The Women’s Institute

“We must get those ginger shortbread things,” I was heard yelling, as partner did a handbrake turn into the village hall car park, where the weekly WI market is held. Two thoughts had collided a moment previously: it’s Wednesday and I have no food for tea.

Years ago, I lived in the village and was a regular at the Wednesday morning WI. It was a bit like a trip to IKEA: you leave having spent ten times the amount that was planned. I never left that hall with change from a tenner. My ex used to think that the women mugged me of my money, by forcing me to buy their lemon curd. The truth was that in one fell swoop all my needs for that day were fulfilled: tea – including veg and a pud, a jar of marmalade, fresh bread and a bunch of flowers and as we all know, luxuries never come cheap. And by god, the WI isn’t cheap. These markets are not catering for the poor. No, this is pure middle class heaven (oh and by the way – if your only experience of the WI is the film: Calendar Girls, they honestly aren’t selling their produce whilst naked.)

Partner liked the look of a lasagne, but I fancied the fish pie. The joy of the WI is that they do portions for one. I guess this isn’t primarily for couples who can’t agree, but more likely meant for widowers and widows. I checked out who had cooked my fish pie before I allowed partner to hand over the cash. I used to know the name of every cook who sold at this venue and there was one whose shepherd’s pie was a little below par. What a brilliant idea to put the cook’s name on the packaging. The shop chain: ‘Cook’ brazenly stole this idea from the WI ladies. The lady behind the trellis table took our money and scribbled down the purchase in her notebook. A long way from Apple pay, but at least it actually works, unlike my phone or contactless credit card in a shop this morning.

We sprinted over to my favourite table: the bakery section. I’ve honestly been elbowed out the way by an octogenarian here before. We both had our eyes on the Millionaires shortbread and sadly she won. I wanted to shout: ‘bitch’ at her, but I respected the elderly and gave her some credit for her agressive techniques – probably honed during the war. Today, no-one was going to get in my way of the ginger shortbread. Except there wasn’t any…until partner spotted some on a table to one side. “They are reserved” the lady in her pinny said curtly, as she saw us gesticulating towards them. I always wondered why they needed to wear pinnys. It’s as if they still need a legacy on show of their beloved kitchen, where all these treats were produced. I looked around for other old favourites and spied the flapjack. “Ah yes, Mrs Ellis,” I nodded knowledgeably to partner as I read the name on the packaging. “Is she a good one?” he asked, getting into the swing of things here. I pointed over to a lady sitting behind a table: “she’s a legend,” I replied.

I left, ten pounds poorer and feeling quite nostalgic. I worked out that I had first started going to that market when my eldest was about 3. That’s 15 years ago. Mrs Ellis didn’t look a day older sitting behind that same table, selling the same recipe fish pie. She’s saved my bacon on many occasions when I couldn’t be arsed to cook and yesterday was no exception. To Mrs Ellis and all the members of the WI: I salute you and I wonder when you will ever change.

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Must try harder

It’s 7.30pm on a Sunday night and as you smugly tuck your 6 year old into bed, already thinking about wine and sofa, she gazes in to your eyes and utters the words: Mummy, I haven’t done my homework…and with that, your whole world momentarily collapses. In an instant, you turn from calm and happy mummy, into some kind of demented freak, who is now rummaging around in a book bag in the dark, frantically pulling out crumpled spelling sheets, party invites from three months ago and then, yes there it is: the homework. Within seconds you have dragged your bewildered child out of bed and you have her scribbling a picture of a tree on a bit of paper, while you run outside searching for a leaf to sellotape on. And you do it because this will better her chances of success. This homework is essential for her to pass the 11+. Without that picture of a fucking tree, she will not succeed in life!

So now, to add to the parents’ woe, Ofsted have praised an initiative that grades parents from A to D on the support they give their children. You know that time your kid wasn’t in the school play, so you gave it a body swerve? That will get you a D. Turn up at parent’s evenings and you’ll earn yourself an applaudable A, but fail to get to the after school football match and you could slide down to a C. If you are not deemed to be pulling your weight, perhaps you didn’t bake a cake for the last school fair, you may even be called into the head teacher’s office.

Oh yes, a round of applause for the parents who have the most time! Bravo you A stars, go to the top of the class. Meanwhile, others will just hover around a D for the entire year because they work full time and may have lots of kids. Go on – make them feel even more shit about their parenting skills, because lord knows, I’ll bet they really don’t already feel crap enough. I used to feel like an A grader when I managed to get 4 packed lunches ready and the kids out to school with their shoes on – I gave myself bonus points for coats. Now parents may be measured on a school’s criteria.

Most parents don’t have the time or the mental energy for this! Can’t they see that we are all trying our best? “You must try harder, Mrs Longhurst”. Holy crap, I’m not sure I can. I can’t possibly compete with the PTA A listers. I’ve reached capacity and if you push me any further I’m going to have to rebel. What then? Detention? Prepare to explain yourself to the head.

So what is the point? As parents we do our best. We may need some encouragement and the occasional nudge, but we are not kids. We have done our time at being marked at school and I only need one voice telling me every day that, “I must try harder” and that’s my own.

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Who says girls can’t fight?

I’d always admired her breasts. Perhaps there was even a little envy. So well rounded and so early – years before mine had woken up. I loved the way they sat in her shiny Marks and Spencer’s bra. I don’t think that I stared and I was conscious that I mustn’t. Yet, I wanted to. I wanted to indulge a little in my awe of them. There was certainly no sexual intent in this. It was pure admiration for something that I didn’t yet have. Something that I knew that I was going to get and I hoped that when I did, they would look just like hers. It was the only real thing that separated us. When we left the swimming pool and squeezed into a changing room together, we were different. Until those gorgeous breasts were packaged up and a t-shirt was pulled over them and a hoodie and then we were the same again – giggling, getting up to mischief, building dens.

Then I heard that she had found a lump. It was Cancer and suddenly we were different once again. We are different, but other friends are now the same. Everyone knows someone. Those two beauties had been invaded by the beast. Now the fairy tale ending is getting the all clear. Being left with a feeling that you are now one of the lucky ones. Lucky? Can’t definitions be strange? The grueling rounds of treatment that sap you into a void, yet they make you feel so lucky for everything you have.

I know she will be lucky. She’s stubborn and strong and that’s a winning combination. Now, I can only hope that we’ll never be the same, but that she will be lucky.

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Burn, Santa Baby, burn

Many of you reading this will have young children. You may well be shitting yourself as we speak, because it’s nearly midnight and you’re yet to think of what the Elf on the fucking shelf can get up to in the night. Because the pressure is most certainly on to make Christmas for your little ones as magical and memorable as you remember yours were. Because of this and only because of this, you will happily be woken up at 6am tomorrow, iPhone at the ready, to record your little ones discovering that the naughty elf has emptied out the sugar and in it are drawn the words: ‘I’m bloody knackerd, ok? This is all I could manage.’ Not one for the boast feed on Facebook or the Instagram photo perhaps. Don’t worry though, there are 17 more days to make up for it (gulp).

When my kids were younger, I too can remember thinking to myself: make the most of this really mind-blowingly, hyped-up excitement, because when they are teenagers, they won’t give a shit. They will have long discovered that Father Christmas isn’t real, they’ll want a lie-in on Christmas morning and won’t have any money to buy Christmas presents, because they will have spent it all on make-up brushes.

Well you know what? I couldn’t have been more wrong.

My teens are rocking Christmas! My god, they’ve been rocking it since October. Packages from China have been coming thick and fast! They have been excitedly showing me what they have bought each other and almost giving it away. Presents have already been wrapped and hidden in drawers under beds. Christmas music has been downloaded onto their phones and Christmas songs are hummed at breakfast. Last night, daughter 3 harangued me to put up the Christmas decorations, until I was beaten into submission by her pleading. We now have two trees, tinsel everywhere and even a star hanging from the front door. Christ these teens know how to start a Christmas party!

So for those of you with little ones, who may be concerned that you have limited time to make your children’s Christmas special, I have one word of advice: don’t burn yourself out, because trust me, you have many, many years of this ahead.

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Sexual control

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As mum to 4 girls, I worry about sex. I don’t actually worry about them having it, because they will at some point and I’ve got to get over that one. My worry is whether they will feel in control. I have more than one reason to feel worried, but for now let’s focus on the fact that nearly three quarters of girls in their late teens said that they heard names such as, ‘slut’, ‘bitch’ and ‘slag’ used several times a week. Boys call it banter, I call it harassment. I call it undermining females and taking away their control.

Kids are accessing porn younger and younger. Kids own mobile phones younger and younger. My step daughter didn’t have a smart phone until she was 17. My 12 year old had one at 11. With the best will in the world, parents can’t always be the internet police. Primary age children are being exposed to violent and graphic pornographic images and common sense tells us that many of them will normalise what they see, in order to try to understand it. The porn industry’s core target is boys aged 12-17. As author Mark Kastlemann said, “Giving porn to a teenage boy is like giving crack to a baby. Addiction is almost guaranteed.”

Schools are a hot bed of risk for our girls and so they must share the responsibility of sex education. Yet calls to make sex education compulsory for all children have been rejected by ministers. This is despite a group of MP’s finding that almost a third of girls aged 16-18 said they had been groped at school. I’m sorry? You what? The inquiry was also told that it was common place for girls to be slapped on their bums and for naked pictures of girls to be circulated among boys. So you see, I really am worried about control.

We can bring our girls up to be savvy and confident females in many areas of their lives, but the world of sex is different. Talking about it openly brings awkwardness and shut down, making exploring the issues surrounding it a whole lot trickier. Their sexual experiences are hidden so far away from us parents, that getting an understanding of their views on it is virtually impossible. “Don’t ever send tit pics” I lamely told my eldest daughters. They both looked at me as if I was a freak. The disdain in their faces made me feel uncomfortable, when I thought it would be the other way around. I am parenting in the dark here and I would appreciate a bit of help from teachers who have an element of detachment. People who can give out the facts to kids who can’t walk away with eyeballs rolling towards the ceiling. Kids who must listen, even if they think that they know it all. My daughters may not want to sit and chat to me about sending naked images of themselves online and the implications of it, but they may feel grateful if it came up in an organised discussion at school.

Yes, I really do feel a bit helpless here. “Ok girls, when you end up having sex with someone, make sure you are in control. Make sure you want it. Make sure you are happy to do what they are asking you to do…erm” Oh Christ, this isn’t going to happen. They’ll have switched off at the first bit. They’ll have run for the hills by the second. Yet this is an area of their life that could completely undermine the confidence that we have spent all these years building up. One photo, one misunderstood,’no’. A life long impact.

I need help. Society needs help. Our kids need sex education in school.

 

 

 

A word that roars

Number 1 friend and I were chatting about some bollocks or other, as is our way and during the course of the bollocks I happened to say: I’m not a feminist. “You what!” she exclaimed. “I’d say you are definitely a feminist!” So that was that.

Except it wasn’t, because of course, it got me thinking. I’ve known my friend for years. She’s that friend that has so much shit on you that you can never, ever fall out. Yet here we were disagreeing on a word. Evidently ‘feminist’ means something slightly different to the two of us. Well, make that three, because a few days later my number 1 New Zealand friend piped up on a Facebook feed in response to me mentioning that word again. ‘Pardon me for jumping in on your conversation, but do you not think you’re a feminist Al?’ Oh crikey, I thought. I really do need to give this one some thought. This basically means talking to partner about it – usually on a dog walk. 

‘So, do you think I’m a feminist?’ I asked him. He thought I was. ‘But I hate that word’, I grumbled. ‘And besides, men often say they are feminists and it just sounds wrong.’

I was clearly struggling with this one. ‘We need a new word,’ I told him. ‘One that can be used by men and women, that doesn’t, as my friend number 1 New Zealand friend said, carry: ‘connotations of being bra burning, staunch, anti-men..when in fact a feminist can just be pro-women.’ She has a PhD in Linguistics, so I decided that she was the person for the job.

A little while later she messaged me: At the moment all my ideas sound like feminine hygiene products

This is my problem too. So now I am looking to a new word: empowerment. Because, you see, I know that I want my daughters to be empowered and I wrote about it in my post: Lionize the nice girl. I want them to have a voice and I know that it’s going to need to be the size of a lion’s roar to get heard. But we mustn’t forget the boys. They need to be empowered too: partly to keep up with the girls and partly because they too are not always equal to others. Take the recent news stories about the sexual abuse suffered by young football players at the mercy of their coach. Where was their voice? Where is the voice of the boy who is being bullied for being different? Where is the voice of the boy who thinks he may be gay? We need to make sure that all our children have a voice.

So, if I am not happy about referring to myself as a feminist, while men are quite happy to call themselves one. If being a feminist is actually as simple as equality for both sexes and if equality for all means ensuring that our kids are empowered, then we definitely need to come up with something more inclusive and encompassing. A word that excludes bigots, racists and homophobes. A word that eschews misogyny and bullies. We need a word that roars.

When we find this word, it will marked as a new turn in history. It will be known as the time when we realised that actually, things work a lot better when there is equality and that the world is a more equal place when everyone has a voice. When we find this word, I will use it.

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Time on our side

It was just daughter 1 and I for a couple of hours tonight. I cooked a special meal for her and I really enjoyed doing it. I wanted to do it. I kept an eagle eye on the time so that it was ready for her when she walked in the door. She asked about my day and I told her some of the little details that I wouldn’t normally bother with in a busy house, because they would get drowned out. In a busy house I lower my expectations of what I can achieve, yet I raise my expectations of my girls. I snatch at conversation and so it feels as if I snatch at parenting them too. I bark my expectations to them and struggle to find the time to listen to and explore their responses and explanations. In the quiet and calmness of the house tonight, I had the mental energy to let my guard down, in the knowledge that if it backfired I had the time to rectify it. In a busy house I cannot take that risk. There is no time for risks. As parents we must follow the parental code, laid down by…by who? Dictated by how we were raised, by the media, by how books tell us to do it? Tonight, with time and space, I felt free from these societal restrictions and I just relaxed and chatted. It was calmly liberating. Nothing earth shattering – it just felt so different from how I normally am.

It got me thinking about how as parents, we are so constrained by so many factors, all of which are setting our expectations of parenting. Our gut feeling gets lost amidst the Facebook feed and the Pinterest. We talk to our friends and other mothers at the school gate about how to manage a situation, but by then the moment has often passed. Save that thought for the next time it happens, we think. But the next time it happens we are fraught with anger and anxiety and a lack of time.

A lack of time. None of us have time. Teenagers don’t have time to listen to parents anyway, because we will be upstaged by the next Snapchat notification that must be responded to for fear of rejection from the people who really seem to matter to them right now – their friends. We must accept this and in the hustle and bustle of our busy lives it is quite easy to let it go, albeit with a moan, but we accept.

We accept, we moan, we listen, but all in a very busy way. All within the context of a very busy life. So tonight was a treat. For the time it took my daughter to eat the meal that I had lovingly prepared, we were able to chat without fear of jealousy or interruption from siblings. Without fear of saying the wrong thing, of parenting the wrong way. We had time on our side and it has made me realise that if, as parents we always had time on our side, we might all be a little different.

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Autumn spoils

I have just spent an hour clearing up a whole load of mess that didn’t even belong to me. It was fly tipped on to my property, with no regard for my personal space. There are no reprimands to be given, no fines to be doled out, because the culprit is Autumn.

Autumn came late. We were ready for her, but she took her time. Then she arrived in all her glory, like a starlet arriving late to a party, in the most exquisite dress you have ever seen. A mixture of crimson and green, woven together with a golden thread. She brought a chill that doesn’t freeze you – it just wakes you up a little after the dozy warmth of Summer and makes your senses feel alive. Dusty cobwebs were brushed off trusted wellie boots and you discovered that none of them any longer fit.

The leaves fell on plants that were still flowering from Summer, but Autumn didn’t care and nor did we. We just admired the clash of colours that bright pink geranium petals made with oak and sycamore. We scoffed at the red and white cyclamen for sale in hanging baskets that were being touted as a winter treat. Winter? We laughed that two season’s flowers are company, but three would be a crowd.

We didn’t laugh for long, as Winter came. Snow up North? Even the newspapers couldn’t keep up with the chameleon that was the seasons. We scraped the ice from the car in clear view of the huge, pink and purple flowers of the clematis that adorned the trellis and shook our heads in disbelief. Nothing seemed to make sense this year: the garden was merely reflecting political uncertainties. We jumped in the chilly car and carried on.

As I picked up the rubbish that Autumn has left behind this morning, I thought about how things do just carry on. Eventually, time took the edge off the beauty of Autumn. It’s left me with a garden full of leaves, when I don’t even have trees of my own. I want to tidy up before the icy grip of Winter takes hold, but I am looking at Summer flowers and I’m not sure if I can cut them down. Confusion in both the garden and the globe. What is going to happen in our children’s future, if there is so much confusion now? How much time and effort should we be putting in to worry?

I pick the rake back up and carry on. Dead leaves, mixed with empty crisp packets and some wrappers that the wind has thrown in. I tie the spoils of Autumn up in a large, black sack and I leave the flowers of Summer, wondering how long they can last.

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The Voice of Experience Talks Bringing Up Teens

Quite often I see threads on my local mums’ Facebook page about how to discipline a teenager. I read these threads that are detailing the issues they are having and I nod along going: yup, yup, yup, like some kind of nodding dog. They are usually asking for advice, which although I don’t always jump in and give as I don’t necessarily feel equipped to, I do find myself questioning what I do, or how I think I would react.

With each teenager, I am experiencing new things and coming up against new issues. The issues that existed with my step daughter are now different for my daughters and so on. Life changes and evolves in all sorts of ways and as parents, we must be prepared to move with it.

With this in mind, I thought I would write another post in my: Voice of Experience series. Not because I feel that I have all the answers to teenage/parent angst, but because I have picked up a few things that have worked and are working for me on my journey.

The Voice of Experience Talks Bringing Up Teens

Sometimes against every gut feeling in your body, show them and tell them that you trust them. If someone feels they aren’t trusted, they are more inclined to stray. It builds up a huge amount of resentment. Trust is an essential part of any relationship and it is certainly important with teens.

Equally, make them aware of your expectations surrounding this trust. This gives them boundaries to push against, and therefore the security that you care and that what they do matters to you. 

Communicate with them. Try to get them out of the house and on neutral ground. A walk is perfect, whether it’s a dog walk, a walk around town, even a trip to the supermarket. Stepping into their bedroom with the words: ‘we need to talk’, is guaranteed to switch them off.

Don’t be afraid to thrash things out. You cannot avoid confrontation for an easier life. If you haven’t got the energy to deal with it, put it on hold until you have. Sometimes it’s good to let the dust settle. 

Don’t set unrealistic rules and be prepared to be flexible. Don’t see this as backing down. Often if you listen to your teen they are making valid points about something that you may have previously dismissed. Not listening to their point of view will push them away and closer to their friends who will always agree with them. 

Try to keep them close. You will feel that you are losing them, but you are not. Don’t smother them, let them go and ironically this will keep them closer to you. As they start to seek independence, to spend more time in their rooms and less time on family activities, don’t panic – this is normal. At about the age of 15, they will probably stop bothering to come downstairs to say goodnight. Don’t hold it against them, it’s nothing serious.

Don’t use cutting off their lifelines as punishments: their friends, their phones, social media. They quite literally are their lifelines. By doing this you are simply making them feel even more isolated and less likely to cooperate. If they see that you are listening to them and trying to understand, then they are far more likely to play ball. 

Acceptance is so important. Accept that they are going to push against you. Accept that they are going to break some rules. Pick your battles. It is not a reflection on your inability to parent, it is a sign that they are growing up.

Embrace their noise! Be happy that they have a voice. Teach them how to argue effectively and to put their point of view across.

Throw comments into conversations. Snatched moments are all you may get with a teenager, so use them in a way that you haven’t perhaps before. Don’t see it as futile and worry that you’re not getting time with your teen to get a message across. If you sit down at a table and talk to them for 10 minutes, they will only be listening to a tiny part of the conversation anyway and will actually remember even less of it. Think back to those throwaway comments people have said to you in the past that you remember. Sound bites have a place – be a parent politician.

Please add your thoughts in the comments box. Let’s share the challenges and celebrate the successes!

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Grab what you know by the balls

Is it just me, or are people getting excited about Christmas earlier this year? Yesterday a friend posted a photo on Instagram of Christmas decorations adorning a window, with the words: sorry, not sorry. Today another friend has posted a video of her decorating her tree. It’s November! And not even the end of the month.

I have a theory on this. The world is in a very strange place. Life carries on: the kids have to get to school, we have to get to work and the dust still settles. However, underlying all of this is the knowledge that Brexit is probably/possibly going to fuck up our finances and Trump is going to probably/possibly fuck up everything. Alongside both these matters, you’ve got the constant niggle of Europe becoming frighteningly right wing and the worry that you won’t get your hands on a Hatchimal. In fact, so worried are people about this, a family organisation has issued a letter from Santa that parents can show their kids, telling them that: ‘due to the current climate within the North Pole it has been decided that Hatchimals will no longer be given out as presents.’

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So, my theory is that with all this terrible uncertainly bubbling under our everyday lives, we have to grab what we know to be real by the baubles and thrash the life out of it. Christmas is the one thing that is certain right now: we know the dates, we know where the decorations are, basically we know the routine. Even the stresses are reliably inevitable. Choosing presents gives us a clear focus. People are even getting a buzz from: the Elf on the Shelf. I had to Google it – only to find out that they’ve been around since 2005. I have clearly had my head shoved right up my own arse, because I had absolutely no idea what it was until yesterday, via a Facebook post asking whether anyone else finds them creepy. Creepy? We’re living in a world with Donald Trump’s face plastered all over the place. Trust me, that elf on a shelf looks like a choir boy.

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My theory also extends to explaining why Ed Balls is still on Strictly, when he is so clearly shit. Not even funny shit, just shit. He’s a known. Completely harmless dressed as a Grinch, there is no way this one is going to steal Christmas.

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In times of uncertainty, we need to grab what’s real by the balls. We need to get out our Christmas decorations early and focus on certainties: friends, family and Christmas spirit.

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