A Room Of Teeny Weeny Chairs

I had taken the day off for the 2 year olds hospital appointment. After our trip I deposited him with the OAP childminders.

I had 4 hours to myself. Did I go and treat myself? Pamper myself? Go shopping? Just sit and stare into space knowing that I had 4 hours to myself? Eat something without having to part with half of it to stop the whining?

Nope, I went to help at the 4 year old's school.

For weeks she nagged ... and nagged ... and nagged "Everybody elses parents [in the whole wide world and universe] go into school to help".

I had to explain that I work whilst she's at school and only if I were to take holiday would I be able to help. That was my first mistake. My second was taking pity on her. She's been very clingy of late when I drop her at school and I felt sorry for her. So I arranged with her teacher to go in for the afternoon.

We had a discussion on the way to school in the morning about us being 'sensible' at school. She couldn't cling to me like a leech, show me her bottom or lick my face like she does at home. Similarly I couldn't fart the theme tune to Peppa Pig*, lick her face or dance like Baloo. We made a deal.

I arrived just as they were finishing lunchtime play. The children came in and sat on the carpet. The 4 year old walked in, looked at me, walked past me and then blanked me. She was perhaps taking our deal too seriously. I can't remember a clause in the deal that said 'pretend you're an orphan'.

When the teacher arrived she sat on a little persons chair and introduced me to the class. Three of the children (who have been for a fishfinger tea at our house) chortled at having to call me by my 'Mrs' name. They were probably having a flashback to my Baloo dancing. The 4 year old shuffled closer to my legs which were almost under my chin. I too was sat on a very small persons chair.

I have always liked the 4 year olds teacher. She is 'firm but fair'. The sort of woman you think is lovely but you wouldn't want to cross. I was in awe of her ability to work with one child at a table and see five children at different points of the classroom misbehaving. Without missing a beat she shot them a look which made them stop dead in their tracks. Genius.

I have made a mental note; At next parents evening ask teacher for tips on how to perfect the 'stop them dead' glare. I wouldn't need to write to Supernanny if I could do that.

I helped some children with numeracy. At any one time I had a maximum of four children in my group. Each one had a different agenda. The child who wanted to be out in the playground, the child who wanted to draw cyclopses instead of cars, the child eager to please and the child who completed the task before I'd even told them what to do. It was hard work but we got there in the end.

After playtime the children sat on the carpet for some religious education whilst I helped to tidy the classroom. At story time I returned to my teeny weeny chair and watched the children sit silently listening to 'Mog's Christmas', a month late.

Then we said the going home prayer. Setting a good example I clasped my hands together, bowed my head and listened (as all good athiests do at times like this).

As the children mumbled their prayer I heard the teacher in a cross voice say to the child to my right;

"John you should be talking to God, not Elizabeth**"

* I really didn't do this, but wish I could. At the point of reading 'theme tune to Peppa Pig' I imagine you were working out how many farts and of what length it would take to accomplish.

** Names have been changed to protect the not so innocent

This Was Yesterday ...

... and the reason behind my letter to Supernanny (below).

I pick the children up from school and the childminder. The 4 year old has a face like thunder and on seeing me bursts into tears. Thanks, I've missed you too. Someone has accidently taken her book bag home with her very FIRST reading book in it. I feel her pain, but it is even more painful when her brother, sensing her distress, decides to try and outcry her before we reach the car for no reason whatsoever.

I spend the journey home chanting in my head “Stay calm, be consistent, do not shout”.

Admittedly, my face is probably saying "Take me away from this godforsaken place, PLEASE".

I ask the 4 year old to put her shoes away 5 times before she does it. She asks me if she can watch TV approximately 10 times, I tell her “no” 10 times.

We make a Duplo zoo.

We = the 4 year old and I, whilst the 2 year old flails and shouts because he’s tired and therefore emotional (welcome to my world). He then demolishes the monkey enclosure, which sets the 4 year old off on a rant. I try to reprimand them but cannot get a word in edgeways.

Once they have calmed down in the asylum of their own bedrooms we race the Shake n Go cars across the living room carpet.

We = the 2 year old and I, whilst the 4 year old is flailing on the floor because she can’t have the 'fastest car' even though the three cars we have are the same. She then snatches the 'fastest car' which sets the 2 year old off on a rant. Once more I cannot get a word in edgeways.

When it is time for me to make dinner I offer up 15 minutes of Charlie & Lola. But, before I can even find the channel an argument has broken out about whose toes are touching whose bottom on the sofa. I switch the TV off as punishment.

In the kitchen I wonder who is being punished more, me or them, as I try to make dinner. The bickering continues, this time, as we only have one step for them to stand on to watch me. Watch me what? Seethe?

“Stay calm, be consistent, do not shout”.

Next, the relay begins of ‘When you have finished crying / arguing / pushing / snatching / irritating one another you can come out of your bedroom'.

I’m sure the calories burnt carrying alternate kicking children up and down the stairs must mean I can break from the diet and eat a small square of chocolate.

My husband finds me sat on the stairs weeping like an idiot. I feel like I have hopped the London marathon six times in a chicken suit filled with bowling balls and piranhas.

I pull myself together, release them from their bedrooms and sit with them whilst they eat their dinner, like angels, wondering if it was all a dream.

Fortunately today was better. I feel like I only hopped the london marathon five times and without the bowling balls and piranhas. I don't need Supernanny, I need a glass of wine!

Dear Supernanny

Dear Supernanny

I write this letter because on days like this I feel that I am bashing my head against a brick wall of bad parenting.

I have been rudely awoken every morning for the past 4 and a half years. I feel like shouting a lot of the time. I’d rather stick a hot poker up my arse than endure another day of mindless bickering.

I watch your program with great interest. It makes me feel better to know that there are people worse off than myself whose children are absolute terrors. But today I feel like most of those women rolled into one and my children could do with a bloody good talking to in your coarse cockney tones.

They need big colourful reward charts, naughty chairs, they need you to bob down and talk to them an inch from their face and tell them how it is with your voice of authority, they need extra attention, they need to be listened to more.

I understand that the reason you can stay calm, not shout and bob down on their level without strangling them is that you can go home at the end of the day TO NO CHILDREN.

Still, it would be nice for you to visit. You can stay as long as you want. In fact you could turn my life around if you could stay … forever.

Yours pleadingly

Laura

Bag Of Sleep?

I am a grown woman and I have to confess … I used a potty this week. I was camping, and had woken from my uncomfortable airbed slumber with a bladder the size of a space hopper. Not wanting to walk to the toilet for fear of bearded sheep farming rapists I had to squat in the ‘foyer’ of our tent. The dog looked on in disgust.

Camping is not conducive for sleep. In the dead of night you can hear every conversation, snore and fart across the campsite. You are never alone, it is like being in a bedroom with 100 other people. The snoring was entertaining for the first 10 minutes but became irritating after the third hour, especially when multiple snoring created one long uninterrupted snore.

When I did sleep I would wake in a panic when the slightest movement would make the airbed tilt to one side. Lack of movement in a sleeping bag doesn’t help, especially when your preferred sleeping method is ‘over active starfish’. I only had to roll over to witness my husband in his newly purchased ‘mummy’ sleeping bag. He looked like he’d been vacuum packed and would need the help of a physiotherapist and some lubricant to get moving again in the morning.

All of this seemed irrelevant by 05.41 each morning when the 2 year old came bounding out of his pod like a schizophrenic kangaroo on Christmas morning. I became irrational, threatening him with all sorts of beastly things ‘get back into bed or I will burn all your toys on the camp fire’, ‘go back to sleep or we will go home right now and leave you here’, ‘go back to bed or I will beat you with a tent pole’. I imagined Supernanny’s harsh bespectacled face peering through the tent flap and in her monotone Dick Van Dyke voice saying “Laura, what are you doin? Neffer freaten anyfing you can’t foller frough”. She may well be a behavioural specialist but she’s left a trail of children up and down the country unable to enunciate the ‘th’ sound. At this point I pulled myself together and took the 2 year old on a ‘bear hunt’ in the woods surreptitiously hopeful that a great grizzly would leap out of the bushes and eat him so I could go back to my ‘restricted starfish’ slumber.

Every time we camp we buy a new piece of camping kit. Next time I think I’ll spare the dog’s shame and buy some adult nappies and if anyone has invented a soundproof, blackout tent cover I’d be very interested to hear from them.