad and always have seconds. They arent allowed to drink soda, fast food is a rare treat and all their regular meals are homemade. They get told “If you’re that hungry, have a carrot or a piece of fruit” six times a day. The only one who eats to much junk in my household is me. And clearly I am an adult and perfectly capable of deciding for myself what and how much I eat. I have one child who hates fruit and veg and would prefer to eat junk all day. I don’t allow this. His favorite breakfast item is cereal, which I rarely buy. He has to eat more healthy food. If he doesnt eat his carrots at dinner, he gets no dessert, etc.

I suppose people just like to feel superior and I shouldn’t be offended, but it seems to illustrate once again that fat people are fair game for ridicule. I know I’m fat, I promise I’m not stupid and I really don’t need a lecture from the cashier on the value of eating vegetables. Neither do I need random people assuming that since I am fat, I am a simpleton incapable of appropriate parenting, especially as how the 6 year old next door is never without a can of coke and a packet of sweets, though his mom is thin as a rail. Shockingly enough, I don’t sit around eating junk and watching daytime telly all day, either.

So what I’d like to say to that cashier is this: “Look bitch, it’s the middle of August, the kids are off school and if I want to give them some damn ice cream, I will. And, by virtue of not being stupid, I know exactly how to lose weight when and if I choose to, so I really don’t need you to lecture me about weight watchers and fucking vegetables.”

What it means to be a mother:

It means that

A) When your five year old is joyfully riding his scooter along in the lovely weather after having had a nice long walk with mommy and suddenly hits something unexpected and upends- throwing himself and the scooter full bodied to the ground- you walk, you don’t run. Even though visions of busted teeth and bloodied noses and awkwardly hanging limbs are running through your mind. You gently pull him up and hug him close and whisper “it’s ok” and kiss his scrapes, make silly jokes and carry him and the scooter the rest of the way down the hill. So that five minutes later he asks to go the long way home so he can ride his scooter and 15 minutes later, it is long forgotten as he races inside the house to find an ice pop.

B) When it is 10:00pm and you’ve been up since sometime around 6 and you haven’t stopped all day and you feel like crap and all you want to do is go to bed and your damn bladder is screaming at you- you make hot water bottles because the kids legs hurt, you give the teenager 3 Ibuprofen and two night nurse tablets because his broken leg is aching and he feels awful, then you get halfway up the stairs and kick yourself and go back down to get him the flashlight, leave more pills and a glass of water within easy reach in case he wakes up in pain during the night, then hug and kiss him, say good night and ask three times if he’ll be ok.

C) Then find the liquid ibuprofen for the pre-teen girl who hates taking swallowing pills and dose her up because her not broken leg aches and also her side hurts (no, she doesn’t know what she did to it) even though she took a hot bath and has a hot water bottle. Finally you pee, brush your teeth and then go back down to check on the teenager, back up to check the little one is still asleep, breathing and hasn’t fallen out the window or something then back to the girls room because she needs something or because you spent more time saying good night to another child then you did to her, at which point you make a huge song and dance (literally, people) out of saying good night to her to make her smile, before finally collapsing into bed.

D) Get up five minutes later because there is a cat somewhere that desperately needs to be relocated somewhere else or a child somewhere desperately needs a drink of water or because you desperately need to make sure you checked all the doors for the third time so an axe murderer can’t get in while you sleep.

Unplugging.

Since my son broke his leg a month ago, he has been bedridden. Or, rather, couch ridden. He spends his days on the couch, moving across the living room via crutches to his bed sometime around 10:00 or later at night. (I have more or less rescinded his bedtime, he’s not going to school so, really, whats the point?) In preparation for a very important math exam that he took today, he has spent most of the past week revising. However, every other minute of every other day the TV has been on. Constantly. On. Stupid kids show. Wii. Playstation. Movies. Stupid kids shows. I hate it. Really hate it. And since Dev is spending his days in front of the boob tube, the other two are getting accustomed to spending all their spare time in front of it as well. My 5 years olds favorite toys lay forgotten in his room and my daughters books are gathering dust.

Every 5 minutes I hear complaining from one child about how another child won’t let them A. play a game B. let them watch TV or C. share the remote or D. some other crime. My Sky planner is full of absolute crap from the Disney channel and MTV like “Zeke and Luther!” and “Pimp my Ride!”, which I keep having to delete in disgust.

So, I finally snapped. With Rafe hanging off me and demanding to play the playstation not 30 seconds after walking in the door following the 30 minute walk to his school and back to pick him up, driving to the shop to pick up some groceries, driving to Devons school to pick him up post exam, driving back to the younger kids schools to pick up my daughter and just then frantically searching for my pasta cookbook with the recipe for spaghetti sauce in it, I shouted that he needed to go upstairs and play with his toys RIGHT NOW!

Much crying ensued. Giving us both time to calm down, I started the spaghetti sauce, then went to talk to him. He apologized, I apologized, and then I explained to him why I was upset, and reminded him about all the great toys he had in his room. He then spent 45 minutes quietly and happily playing with his rocket ships.

I realized that I had been a lazy parent. Letting Dev get away with watching tv all day because what else was he going to do, and letting the others fall into the habit as well, because it was easy I guess. So, I explained to the kids that the TV and associated bits were now a privilege to be earned. They needed to read and play with toys and study and go outside. If they wanted TV they needed to do their chores and act kindly and just…earn it.

In the meantime I have started reading Watership Down aloud to them and they seem to be enjoying it so far.

balanced breakfast

Words I enjoy hearing:

“Good Morning, Mommy! We made our own breakfast!”

Words I enjoy hearing less:

“We took some flour, sugar, some other sugar, an egg and mixed it all together. Then we added a little bit of water and cooked it in the oven!”

Parenting Styles idealistic vs realistic?

While I have dozens of blogs in my bookmarks folder that I read at least weekly, there are only a very few that are in my top sites and I click on daily (or as often as they post something new). One of these is my favourite, because I really do identify with the blogger and enjoy reading what she writes. I especially enjoy reading about her parenting style, as while it’s not to different from my own, there are some stark contrasts. I find her style of parenting to be on one hand refreshing, possibly even inspiring. On the other hand, I find it naive in its innocence, lacking perhaps in depth and I wonder if her children won’t be in for a nasty shock when one day they step out into the real world without her there to protect them.   This is of course, not a post meant to slam any other blogger, I only know of her parenting style that which she cares to share through her blog, and I’m not criticising her.

I only use her as an example because when I read her posts about parenting, I, of course, compare it to my own style and wonder which is best, ultimately. That, I don’t know. I am accused of being over protective of my kids, I am told I should give them more freedom, especially my oldest son.  I try to be fair, and I certainly don’t want my children to feel as if they are caged, so I consider it.

When I moved my oldest children to England not quite six years ago, I had these wonderful ideals about the childhood they would have. To some extent those ideals have been fulfilled. We take long rambling walks through the woods, go to the beach all the time, they climb trees, eat fruit straight off the branch,  know the joy of a snow day, and are sick to death of historical monuments and buildings. But the one ideal that has not been met is the one where the kids would spend days out playing, like I did and I imagine my parents before me. I built huts in fields, rode bikes, played in my friends houses, played hide and seek at twilight. My kids don’t do those things, or not often anymore.  Don’t get me wrong, they LOVE to do those things.

Smiley

But, Britain is a funny place. Children here are a strange breed. Having gone out to ride bikes with her big brother, my daughter has come home in tears, having been shoved off her bike and punched in the stomach by a bigger boy. My son has been the victim of a group attack after having gone to play at the skate park with friends, by kids he barely knew. He has also been the victim of random violence, coming home one evening.  The children who live across from us, who my kids used to be friends with and the older one went out to dinner with us for my sons birthday last year, turned nasty and started doing things like calling us names, throwing eggs at our house, even ringing our doorbell and running away. Their parents couldn’t care less.

Children who very much appear to be younger than 5 play outside on their own, or with slightly older siblings. Older teens roam the streets with beer in hand, shouting abuse and obscenities.

So, yes, I consider giving my children more freedom. I would even like to. But, it seems like it would be ridiculous to ever follow through. I worry about my daughter, she is only ten. It seems she is at an age where she is at risk of being kidnapped or even sexually assaulted. She is allowed certain freedoms, but very little compared to her friends. She complains about it, but I can only cringe at the freedoms her friends have.  Once while at the park with her friends after school (Daddy was there to keep an eye on her), one of her friends had a strange phone call from a man who said he wanted to meet her in the woods. The friend wanted to go into the woods to meet the man(!!), but my daughter talked her out of it. I have no idea if the girl really did get that strange phone call, but the point is that had my husband not been there, there would have been no adult supervision whatsoever. He was there only because I refuse to let my daughter play at the park alone with her friends, the other girls parents would have had no idea he was there. Another cringeworthy example is my daughters (former) best friends freedoms, we took her out Trick or Treating last halloween, and for fun stopped at her house, at some point after dark. We told her father we’d have her home probably in an hour or so, and he said not to worry, she could walk by herself (!), after dark, on Halloween!  I was gobsmacked.  (We, of course, dropped her off)

Rocket Man

I worry about my 13 year old son, who is at an age where I myself was experiencing my first days in juvenile detention, sleeping on the streets, smoking, having sex and doing drugs. Needless to say, I lose countless hours of sleep worrying about him. I give him some freedoms, he is allowed to go out to “play” but I insist on regular, in person, check ins. I like to know where he plans to be and who he plans to be with. He gets ever so annoyed about my frequent reminders about not smoking, drinking, or kissing. I am strict. Failing to check in and being gone for hours and hours is a guaranteed road to grounding. I seem too strict but I find my method works. I have a better idea of where he is and what he’s doing. He has a failsafe, he can always get out of uncomfortable situations because his mom makes him check in and after years of this, I know that when he fails to check in it is usually because he is having a good time with his friends, riding bikes or building forts, and I worry slightly less. If something off were going on, he would be more likely to check in and not go back out.

I find that far from constraining them, my limits allow for more quality family time. We can hardly take those long rambling walks, go to the beach or enjoy £1 bowling or movies if the kids are never around. The kids moan about it, but they are far happier when they are out with us than when they come home having been with their friends all day.

As parents we always have our kids best interests at heart. The other blogger obviously wants her kids to have an innocent childhood, blissfully unaware of the bad shit that happens in real life. This is commendable, but I wonder if it’s realistic?  On the other hand, I believe in being honest and open with my kids. They know all about the bad shit. My daughter knows what to do if someone tries to grab or lure her off the street. My son knows about smoking and drugs and sex. They know that sometimes kids get killed, and they know that the world is not necessarily a nice place.  Is this a good way for them to grow up, have they lost some of their innocence?

Easter Cake

I never quite know which method is best, and I sometimes covet the apparently idealised childhood her kids seem to have. But, I can’t quite remove myself from the stories of bad shit that happens to kids, or from my own experiences, enough to let go and let them have the freedom they want, and others tell me to give. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? Do I need to cut the cord? Or is my parenting style encouraging stronger ties with their family, giving them a strong support structure and keeping their minds open to all the opportunities out there, beyond spending 6 hours jumping on a trampoline, culminating in a level of boredom that will lead to drinking/smoking/making out?

I am truly interested in this, because I must admit to getting irritated at the constant squeaking of the people involved in my sons education who listen to his complaints and refer to me as overprotective and controlling. I disagree with them, I am not blind and see the way kids are being raised around me, and surely it is my job as a parent to do whats best for my child? Is my 13 year old son really old enough to make his own decisions and be trusted with the level of responsibility necessary to keep himself safe and healthy on a day to day basis when is being pressured? I wasn’t. Hell, I can’t even trust him to remember to feed the cats every day. Is it really safe enough to allow my daughter to play alone at the park with only other 10 year old girls with her, or walk home alone late in the evening?  Do I need to take into account that we live in Nowhere,Hampshire as opposed to Central London?

I wonder what others opinions are on this? If you have kids, how much freedom do you allow them? Is family time more important than friend time and do you let your kids be aware of the bad things that can happen, or do you keep them insulated from it as much as possible?  Would you prefer your kids had extracurricular activities and interests or would you rather they enjoyed the freedom of going out to play with their friends after school and on weekends?

“they grow so fast…” or Happy Birthday, kid

A frequently heard refrain in the world of parenthood is “They grow up so fast.”  It is a sentiment full of truth, sadness and pride. They do grow up fast. It is sad. Yet, it fills a parent with pride to watch their child grow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rafe will be 5 very soon, 14 short days in fact. Money is tight, but we are hoping to have a big party for him, it being a milestone birthday and all. Looking at him fills me with those two emotions. Sadness and Pride. Where has my baby gone? He is still sweet and cuddly. But everyday he needs me less. He is a pro with electronics. Computer? Playstation? Wii? TV? DVD player?  i-phone? No problem. My husband and I argue over whether we should buy him a Nintendo DS or a Bike for his birthday. What an argument to have about a 5 year old, eh? Having two older siblings is wonderful for his independence and he is afraid of nothing. Which often leaves me, mommy, standing on the sidelines watching as he attempts some amazing feat that makes me cringe in terror. I stand by and grin, clapping enthusiastically and hugging him with vigour when he is triumphant.  When he doesnt succeed, and indeed falls to the ground and skins a knee, there are the inevitable tears, but they are dry within seconds and usually he has gone off to try some other death defying task before I’ve even finished speaking those timeless words of comfort, “Don’t cry. Everything’s ok, Mommy’s here.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rafe is learning how to read and write. And yes, I’ve been there, done that. Yet, it seems so much more crystallized now. I feel as if his childhood is slipping through my fingers as I watch from the sidelines, cringing in terror.  It  makes me want to cling on so tightly. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it is because I know he will be my last and these wonderful years of childhood innocence, for all my children, are so clearly numbered.  Perhaps, it is because for the longest period of time since I became a mother, I have not been working. My life is here. With them. 24/7 I know them so much better than ever before. I don’t want to lose that and knowing that I will, one way or the other, makes me very sad.

Summer 2010

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wrote his name a few days ago. On his grandpa’s birthday card. All. by. himself. No prompting, no handholding, no encouragement. He picked up the pen, grabbed the card, and wrote his name. Legibly.  Yesterday we were walking into an autopart shop and he read a word on the sandwhich board out front. All. by. himself. No encouragement, no prompting. I’m not sure what was being advertised but the word was “fit”. And he said “That says, IT, F- IT, FIT, mommy!” And he was of course, right. I almost patronized him by saying “oh, yes, good job” without even looking. Thankfully, it was one of those increasingly rare moments, where I had the presence of mind to see what I was doing, chastise myself for patronising him and actually take  a moment to look. What a wonderful moment. My baby, can read.  And write.    In a more sobering sign of his rapidly growing maturity, a week ago, when I had had a hard week, and a hard day and thought everyone was upstairs, I let down my guard and had a good sob in the kitchen. When I had finished and all was still, the kitchen door opened quietly and my sweet boy came in, gave me a hug and said “Everything is ok, mommy. Don’t cry. I’m here.” Which, of course, made me start blubbering all over again. Yet, getting these glimpses of the intelligent, empathetic and kind child he is becoming, makes me very proud.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They do grow up so fast. And in the next few years, which will seem like seconds, he will be grow to be a foot taller than me and instead of quizzing him on phonics or his numbers, I will be  telling him that if he even looks at a girl in “that way”, his penis will turn black and fall off. Which seems, so far, to be a good sex deterrent for my current teenager. And as much as I am enjoying watching that indomitable child grow into a great man, there are days when I want nothing more than to transform him back into a little boy, with his curly hair and insane temper, and just sit and cuddle with him one more time.

Rafe and big sister, Olivia Autumn, 2010

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, Happy Birthday, Rafey. A few weeks early. Please forgive me if I call you “Lamby” well into your 30’s and treat you like a baby far longer than is reasonable. I love you.

My baby. 2007

 

 

Let this be a lesson to you…

In my town there is a hill. No problem in the car, not even worthy of 2nd gear, but when you’re on foot (and alright, slightly over the average weight for your puny height) this hill is a bitch to slog up twice (or four times!) a day.

Rafe and Olivia both go to school at the top of and slightly along from this hill. At the end of the day Rafe is pretty tired so I usually take the stroller (pushchair for any British readers) along for him to ride home in, as it’s a bit of trek.

Now, I’m pretty safety conscious. In a laissez faire kind of way. I don’t store the bleach in a locked metal box in the attic for example. I don’t let anyone drink it, either.

On this particular day, Rafe was in his stroller and we were walking down the hill. The stroller is new, but a bit wonky, probably because Rafe is pushing the recommended weight, by virtue of being almost 5. I decided to stop fighting its list to the right and just go with it, so I started pushing Rafe on two wheels, zigging and zagging our way down the hill, as he laughed uproariously. Not going to fast. But, fast enough that when I hit a rock on a zag, the stroller upended. I held onto it for a second, but eventually I crashed into the stroller and Rafe crashed onto the ground. (oh, yeah. Laissez Faire- stopped making Rafe wear the straps at least a year ago). I just barely managed to avoid falling over the whole thing and landing on top of poor Rafe.

He (thankfully) just laughed. (It was pretty funny) But when I stopped hugging him and pulled him off the ground and uprighted the stroller, I realized that there was traffic on both sides of the school crossing and the crossing guard (lollipop man!) watching us. *sigh* Nobody seemed amused by my antics.

I cracked a joke when we walked past the lollipop man, but he just gave me that look. You know the one- the “Someone ought to report you.” look.

So, there you go, when cruising down a hill, keep the stroller on all four wheels, and please, no zagging.