Author: Alison

Just Google It

I’ve gone through five kids, four of those are genetically connected to me and finally, by the fifth, I think I have one who actually likes languages. She even likes Latin, goddammit. In fact this term’s interim report puts Latin top of the pops. ‘Did you learn Latin at school, mum? Because it is an old thing,’ daughter 1 says. ‘I’m completely the wrong side of 40’, I reply, ‘but I’m not a Roman’.

The truth is, despite getting four interim reports every however often we get sent them – I still have no idea what the numbers actually mean and just as I thought I had the hang of it, new school, new number system, no idea. Whenever I show the slightest disappointment in one of the girls’ grades, I’m just met with an exclamation of: ‘Mum! A … is a really good grade’ and I don’t feel that I can check this with anyone, because I was probably told about the grading system at a year 7 induction meeting and have now forgotten. So, I just nod and say ok and cross my fingers behind my back that they are all doing alright. 

Not only does daughter 4 love languages, she is also convinced that dog 2 is Spanish and so only speaks to him in Spanish. Obviously, this is a completely crazy idea, however she is practising her linguistic skills, so I’m going with it. I am ignoring the fact that so far her year 7 Spanish has only covered ‘hello’ and the contents of a pencil case, so I think their conversations are limited. 

Despite my excitement over daughter 4’s linguistic ability and their good grades (so they assure me), I am often surprised at how little they know and I don’t think it’s just them. Google has killed the need to retain anything and just churns out information on a need to know basis. Don’t get me wrong, I love Google, mainly because there is absolutely no room in our house for twenty volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. However, when research is simply an exercise in cut and paste, not a lot extra seems to go in. 

This instantaneous information is also not developing staying power and the art of patience. Which is why I was rather pleased to hear that daughter 4’s friend spent 3 hours translating Adele’s song ‘Hello’ into Latin. Now, that’s what I call patience and commitment. However, she was, of course, using Google translate. Who said Latin’s a dead subject? 

Own Clothes Day

Own clothes day – baton down the hatches. We even have to pay a pound for the privilege – I’d rather give a fiver for it not to happen. I never, ever thought I’d say this, but it’s worse than dress as a character for book day and that is bad. 

When step daughter moved in and book day came around with its usual wave of trauma, I said to her: at least you don’t dress up on book day at senior school. She looked at me with complete incredulity, oh yes we do, she said, I got a prize last year…aargh, more pressure and the Alice in Wonderland costume I wheel out every year won’t fit a 14 year old. 

Back to the here and now and it all started before our alarm clock had even gone off – a commotion over skirts going on in daughter 1’s bedroom. I groaned to partner, before dog 1 kindly sat on my face and blocked out some of the ever increasing noise. 

Next come the phone calls: are you wearing your skirt today? Daughter 2 asks FaceTime friend. Are you sure? But I don’t have a coat to wear with it. What shoes are you wearing? 

Daughter 2 barges into my room and seems to be able to ignore the fact that I am starkers. Does this skirt look alright, mum? She asks. Yes you look gorgeous, I reply. And then the ultimate put down comes, as she asks her sister for a second opinion. 

She comes in again and asks: is it too short? Now I’m worried. I don’t think it is, but if a teenager is showing concern, then perhaps I should be more responsible. I look at my watch, ten minutes until they leave. Just time for five more changes of outfit. I think I’ll take the dogs out early, partner announces and within seconds, he’s gone. 

There is a thick frost clearly visible on the ground, yet the debate over whether coats are required continues. Every now and again I put in a: yes, you do need to wear coats, but I am being completely ignored and they carry on regardless. Mum, does this coat look ok? Yes. Good cos it’s the only one I’ve got. No it’s not, you have the one that matches your sister’s. Yes, but I can’t wear that because we’ll match. 2 minutes until they go. I feel a pang of guilt about willing the the time away, but remind myself that they will be back in 9 hours, picking up from where they left off. 

Shoe Chew* *Friday night takeaway – may contain dog

We are having a real shoe crisis in our house. Daughter 4’s shoes are still somewhere between the hospital and an orthotics manufacturer, so she is wearing the closest thing we could find to school shoes in her size, which are daughter 1’s black leather converse. They are slightly too big for her, but the cool factor seemed to offset that and there wasn’t a fuss. 

After daughter 2 being initially quite sceptical about the Oxfam shoes that I bought her, to replace the expensive shoes dog 2 chewed, her and FaceTime friend found the very same model, brand new in Jones with a price tag of £87 reduced to £45 and that seemed to give the shoes enough kudos to start wearing them. She did, however, have to have a short break to let the blisters heal. In the meantime she is wearing black Nike Air Max trainers to school, again, without a fuss.

Last Thursday evening she announced that the next day was the day she would start wearing her Oxfam shoes again – the blisters had all but healed and I was happy. 

It was later on Friday evening that it occurred to me that wine, dogs and shoes with tassels are not a good combination, when, with an air of deja vu, dog 2 appeared in the sitting room with the Oxfam shoe, tasselless in his mouth. Yet again, we had taken our eyes off the shoes. We were back to square one. Back to the trainers. 

Yesterday daughter 2 came home from school with an update. Student Services took my shoes, she said, so matter of factly that I wondered whether it was for some sort of social experiment; and they gave me a horrible pair to wear, she continued. I have to report to Student Services every day to get a horrible, uncomfortable pair of shoes to wear and take them back at the end of the day, when they give me back my shoes.  This is a school, I thought to myself, that has come across the problem of girls wearing inappropriate footwear before. After we had all managed to stop laughing at the thought of the incredibly style-conscious and easily embarrassed daughter 2 in a ill fitting pair of someone else’s pumps, I did feel slightly sorry for her and promised to have a quick scout round the charity shops today. Please can I have proper shoes from a proper shop, she pleaded. What if someone had a smelly feet, or dirty toenails, she keeps going, clutching at straws. I give dog 2 a withering look. It’s Friday tomorrow, I reply. Perhaps I’ll leave shoe buying until the weekend. 

If (More apologies)

If…you are a teenager, this is all about you – of course

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and always blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself not to put an open party invite on Facebook, when parents doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too; (remember last summer and the trashed sitting room?)
If you can wait until you are old enough to drink legally and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about by people who call themselves friends, don’t deal in lies,
Or being lonely in your room when everyone seems to hate you, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good in your sister’s top, nor talk too wise: (despite knowing everything)

If you can dream of life without a curfew—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think about others for once —and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph: a 100 likes on Instagram and Disaster: getting less than 25
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the half-truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by your mum to make a trap so she finds out what really happened,
Or watch the selfies you (literally) gave your life to taking, lost when your phone got broken,
And pose and build ’em up with endless pouts:

If you can make one heap of all your minimum wage earnings
And risk them on one really good night out,
And lose your new iPhone 6 in a bush, and start saving at the beginning
And never breathe a word to mum and dad about your loss;
If you can force yourself off the X Box
To help out the fossils long after they have asked,
And so hold on to thoughts that the World’s against you
But no-one cares so tell them to: “Jog on!”

If you can talk with your parents and keep humouring them,
Or walk with them —then lose them as soon as you see your mates,
If foes and loving Facebook friends’ comments can hurt you,
If all opinions count with you, but none too much; (because ultimately YOU’RE right)
If you can fill every single unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of FaceTime every night,
Yours is the 24/7 hotel and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Teenager, my son/daughter/consummate professional at driving me to the edge and often over it

By Kipling, MadHouseMum, partner and daughters

I’ve been shortlisted in the Best Writer category for the Mumsnet Blogging Awards! Please vote for me by clicking on the link below – it takes literally a millisecond. Thank you 🙂

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If (Apologies to Kipling)

If…You are dealing with raging hormones on a daily basis, then this is for you, my friend

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing their socks and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself that you are doing the right thing taking phones away at 9pm, when all your children doubt you,
But make allowance for their door slamming histrionics too;
If you can wait for the bathroom every morning and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about on Snapchat, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated and hated and HATED, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good in their selfies, nor talk too wise in front of their friends:

If you can dream that one day they’ll be normal —and not make dreams your master;
If you can think that one day they’ll leave home—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph: no wet towel on the floor this morning! and Disaster: 12 dirty mugs in their bedroom
And treat those two impostors just the same;  (no pocket money)
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by teenagers to make a trap for parents,
Or watch the things you gave birth to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with tissues, hugs and chocolate.

If you can make one heap of all the washing
And risk asking for help with sorting it out,
And lose, and start again with another heap the next day
And never breathe a word about your loss; (Because they never listen anyway)
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To keep your sanity long after they are gone out the door to school,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to you: “Hold on – eventually their grunts will return to normal speech!”

If you can talk with crowds of their friends in your kitchen eating biscuits and keep your alcohol untouched,
Or walk behind them so they’re not embarrassed  — nor lose their iPod touch,
If neither being told you’re stupid nor so old can hurt you,
If all their comments count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill a minute of their unforgiving music
With sixty seconds’ worth of your choice of radio station in the car,
Yours is the House and every child that’s innit,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Parent, my sympathy.

By Kipling, partner and me

Crackerjack!!

Since the 5p bag charge was introduced, I have been concerned that partner looks like a professional shoplifter, as he stuffs his large dog-walking coat pockets full of foodstuffs, because, yet again, we left the twenty bags we keep in the car…well, in the car. 

I have spent the past few months sitting outside Waitrose with the dogs, drinking my free coffee and watching, with much amusement, the towers of produce people are exiting with – because they left their bags in the car. It takes me right back to my childhood and Crackerjack* and on the odd occasion someone drops something I expect Stewpot to run over and stick a cabbage on top. I also see the smug shoppers with their hessian bags and I view them with a mixture of awe and jealousy. 

Although I think the reason behind the charge is a fine one, I’m really still not getting the hang of it. I have developed a technique, however, to get shopping out to the car without a bag – it involves laying the free paper on the counter and building up the food items on one half, then folding the other half over to form a sort of package. This works, up to a point. Obviously this technique isn’t one for the weekly family shop. 

So, I am not at all surprised to read in the paper, that in some supermarkets, thefts are up 50%. What I am surprised at, however, is the lengths I will go to and judging by my observations, I’m not the only one, to avoid paying 5p for a bag. There’s not much you can get these days for 5p, so you could say it’s a bargain, but it just grates to pay it. Then I get offered the bag for 10p and a queue forms behind me as I weigh up whether I can afford it. Double the price! Is it worth the expense? 10p bags have never been free, but I never previously bought one, because they felt like a luxury item, with their arty designs and thick, sumptuous plastic. They always seemed out of my price range and there was a free alternative for the less extravagant. It’s a ‘bag for life’ – not just for Christmas, or for one blow out shopping trip, where you were feeling flush! A bag for life, that will spend its entire life hanging behind the kitchen door. So we don’t buy any bags. We stuff coat pockets, make newspaper packages, build towers and vow to remember the bags in the boot the next time. (But we do pay for the shopping first). 

* Cultural reference to a children’s tv show I watched in the 70’s/80’s. Apologies if you are too young to remember, but for those of you who are older: “It’s Friday, it’s five to five and it’s Crackerjack”!!

Treading on Eggshells

Morning! I say cheerily to daughter 2. Why are you all annoying me so much, this morning? Is the reply. Ah ok, it’s a morning when the floor is strewn with egg shells. 

In the kitchen I am making their lunches. Daughter 2 is stomping around and declaring, loudly, everything that is currently disgusting her: there is dog hair everywhere, I hate beetroot in my salad,  there is nothing I like for breakfast, why is there never anything I like…We’re all zoning out, including the dogs, who are flat out on the floor, ignoring the hormonal fuss. She trips over dog 1. It sets her off again: why is he there, why isn’t our kitchen bigger, why are you all ganging up on me…

I contemplate voicing my irritation at her early morning ranting, but there just isn’t room for two of us going on, so I resort to the breathing techniques I learnt in my NCT classes 16 years ago, when one of the drama queens was but a cute little package, surrounded by calming amniotic fluid. 

She’s flounced off upstairs, where her grievances are continuing to be aired to her sisters: why do you have to use my hairbrush, why don’t you get your own moisturiser, why are you wearing my tights…

She’s back downstairs. I brace myself. Muuum. I know that voice. That voice can only ever mean one thing. Can I have a friend over for a sleepover on Friday night? I look into her pleading eyes. Well, the thing is, I reply, I wouldn’t want you to be embarrassed bringing your friend to such an awful place, filled with such irritating people…and before she has a chance to respond, I gently ease her out the door to school. 

Three-Way Mirror

We have given up teaching regular classes on a Sunday. Not for religious reasons, but for our sanity. 

Partner has been excited all week at the thought of having the time to try out his new pressure washer. He set it all up this morning and started on the patio. By the time he had finished, our patio was no longer green, but also a proportion of it was no longer there. It’s ever so powerful, he said, as I looked at where bits of our patio used to be and saw them strewn across the garden. 

I thought perhaps I should try to get him away from causing any more damage to our property, as he was muttering something about the conservatory windows needing a clean. I suggested a shopping trip.

I had a voucher to spend in M&S, and ended up in their changing rooms trying on a pair of jeans, not dissimilar to the ones mum bought a few weeks ago, which slightly unnerved me. She’s a glam gran, but I’m not sure I’m quite ready to field that look yet. Within minutes of entering the changing room, my nerves were shattered and my feeling of well being dismembered, by the presence of a three-way mirror. Now, I can see the point of these, but if there is one thing that is going to get you back on that January diet that has lapsed because it’s February, it’s a three-way mirror. When you are half an hour in a changing room, trying on one item of clothing and partner says when you come out, looking dejected and depressed, what’s taken you so long? You just reply: it’s because of the three-way mirror. 

I had actually forgotten how they worked, until I was half undressed and happened to glance to my left, where I was confronted with my buttocks from an angle that I never usually have to endure. Oh my god! I thought to myself. People saw that view in Spain last year! I quickly put on the jeans. I turned to the front full length view. The lighting showed up every crease from face to waist. I saw that my hair needs cutting, my eyebrows need plucking and carrying on down is still work in progress. Why don’t shops install mirrors that slim you down and lights that are kind, not harsh and real. I got dressed with my eyes shut and left. 

Let’s go and have a coffee and cake, partner said, cheerily, sensing that my mood might need lightening. Do I look as if I need cake, I snapped at him. Why not? He continued, chirpily, we’ve got a day off! Why not? I snarled at him, feeling that he just isn’t grasping the severity of the situation. Partner looked confused – I had entered that changing room full of positivity and happiness and he sensed that the mood had decidedly swung the opposite way. Because of the three-way mirror, that’s why not, I retorted, whilst zipping my coat up, as far as it could go. 

Post Script:

The mirrors in Top Shop saved the day off. If you are having a ‘fat day’ – shop in Top Shop and not in M&S.

(I’m) Out of Control

I have identified a problem with being the mother of teenage girls – I am a control freak and teenagers don’t like being controlled. Sometimes they will humour me and then, free from my clutches, carry on their way regardless. Other times they will dig their unhealthily high heels in and refuse to budge. 

I am a professional snooper. So far my snooping has averted a large gathering taking place in our house whilst we were away, an inappropriate one night stand, use of a hip flask and late night doughnut eating. And that is just one – I have four more to go. 

This week, however, my snooping has simply led to frustration and worry, as I overheard a snippet of conversation that has left me desperate to know more, but unable to find out. God knows I’ve tried. First, I started subtly: are you ok? Yes mum. Later that hour: everything ok? Yup. Later that evening: school ok? Yes. The next morning I’m haranguing other daughters to find out what’s going on. They don’t seem a bit worried – this worries me even more. Perhaps they are all in this together…paranoia sets in. By the evening I can’t stand it any longer and I am going for the direct approach: is it a boy? Are you gay? Are you wondering whether you might be gay? No, I’m not gay. Has someone touched you inappropriately? I don’t know what that means, so I presume not mum. Are you pregnant? No! I decide that this is an exclamation of true incredulity. I’m momentarily relieved. I go to start again. I’m gently pushed out of the room and the door is shut on me. I’m left standing outside the frontier, debating the rights of teenage privacy over a parent’s need-to-know and still I am none the wiser. 

Can you just give me a clue, I ask through a crack in the door. Only if you promise you’ll stop going on, comes the reply. This seems like a fair starting point, so I agree. It’s not about me, she says. And that’s it – I’m off again: is it about your sisters? Is it about your friend, is it about your friend’s friend? Is it…MUM!! I’m being screamed at now and even I know that it is time to let it go. 

Touché

I cannot believe that you buy mashed potato, my mum is shaking her head. But Waitrose Economy is a pound a packet and I make it go three ways, I protest, trying desperately to defend my actions. She’s having none of it and continues: it’s not the same as making it yourself, those poor daughters of yours. Images of starving, deprived refugees immediately come to my mind and I am failing to grasp her point: the occasional chicken nugget and shop-bought trifle, but I would hardly say, ‘poor‘. By the time I have bought a packet of potatoes and accounted for my time, I’m sure that it is cheaper to buy the ready made, I keep going – I’m not giving in on this one. Rubbish, mum counters. Touché.

I have a degree, have represented my country on many occasions, used to speak pretty good French and gave birth to four children, but still I disappoint my mother.

I do fear, however, that I have inherited mum’s high expectations for my daughters. In a past life, whilst on a trip around the world with four children under 8, I dipped my toes into home schooling. When we returned, daughter 4 was plonked in a reception class. I was rather nervous when I attended her first parents’ consultation, as husband and I had been the only teachers she had ever had. The report was good. But don’t you find her concentration is very poor, I enquired at the end. We found that after a couple of hours she just gave up and rested her head on the table. The severe looking teacher looked me square in the eye: Mrs Longhurst, she said. The guidelines stipulate one minutes’ teaching for each year of the child’s life and then a break. Your daughter is 5 and I can assure you that there is nothing wrong with her concentration. Touché.