Eagles and shears

Last week, I was lucky enough to attend my best friend's wedding in Spain and was honoured to do a reading during the ceremony.  When I was first asked to do a reading, my instinct was to say no.  But one thing I've learnt is that when your instinct is no, that's when you should say yes.  So stood there on the day with a microphone in my hand and a 101 expectant eyes upon me (there was a strange local at the back) my hand began to shake and I broke out into a sweat.  It wasn't pretty, but I did it.  And afterwards I felt proud of myself.  

So where does this silly story fit in with modern parenting?  Well, the point is that I'm a risk-taker.  I was raised with little regard to street cred or decency.  I wore my brother's hand-me down corduroy trousers.  My mum used a basin to cut my hair - still does when I can't get an appointment at the salon.  In fact, no word of a lie - when my fringe grew too long in my teenage years, my dad cut my hair with a pair of garden shears.  I was taught to swim by being thrown headfirst into the icy Atlantic by my father somewhere just off the coast of the Isles of Scilly.  If only 6 miles of dense seaweed could talk.  

If using the shears makes your child's fringe look wonky, a tastefully sequinned
hat will draw the  eye away from the problem area

But perversely, these days I silently (can't quite bring myself to say it out loud) thank my dad.  Because not being treated like a princess is the best thing you can do for your daughters (and your sons, come to think of it.)

If we wrap our children up and smother them, they will grow up to be the sort of people who say no.  Now, I know we were taught by Grange Hill to just say no, but not everything is about drugs, you sordid lot.  The point is that we want to raise a generation of 'yes'-ers: people who rise to the occasion, take risks, seize the day. 

Therefore this week at the Cushy Parent, I'm advising the following: 

 1) kid can't swim?  Save money on expensive one-to-one lessons at the local spa - chuck them in the sea, preferably on a cold day.  If they don't have a stroke or seize up with cramp, they may have a crack at being an Olympic athlete in the future so bear that in mind.

2) Kid moaning about their hair?  Tell them they're lucky that their dad isn't a gardener.  And that you don't own any bowls.

So that's it from me.  Next week we'll be taking this issue a little further by exploring the intriguing subject of Daughter Protection.  Or in other words: how to dress your daughter head to toe in pink and guard her at the local park as though she is pink fluff that will blow away when the wind turns.

Until then, take care - not in a clingy overprotective way though.  And just say yes.


Cath Weeks is author of The Mood Ring.

Skammy fout flah pooff

Welcome back to the Cushy Parent!  Hoorah!  After a summer of lying around in the vapid 'sun', the kids are back at school and from the moment I entered the playground my fingers began to itch with the desire to write about what I find there.  Boy do we have a lot to catch up on!

Author's note: Some people may believe that I think I'm God, judging people in this way.  But there are lots of silly parents around and I simply have to tell you about them.  Don't shoot the messenger.

So talking of silly parents, my brother and I went to London on the weekend.  We do this annually not because we don't have any friends, but because we like to spend time together.  (At least, I hope that's what it is.  Come to think of it, my brother was wearing a rather odd anorak.)  The reason for this sibling affection is that we grew up in the Seventies in a small backwater called Midsomer Norton (I wasn't really born in Stratford-upon-Avon next to Shakespeare's cottage, as I claimed on my author's bio).  We were kept in the dark in the spare room, whilst my mum decorated the house.  She liked to keep everything nice.  We didn't see anyone but each other for twenty-two years, at which point my brother realised that his legs had grown too long for the box room, so he moved out.  

During our confinement, my brother and I developed a unique mini culture with our own language, a fictitious cast of friends, and an elaborate system of banging on pipes to each other when we had been separated into different rooms.  One bang meant shut the hell up it's your fault that I pushed you through the window into the blizzard and Dad had to board the glass up with the snow driving into his beard.  And two bangs meant get lost you fat head, because of you I'm missing Hong Kong Phooey.  Or in our private language: skammy fout flah pooff.  

So how does this relate to our modern playground?  It doesn't.  On the first day of school, parents and children exchanged frenzied hugs and kisses, raving about all the amazing play dates their children had enjoyed over the holidays, whilst my son stood there alone (in his anorak) wondering why no one was talking to him. 

The shock of the matter is that I didn't arrange a single play date with his school friends over the summer.  Not one.  If my son had asked me, I would have obliged.  But he didn't mention it.  He wanted to just hang out with his younger brother.  And because it's now the noughties and not the seventies, I let them out of the spare room on Saturdays.

Christ, you let them out of the box room for how long?  What were you thinking?

Does this mean that my son is going to be a serial killer because he isn't networking his way through junior school?  Is he going to be a weirdo because I'm not engineering his friendships for him and sticking my oar in?  Is he going to be an anorak-wearing loner that goes to London once a year with his brother for the rest of his life?

Hope so.

See you soon!
Cath


Cath has written a great book called The Mood Ring.
Check it out Amazon and then you can read it and ignore your kids.

The Eeyore Aura

Welcome back to the Cushy Parent.   This week I said I'd talk to you a little bit about magic.  Magic is a trick that you can miss if you're not careful.

Recently, I helped out on a school excursion around town.  On our way back, we passed the River Avon.  Large white frothy deposits were floating in the water.  "What are those?" asked Lily, one of the six-year-olds in my charge.  "See those trees up on the hill?" I replied.   "Giants live there.  When they get bored, they throw clouds down into the water."  Lily froze in horror - not at the prospect of the giants but that I had told such an outrageous lie.  "Don't you believe in giants?" I asked.  "Nope," Lily said.  "Goblins?"  "Nope."  "Angels?"  "Nope."  "Witches?"  "Nope."  "Fairies?"  "Yes," she said.  Ah.  "But that's the only thing," she added hurriedly. (So those over-priced fairy costumes and parties have paid off).

I was rather quiet as I digested this alarming information.   Others joined in our conversation.  Lily wasn't the only six-year-old who didn't believe in magic; she was firmly in the majority.  As we halted at the school gates, I said, "Next you'll be telling me you don't believe in Father Christmas."  There was a silence as the little group that had amassed around me thought about my question.  "Well," said one of the boys, who possesses what I can only describe as an Eeyore Aura, "my brother didn't believe in him for ages but then he met him so he said he must be true."

"Now listen up," I said, "if you don't believe in the giants they will come down from the hills and stomp all over the school."

"So?" said Lily.

Now this is what I call the Eeyore Aura.  Our children today are living under a cloud of gloomy reality.  They don't believe in things unless they see them - because they see absolutely everything.  There is no awe any more.  They know all the sad workings of life and the mundane details of family life.  Their parents talk to them as equals, forgetting that this little mind next to them would rather think about whether centipedes really do wear tiny boots.  Instead they hear about how stressed their mums are, how they need to pick up Alfie from tennis club later, get their contraceptive pill from the clinic, meet Janine for a skinny latte at 2pm and feed the chickens their new diet to make them produce more eggs with creamy porous shells.  There is too much detail.  Not enough abstract.

My mum's inside talking to Auntie Marge
about having a coil fitted.

Children are born to be abstract.  My son once wrote me a letter.  It simply said: Dear Mummy, I love you.  Did you know that hummingbirds can change colour in light.

Why don't we drop the details and bring back the awe into our children's lives.  We want more awe, not the Eeyore aura.  (It's rather cumbersome catch phrase, I'll admit).

Next time at the Cushy Parent: how to have a marvellous summer holiday with the children.  Waiting for the pun?  Thought I was being sarcastic?  Tsush.

The Case of the Incredible Growing Jumper

Welcome back.  This week I promised you a peek at the lost property cupboard.  I know you don't want to deal with it, but it does need addressing.  At this time of year, with all those end of term sports days and school shows, it's easy to lose your child's clothes and become muddled.  My advice is: put their name inside their garments.

The lost property cupboard is one thing that hasn't changed since our own school days.  It is always in a dimly lit area and everything in it is smelly and limp. Even the most colourful clothes take on a sea-sick pallor once they fall into the hopeless pit of Lost Property.  L.P. tends to be located somewhere unpleasant: outside the visitor's toilet or in the sick bay, or matron's room where headlice needles and ointments are kept.

At any given point at infant school, you will hear the cries of some poor child being dragged off to the L.P.  Their fate is sealed.  Punching and kicking, their soiled pants are going to be replaced with school pants: grey, baggy, elastic hanging out, last worn by a troll - the utter humiliation.  It's worse when you know who wore them yesterday.

In order to spare your child this agony, it's absolutely essential that you send them off to school dehydrated.   It doesn't matter if their lips are chapped.  They'll understand once you explain.

The effect of the school pants is instantly alienating.

Despite my efforts to label my children's clothes, my son recently came home with a very tight jumper on.  The next day, I scanned the playground.  It didn't take me long to find what I was looking for.  There, sat inside one of the wooden play huts on his own, was a little boy in the reception class, staring at his jumper sleeves.  The sleeves were astonishingly long.  He flopped them about, transfixed, marvelling at his secret.  Look at that.  Wow.   How did that happen? My sleeves have grown overnight.  They have grown, they have actually grown!

I explained the mishap to the little boy's mum, who was very nice and hadn't noticed that her son had someone else's jumper on.  Then she frowned at him and said, "Hmm, your arms do seem very long today, Harry..."  I'm not sure that she had been listening to me.

The point is - if you thought that magic didn't lurk in lost property, you were wrong.  Magic is everywhere - even in jumper mix-ups.  

Next time we will look in more detail at how to bring the magic back into your children's lives - without having the emergency services on standby.

Cath Weeks is author of The Mood Ring.

Front seat Archie

Welcome back to the Cushy Parent.  On the eve of the Wimbledon final, we're going to take a quick look at sport psychology.

We all remember our Inspirational Fathers of the Seventies, who stood legs straddled on the sideline, a pipe in one hand and a fist in the other.  On the pitch, their offspring shivered in the drizzle, their miserable faces specked with dirt, their knees bloody from the winter pitch. Leave me alone, the kids thought.  I'd rather be at home watching Fingerbobs, even if the mouse is a grey paper cone and the seagull a white ping-pong ball.  "Come on you stupid tossers!" the fathers shouted.  "Pass the frigging ball, you morons!  What are you - a bunch of frigging girls?" Girls? No. Absolutely not.  Although my sister is back home at the moment in the warm watching Fingerbobs...

In the old days Dads wore tight shorts pulled up rather high

Back in the glory days of swearing and sexism, the Pushy Parent ruled the sporting world. It's no surprise that they still rule, but it's all much cleaner these days.  Today's Pushy Parent speaks a foreign dialogue.  I have had to go home and look up some of this stuff, you know. 

 
To help other cushy parents, I have put together a little glossary that might be of use:

Get pumped. Take your brother's bicycle pump, put it in your mouth - ensuring that there is a tight seal - and inflate your body until you are buoyant enough to bounce through the opposition.

Get psyched. Consult your horoscope. If it says Mars is going to clash with Uranus, it might be best to not stand near the chocolate machine in the sports hall lobby.

Front seat. I really don't know what this means. But the father at our local club shouts it a lot to his little boy.  Poor Archie isn't the nitty gritty tenacious sort.  He is a bit of an aimless child - happy playing his own imaginary game.  Whilst his father shouts "front seat Archie" he also does a funny signal to Archie with his hands.  I've yet to be able to interpret the symbolism, but I think it might be something do with aircraft marshalling.  Because as the dad shouts "front seat" with increasing exacerbation, so Archie whizzes around the pitch with his arms outstretched, his mouth simulating the rumble of an aeroplane, his face full of daydream bliss.

Archie isn't going to play for England.  He probably isn't even going to take a front seat.

Whatever that means.

Next time: how to make sure that your child's school wear is properly labelled, so that you never have to endure the smelly lost property box again.

Cath Weeks is author of The Mood Ring.

Teenage kicks

Hello again. This week you will find me in the most upbeat of moods, due to a remarkable turning of tables. A U.S. report has just concluded that we should be actively seeking rows with our teenage offspring. Hooray and double hooray.

It's always amusing when a child misbehaves in public and the pushy parent responds by hissing reprimands or biting their tongue (their own tongue, not the child’s, silly) – anything rather than shout. This is because any pushy parent worth her weight in Mars bars knows that you should adopt a calm tone with your child at all times. Even when they are about to get run over.

The anti-anger clause means that many mums nowadays display symptoms of suppressed aggression. This accounts for their erratic driving and fetish for sports gear. Presumably these mums go straight to the gym after school drop off and kick the nearest punch bag. I can’t think of any other reason for wearing lycra that tight. Or any kind of gym wear really, aside from the fact that if worn correctly – i.e. loosely – it can be easier to run to the toilet in after a keg of beer.

Back to the report. Scientists at the University of Virginia observed 13-year-olds arguing with their mums. 3 years later the teenagers who had displayed confidence and logic during their arguments were less likely to become drug addicts or alcoholics. Now, I’m not sure about this. Some of the finest literary minds to walk this earth were alcoholics and opium users. I don’t think that debating prowess and clever word play secures you a life free from addiction. I’m not sure about the logic bit either. “So this white stuff is going to make my nose fall off? Okay, I'll leave it."

The report also suggests that placid children are more likely to agree to take drugs than argumentative teenagers. This seems a bit of a no-brainer. Like saying that sadists become traffic wardens, lazy people become testers at Bedworld, and ginger people will one day shave all their hair off.

However, I'm not going to split hairs - not even ginger ones - because it is owing to this marvelous report that pushy parents everywhere will now be having humdingers with their teenagers to hone their debating skills. It will certainly make the school run more interesting.

Some mums have promoted violence at home to such an extent
that their teenagers have run off to join the army just to get some peace

So what to make of all this nonsense? Well, it seems to me that if pushy parents are going to start shouting, then us cushy parents should do...nothing. Yes, that’s right. Forget the report. Just carry on as usual. Blissfully unaware of reports and protocol.

Not an argument in the air for miles. Just the gentle sound of a cork popping.

Bliss.


Cath Weeks is author of The Mood Ring, available at Amazon.

Herbal brushing and circus mirrors

Welcome back.  Today we're looking at the new report, Reflections upon body image, which suggests that girls as young as 5 worry about how they look.  (Apparently boys don't give a hoot about it).  Whilst this is a serious subject and not to be scoffed at - pardon the pun -  we can simplify the issue by breaking it down into 3 separate areas.

1) Peer pressure.  A reporter interviewed a 104-year-old man.  "So what do you think is the best thing about being 104?"  "No peer pressure," he replied.  Quite the reverse is true for our 5-year-old, who has peer pressure cornering her in the playground.  Well, I can only say one thing: fat friends.  Many a grown woman has used this tactic to great effect.  If thin people start hanging round your child, ask in a loud voice 'who wants a doughnut?'  This scatters thinnies faster than throwing a stone at pigeons.  Author's note: I do not encourage throwing stones at pigeons.  Please do not try this at home.

It's a well known fact that having unattractive friends
makes children more psychologically balanced

2) The media.  Got trashy magazines lying around, full of air-brushed women?  Replace air-brushing with herbal-brushing - a new technique taking schools by storm.  Simply take a paintbrush, some paint and various herbal essences - I find organic is best.  Next, disfigure that gorgeous magazine model.  Give her big thighs, warts, a tash and some bogies.  The herbal essences are released as you paint, counteracting any feelings of hostility - thus creating a calm, therapeutic experience.  This is the sort of pastime you can enjoy with your children and on your own.  I find nothing more refreshing when the children are in bed than snuggling up with a glass of Claret, a magazine and a pot of rosemary paint.  You can also take this pastime outdoors to enjoy the fresh air - disfiguring billboards and posters.  Perfect.  

3) Your home.  This bit is common sense.  If you stand in front of the mirror, holding your stomach and sobbing why oh why oh why, your child will eventually pick up on this.  So always lock the door first and invest in some sound-proofing.

It's important to remain calm when discussing food and body images with your child.  If you find this impossible, then there is one more trick you can employ.  It's a little drastic, but it works like a charm.  Simply remove all the mirrors in your home and replace them with magic distorting ones.  (NB: make sure you check the order carefully before purchasing.  A friend of mine bought the wrong ones and her child kept screaming at night about her huge forehead and mile long shoes.)  You want the ones that make your child look wonderfully slim, if a little stretched.

So this brings me to the end of our look at body images.  I hope you have found this blog informative and that your child will feel proud of their body for the rest of their lives.  Until they have kids.  And then God Help Them.

Love,

Cath

Next time at the cushy parent: how to have a really great row with your teenager, without resorting to violence.


Cath Weeks is author of The Mood Ring