#9waystodiscipline

In order to teach your children discipline, I would suggest it would be wise to master it. This, of course, I did not achieve before having Troubles.

I had not the art of discipline in stopping eating when I was full, or stopping drinking when I was drunk, nor stopping smoking at all. No discipline in holding my tongue, keeping my opinions to myself, or sticking to all 8 of the business ventures I have tried to start.

So what hope do I have for disciplining children?

When my niece was little, and she was naughty, my sister would obviously discipline her. I would watch her little face crumble into such a sorrow scene it would make me ache. Now I can’t shout loud enough and I watch crest fallen faces every 3 seconds and I do not ache, I just get bored of hearing the sound of my own voice. Particularly when it ends in them laughing. At me.

So here are some foolproof ways to help every parent discipline their child-

1. Bark at them. Or hiss.

I know this one sounds strange.  But it works. In the middle of them whinging about wanting to put their brothers socks on because they are redder, just at the point you can see them slip into ‘end of the world’ hysterics, very loudly make a deep ‘Woof woof woof!’. The surprise alone will teach them that whingeing makes you mental. This is important. And very true. The other day my 2yo hissed at me. I now resort to this when he gets all up in my face. This just stops them in their tracks and teaches them nothing.

2. Put on a silly voice.

When my 4yo starts to get annoyed he bites his lower lip right before he strikes something or someone. Just when they are about to lose it, put on a high pitched  Australian accent and ask them, ‘what’s the problem mate?’ This works well when in company of others.

3. Sit yourself on the naughty step.

After you have given them a warning, make it very clear you are not messing. If they push the boundaries again, take yourself off and declare loudly you are on the naughty step and will not talk to anyone for as many minutes as is your age. This will give you around half an hour of peace. If they come to you to ask what you are doing, tell them to leave you alone as you are not to talk to anyone whilst on the naughty step. Eventually rejoin the family and apologise.

4. Take yourself off to bed.

Again, make the warning clear. Shout it if needed, but if they push you any further you will take yourself off to bed. And this teaches them that mummy sometimes needs to go to bed in the day. And voila!

5. Watch their Tablet/ Games etc

I get bored of removing my children’s tablets from them. They are my god send. So just threaten to peer over their shoulder breathing loudly down their neck. This teaches them you have a slight chest infection and are a little annoying if you need to be.

6. Remove all vegetables from their plates.

This is a slow burner and not for the light hearted. This will initially make them happy.  Then eventually they will get Constipated and they will see you mean business.

7. Remove their bed from their bedroom.

This too is not for the normal parent. Luckily toddler beds don’t weigh to much. Obviously if you have a normal bed don’t put your back out. But this totally fucks them up and makes them realise not to mess with you when they refuse to have a nap or go to bed. For hardened parents you can make them sleep on the floor for one night. For normal parents just get the bed when they start crying and say ‘Ta-dah!’

9. Stay at the park.

This one takes preparation. If they refuse to come home when asked or make a scene when you’ve had a nice day, dig your heels in and inform them you will all be staying at the park. Forever. Again initially they will think they have won, so you will need to bring headphones to listen to an ipod as they ask and eventually demand to go home. A suitable amount of time is when the sun has gone down as this will be abnormal and little scary.

An alternative way to discipline can be found on better mother blogs.

#oxymoron

Happy Mother. Calm child. Slow runner. QUIET BOYS.

There is no doubt in my mind that being a parent is being a moron. You act a moron, you become a moron and you talk in constant oxymorons.

To be a parent you have to act a moron on many occasions. I thought by acting dumb I would be building my son’s confidence, teaching him to teach me things I had taught him. Allow him to feel clever and show him even adults can learn. That has resulted in me on occassion exclaiming, ‘Really? Mercury is BEFORE Venus?!’ I look at my 4 yo and get met with rolled eyes and a tut. ‘You’re not very clever Mummy, are you? I told you this yesterday’. I sit dumbly. Kinda going against my ‘teach the boys women are just as good as men’ ethos. They’re going to grow up thinking I think the Alphabet is ABQPRCD. I do this so my 4yo can correct me and feel clever. Actually, I am just in my 4yo eyes, being a moron.

You become a moron. You do moronic things. Like lock yourself out of the house. Or put the milk in the microwave and the dishes in the fridge. Both achieved. You drive 35 minutes to a new Farm and get two restless children out of the car to realise you don’t have your wallet. Or buy £200 worth of shopping to pack it all into a trolley, with two restless children, and realise you don’t have your wallet. You drive to work and pull up and walk inside and think it’s a little odd no one is there and realise it isn’t a work day it’s a Saturday.  You wondered why husband was still in bed as you frantically drove off.

Or forget to put your bra on. And don’t even notice until bed time.

You talk in oxymoron. A mother tongue.

‘You’re clearly confused’ (husband when  he thinks we want to watch football).

‘Act naturally’ (to 4yo when he asks how he was meant to act at a party).

‘Deafening silence’ (what I dream about).

‘That’s the only choice you have’ (when picking 2yo’s wellies and telling him to put them on).

‘Stop being passive aggressive’ (to husband. To wife).

‘It’s only a short wait’ (talking to both children when waiting for anything).

‘This is my least favourite’ (when having to watch Ice Age 2 for the 7000th time).

Everything about being a parent is an oxymoron to me. Sleep like a baby. Run slowly. Happy family. But maybe they’re just contradictions. The truth is if we didn’t use oxymorons things would be pretty awful. Pretty plain speaking. Pretty too close to the bone. If my children knew that a ‘short wait’ meant anything from 2 minutes to 2 hours, they would play up so much more.

I know where I get my use of oxymorons from. The same place I get my hyberboles. My mother. (‘Good grief!’). And no doubt, my children will follow us.

When discussing anything with 4 yo where you say that he is wrong, he already responds with,’mm, it’s the same difference’. Mm. No actually it’s not. It’s not at all.

So be a moron. Act a moron. Talk in oxymorons. And the world will moron with you.

#nosympathy

Of course, a hangover at any time hurts. It’s hurts us in ways that makes our poor body ask our fuzzled mind numerous times why it let us go so far, and our mind responds with a resounding, ‘bleuuurrggghhhh’.

A hangover with kids is like torture. You know you chose to drink. You enjoyed it at the time. Whilst it made parenting better whilst you were drinking ( who doesn’t think their boss when they’re drinking), the reality is you will wake up with two animals with more gusto you know how to humanly contain, and they don’t let up.

Kids have no sympathy for the hungover parent. Most good parents have no sympathy for a hungover parent. If I felt every day or even every other weekend I was waking up with a hangover I would be concerned. Hell, if it happened 4 times a year that would be something. But when it happens without a plan, and you suddenly find yourself on your third pint and getting a taxi home from soft play with the children, alarm bells should go off.

When you’re stood trying to give them a wash down rather than a bath because that ever elusive time thing did what it does and suddenly it was an hour after they should of had a bath. They stand there looking at you like you’re filth, as you giggle because you used the toothpaste on the cloth and the shampoo on the toothbrush.

That was a hyperbolism.

Kids, like animals of prey, seem to know there is something weaker about you, something fragile. And luckily because they are so tired they fall asleep, straight away. But they are aware. They lurk in the dark. The spring out on you at 5am because, strangely enough, they don’t do late mornings.

They don’t do skipping breakfast. They don’t do quiet time. They don’t have patience for immobility and they certainly aren’t interested in a duvet day, unless it means building a den and climbing on and off you until you feel the need to puke (you are the mountain under the duvet. Duh).

I watch husband plod about the house in some distorted fragile lump. He grunts and moans and they think this is a great target for making more groans, pushing him, jumping on him. He seems to forget he got the lie in, the peace, and that I’ve been with these balls of energy of 3 hours and it’s only 7am. He seems to be unaware of the two children waiting in the wings waiting to pounce. I hear them giggle. I hear him groan. I smile.

They don’t understand headaches, they still want you to eat their last chocolate cheerio because that’s what you always do (even though just pouring milk om them made you gag). They still think you will play marble run without retching and they want you to play ‘fall over robot’ 8 times before you’ve flicked the kettle on.

The only good thing about hungover parents are the relaxed rules. Sure, let’s have tea in front of the TV tonight. OK, let’s stay at the park for two hours so I can hide my face in my coat and sleep. Alright, let’s not fight, you can watch TV a little longer.

So serves you right. It was totally worth it. It was good fun. It felt good to release. But pick yourself up. Puke and swallow it down so you don’t scare them. Next time remove the children to grandparents. Be a parent. Be present. Even if your stomach flips and your eyes open no wider arseholes.

Coz you’ve got another 10 hours before peace will descend. And like Parenthood,  you brought this on yourself.

#ballsoffury

For many reasons, least of all the title of this post looks more like ‘balls off ury,’ I find myself hiding in the loo, or the garden, or any room when they start to fight.

I was told having boys that it was quite a natural occurrence for them to fight. For fun. And that I shouldn’t get involved. And I suspect when they are 15 and 17 and towering over me I probably will hide at my neighbours and absolutely not get involved.

 

But with a two year old and four year old it’s hard to not step in, or take sides (always stick up for the under dog, which you think would be the youngest but rarely). It’s hard to not use my ‘parent’ boom, to haul them off each other, explain once again they need to look after each other. To be gentle.

Boys are not gentle. These boys are not gentle. When they stroke my cheek they catch my hair and pull it. When they kiss me they also pull my nose. When they cuddle me they actually just strangle me and I pretend it’s a warm embrace.

I have tried to teach them gentleness. I try to be gentle with them. But more often than not, and I don’t know why, if they are gentle I always revert to holding on too long and then tickling them, which then resorts to rough and tumble.

And obviously being so young they don’t know that rough and tumble is fine in the confines of our home, but maybe at nursery little Jemima doesn’t know about the move ‘elbow jab’ or little Leo doesn’t like the tactical step of ‘pretend your going for the belly and up the nose poke’. All moves they have invented themselves. My husbands favourite move is to turn them upside down in the air until they whimper. My winning move is to lay as still as possible and after being jumped on a few times they lose interest.

So you can see why they’re rough.

My youngest is pulled up daily at nursery. He has glue ear so he can’t hear and has moderate hearing impairment so when someone does come up to him, even if you think you’re being loud, he generally only finds out once you’re on top of him and he moves his elbow so adeptly to chin you, it’s quite flooring.

I use to worry about 4yo. He once too couldn’t be taken to playgroups he was so rough. I hid in my house for almost two weeks straight I was so appalled at how rough he could be with strangers children. But now I know he was just figuring out his status in the world. He’s actually a highly sensitive and highly Overstimulated child. I have learned in 4 years after so much activity he needs some along time to deflate, to digest. Otherwise he gets a bit thumpy.

I don’t want them to hurt others. But at the same time as hauling them down from the top floor of soft play whilst I hear them making another child cry, sometimes I find an awful pride in it. So you can see where I go wrong.

One day my 4yo was being picked on by two 6 yos at the park. They were laughing at him and finding him funny. He was oblivious and thought it was great fun to run after them. 2yo cottoned on quickly and squared up to one and thumped him on the chin. They left them both alone after that. I felt awful 2yo had done that to another human being. Awful he felt he had too, at 2. Awful I hadn’t stepped in earlier. And sort to proud he could hold his own.

On another occasion we were with friends and their little 2yo was being stalked by a 3yo. I assumed they were friends but little 2yo gal couldn’t get away. Eventually the Thug  Brothers got involved. They ganged up on 3yo and made sure he stayed away. It was sort of cute. And sort of worrying. That time a separate parent came up and told me they weren’t being nice. And whilst I agreed whole heartedly with the adult, I had already removed them from soft play and put them on time out. They were being punished. For some irrational reason the Lionness in me still wanted to scratch the parents eyes out.

Mmm.

I clearly have patience issues. Anger issues. Irritation issues. My family talk about our behaviour often. I can’t expect them to be flexible, gentle or accommodating like their father when they spend most of their childhood around me. Inpatient. Grumpy.  Short tempered. Shouty.

When you become a mother you also become a referee.  And it’s actually quite hard. Yes he hit You and he shouldn’t. But no you can’t kick him back. Yes he’s younger than you so you can’t lay on him. I know he hits harder than an 8 year old. But no you can’t trip him up and expect no consequence.

It’s all so hard. So I’ve found comfort in hiding in the loo. Or the garden. I watch and make sure death won’t occur. Sometimes I step in if it gets too rough to watch. But sometimes when I do intervene I get shouted at for ruining their fun.

They do this weird little movement.  They call it rough and tumble and they generally do it in the bath. They kick and splash and hit water, and then pause like I’ve literally pressed a pause button. Then they start again.  It’s so weird and so fantastic to see they’ve come up with something without me, without conversation. And they both enjoy it.

Kids are weird.

So these little balls of fury, or balls off ury, go through life trying to contain the natural play and fight within them to conform to our ideals these days of soft play. I don’t want beasts of teenagers. I don’t want bullies. But I do want kids who can stand up for themselves. All of us have been there, childhood is horrendous, a torturous age where you learn your status in the world. It’s quite hard as a parent to provide the tools in which they can be confident, proud, brave but not too tough.

I shall take the leave of my own parents and just try to make them feel loved, no matter who or what they are. And that may just be enough.

 

#WhyIwontletthemwin

The other day I was playing a game with my son. His favourite. I knew that part of the pleasure he got out of playing the game was ultimately that he would win. I had done this for a few years now, I knew the outcome should I dare pass his peice on the board. I knew mainly the rest of the day would have been filled with sorrow only a 4 yo can  bear. The end of the world.

But this time I decided a little harshness was needed. His cockiness was a little peturbing and a little bit irritating. I decided I would win this game, so he could learn what it felt like to lose.

Obviously he has lost games before. Sometime he takes it in his stride. Sometimes he bellows and balls like you’ve thumped him in the throat.

When he was a toddler, I read an article that read sometimes you should let your toddler win. Sometimes you should allow them in a rough and tumble to push you over, even in pretend, to boost their confidence and build their pride.

So I did this. I do this now. I do it often for my 2yo as his sheer delight is worth a watch when he thinks he has crippled you on the floor. It clearly works. Sometimes 2yo is so full of confidence he is happy to square up 13 year olds. We may have to look at that when ‘he’s only two!’ No longer works.

And so we go through life winning most things. Not just winning, but getting their own way. I learnt early on with two to pick my battles. If they want a raspberry roll at 9am is that as bad as listening to two children scream for two hours until you finally cave and give them lunch at 11am consisting solely of raspberry rolls?

But the other day we had an experience where we watched a couple struggle with their toddler. Their toddler had the best tantrum and the parents cowtowed. Worried they would upset him further? Worried they looked awful if they forced their will on him? It was shocking. The toddler won and many people were effected. All to keep him happy.

Even though we have all been there on occasion,  I could not tolerate my child dictating to me. When you have more than one there is no room for it, otherwise the one demanding always commands the family and other child gets nothing.

It’s also a trait I dispise.  Whilst like most people I like getting my own way, who doesn’t?, I have also learned through adulthood life doesn’t work that way. To make solely yourself happy rarely leads to those around you being happy. So those around you begin to be less.

As a human I like to think I am a winner. I enjoy winning. I get a kick out of it. And I quite unenjoy losing. Who likes to be the bottom of the heap? So naturally I want my boys to enjoy winning. To enjoy feeling proud.

But where has this come from? Where has this incessent need to win everything come from? Society? History? Capitalism?

So I look at my 4yo and think about the great big bad wide world. Of all the things that I can already see that could or will hurt him, knock him, shape him. There will be occasions when he will lose and it will be out of my control, at school, in a fight, and he will have to carry the weight all by himself. My ethos was to build him up so much that he would be so full of confidence that when each knock came it would hurt but only take him down a peg or two. Maybe bringing him down to average confidence.

But sometimes part of winning, part of succeeding, is knowing what losing feels like. Without knowing the bottom, how can you appreciate the top? Without losing something how can you know how much you really want it?

So as much as I do let them win, do let them feel good about themselves, call them clever and handsome and amazing constantly so it’s their rhetoric, it’s also important to me to see them lose. To teach them how to pick themselves up again. To learn that losing is okay.

I hate the saying ‘it’s not about winning it’s taking part that counts’ – it’s really not. Surely it’s wiser to assess the situation and realise somethings aren’t worth taking part in. I wouldn’t pay to do a sky dive or join up to do a marathon. It’s not my thing. I wouldn’t enjoy taking part. My heart wouldn’t be in it. And I know from the outset a marathon is something I cannot win.

So to find challenges we assess what we like and we try to be our best. We try our hardest and if we fail, we reassess and we start again. If it means enough to us to do this. It’s also sometimes just as brave to stop and walk away as much as it is to try again. It’s about finding out what the right thing to do is.

So when I see my husband playing on a field with the boys and trip them up and knock them down, and hear them whinge, I smile. When I win 4yo’s game I don’t gloat but hold his hand as he pulls ‘sad face’ which we call ‘bubba’ as his bottom lip comes out. I tell him it’s okay. Better luck next time. I don’t like to see him sad, but what I love to see is his glint in his eye as he spins the board and says quietly, ‘let’s play again.’

That’s my boy.

 

 

 

#musingsofa4yo

We all know our kids talk all sorts of rubbish. Every now and then I actually learn something from my 4yo. He knows more about planets and dinosaurs than I care to know. Other times he is amusing. Mainly it is drivel.

1. What happens when you’re dead dead?

2. Does everyone eat Jacobs crackers or just people called Jacob?

3. Can I marry you when I am bigger?

4. I shall name all the planets and dwarf planets and stars and moons in our solar system. But I can’t remember where I keep my socks.

5. Life was so much quieter before max the trouble came along.

6. If you cut my nails you may cut my finger and then my hair may fall out.

7. I don’t know how to stop. You haven’t taught me how to cope.

8. I use to think monsters were real until dinosaurs came along.

9. If everyone was like me I think it would be better.

10. I wish I lived at Meme’s. Then I could play snakes and ladders all day.

11. When the sun goes to bed the moon gets up. Sometimes the moon forgets to go to bed. So they sit in the sky together.

12. My wellies are too blue.

13. I wish I had a real train track. (He has two very real train tracks).

14. I’m going to dream about jumping from Earth to Mars.  But no other planets because they don’t have the right air.

15. I can smell something. It’s like sniffiness but not as nice. (? ).

16. Why did the dinosaurs die out? I thought it was because of a Comet but I don’t think it was. It was probably because they were so big they ate all the food.

17. If I was bigger I would be bigger than you and tell you to sit on the step.

18. If only I could keep you in my pocket.

19. If I’m good will be face go on a coin?

20. Does everyone use Outside voices outside or just us?

 

#hardcheese

As I was making lunch the other day for the four of us, my husband sidled up behind me and kissed me on the neck. And then said:

‘Shall we talk about that hard cheese?’

I had a sharp knife in my hand. I cut the hard cheese off. I placed it in his sandwich. I put the knife down.

I sometimes,  whilst making lunch and juggling reffing the latest fight, sometimes CANNOT BE ARSED to wrap up the cheese after I have used it. I know. Before this would be cardinal. Before I would have hated it. Now. I give no flying FXCK.

I am happy to find cheese in the fridge. If it is hard. It is hard. I care less these days for the little things that actually in the long run make my life easier. If I had time to worry about a corner of cheese going hard, I think if I had THAT much time, I would without doubt be a happier woman.

But time is a comodity I rarely understand these days. Watching my children eat vegetables. Hours. Going to the loo? Seconds. I rarely know a minute in an hour or an hour in a day. We can go for a walk and I think it’s been two hours and we’ve been gone for 20 minutes.

I rarely have the time to care about much. Hard cheese is least of my worries. I have hairy legs. My clothes have holes in them. My shoes don’t fit. I leave the bin to overfill. My washing basket looks like a human has gone to my wardrobe and emptied all my clothes.  And the boys. Funnily enough hubby only had one pair of pants in each wash. But I will talk about that another time.

In the morning I have enough time to put my hair up. I dye it once a year. I don’t care how I look. There is no point in me straightening my hair to have yoghurt wiped in it.

I buy new clothes sparingly as I flip between 8 sizes depending on how fit or fat I want to be, depending on the time of the month. Depending if I want to slob or attempt skinny jeans.

I don’t care my car has two months of croissants and raisens (and effing cheerios) knee high. I don’t care I shave my children’s hair because any other type of preening is more torturous for me than them. I don’t care my walls have sticky finger prints all over them. I don’t care if the TV is sometimes on all day.

I care that the Troubles have eaten. I care that they wear clean clothes most days. I care they sleep and expand their minds with different experiences. I care they get fresh air everyday.

At some point I hope to reflect. Have time to breath and look in a mirror and actually care about what looks back. But at the moment I don’t.  And I am happy with that.

So if sometimes you open my fridge and find hard cheese, you can eat it. X

 

#ideasforspring

So I read an article on ideas for spring for parents. There was something about crafts, about using old easter egg boxes for creation of robots, and even something about healthy egg making. Barf.

These are all well intentioned ideas and any better mother knows these are damn  fine things for us to consider doing with our ‘angels’. But when I saw the title, ‘things to do in spring with your kids’ I kinda hoped for ideas on how to get rid,  how to cope with the changing British spring or even a little bit of guidance on getting out and about.

And that will be my priority this spring. Getting out of a sickly house where the doors and windows have been bolted over winter. Getting out and breathing fresh air. I won’t let them back in the house until September.

And all this talk of healthy easter. What a load of crock. If you’re not religious, and even to some extent if you are, Easter is all about chocolate. I am THAT mother who will bring her children up to believe in Easter being about chocolate.

My mother mentioned to my eldest the other day about the Easter Bunny. The who? He asked her to explain. I wish she hadn’t.  I hadn’t mentioned the Bunny once. Just Eggs Eggs Eggs and more Eggs. Being him, he asked for less eggs and more Trains.

Things to do in Spring;

1. Get out of the house.

2. Eat Easter eggs.

3. Pretend it’s summer and have a picnic when it’s not warm enough.

4. Wear flipflops because you’re pretending summer has arrived.

5. Make children wear shorts. All the time. With jumpers. And Sandles.

6. Drink feshly squeezed juice and eat light lunches. You know. Coz you’re pretending summer is here.

7. Go to the farm. Watch sheep racing.

8. Disinfect house from all winter colds. This is my spring clean.

9. Eat easter eggs

10. Make the easter bunny out of left over easter Egg boxes

#baddecisions

I’ve decided the whole real matter to do the with dishonestyhood malarky is actually, just about making decisions. It’s decision making on a constant basis… should they wear two coats to school today? Do I care if he wears the same top again if it stops him screamin? Should I make lunch or buy lunch?

And ultimately, not being the best decision maker in the world (I had kids, right! ) leads to some bad decisions being made… and therefore some shitty consequences.

So like today I collected troubles from nursery. 4yo seemed distant and sad and very quiet.  And not liking me much. Eventually I conjole him out of the room to the stairs where I pleaded with him so we could get his brother.

‘Just take me home and come back for #@£ later’ he pleaded with me back. It didn’t seem like a bad idea. But I wasn’t going to make that bad decision

 

Although legally I could. Did you know there is no law in the UK that stops a parent from leaving a child of any age at home on their own. No law. Any age. There are laws about safeguarding and ensuring a child is safe. So it comes to question how you can leave a 6 month old alone in  cot whilst you go out drinking or to the shops. It worries me more  a toddler being left alone. With all those little fingers and oven knobs to turn with no one saying ‘frigging hell noooooooooo’!?!

I digress. It wasn’t going to happen.

‘We’re here now. So let’s get your brother and go home’.

‘I will stay here. Alone.’ He is 4yo. He is stubborn. He knows his own mind and I’ve just worked 9 hours without a break.

‘Fine’ I stamp up the stairs and get 2yo. We come down  all of 5 minutes later to 4yo still on the step. He is still quiet.  He is still withdrawn.

We hed home and he asks for his tablet. Fine  by me I think as I unstrap 2yo kicking and shouting. Tablet has become new nanny. Filling his head with all sorts of ideas and weird things.  Most of which I dont mind.

I do bath and feed them and sort the house. They bath. I put 2yo to bed. I read to 4yo.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s happened today to make you so sad?’ I know this one is going to be the one with depression.  He is so emotional and sad sometimes.  If I believed in different lives I would be sure he was an old soul. He carries a weight too large for a 4 year old to hold.

He sniffs and looks at me.

‘I’m sad because you left me on the stairs at nursery all alone,’…

Lies I think. Hebdoesnt know why he is sad. But he is. And he blames me. Good good.

I digress. I have made so many bad decisions as a mother. I thought a green fisherman jumper made them look cute. I thought allowing someone to give my child cola at 10 months would not have consequences. I have let one cry out so long he puked.

I also have made good decisions. Take them outside when they get emotional. Know your limits and give them what they want if it’s not the end of the world. Wipe their bums even after they say they have wiped them.

But that’s all it is. Good and bad. Wrong or right. As long as you make the one that means they stay alive. AlL will be well.