Any Takers?

Situation: I have two beautiful children who I love dearly.
Dilemma: Who’ll take the buggers off my hands so that I can go to work / get drunk / sleep?

When your baby is born, for about a week afterwards there’ll be an abundance of visitors to your home who’ll coo and fuss and fight over your tiny sleeping bundle. They’ll adorn you and your child with gifts and money, make delicious dinners that you can reheat, promise to be in touch and help you to “wet the baby’s head” then you won’t hear from anyone for a month. Apart from the grandparents who move themselves in. You’re led into a false sense of security that all of the blubbering doe-eyed guests will offer themselves on a platter for all of your childcare needs until they witness this...

 

...and suddenly they’d rather count their nail varnishes or have their eyeballs waxed. We’re very lucky to have a large family who we can harass, nag, beg, stalk, threaten and bribe when we need a babysitter. If we only had evenings to consider we’d be delighted because we can make do with a “date night” once every couple of weeks to remind ourselves that we’re actually irresponsible plonkers, not Stepford Superparents – but we both work full-time and there arises the issue of full-time childcare...

 

 

Being stay-at-home parents was never an option for us. After years of working in rubbish jobs, in debt to our receding hairlines, Dad and I have only just established ourselves in careers that pay well. They probably only pay the national average wage but it’s better than what we were used to before. We no longer have to worry about the electric running out and going into the emergency supply, our cupboards are always full of food (until Ava gnaws her way through them), my Gremlins can wear Clarks shoes that won’t give them bunions in later life and we can holiday abroad and get some culture (in Ibiza). I greatly respect those mothers (or fathers) who can afford to spend extra quality time with their children rather than being superglued to a desk and a telephone, but to be honest I think if I had to spend every second of my day – every day – with my beloved wonderous children, within two weeks you’d witness me throwing myself from the roof. When they’re good they’re very very good but when they’re bad they’re dancing on the dining table, flooding my bathroom and trying to stick things up the dog. I go to work for a rest.

 

 

Finding suitable childcare is a hard task. Your average nursery costs between £35-£50 per day. That’s £175-£250 per week. They’re not always flexible with their days and hours and your gurgling baby won’t get the one-to-one support that they get at home, though their ability to socialise and eat play dough will be far advanced. Child-minders are slave labour at about £3-£5 per hour, but there’s the rigorous process of ensuring that you don't employ Myra Hindley. When choosing a child-minder, don’t pick the one with the “dog cage”, the mysterious metal door covered in chains or the one who asks you not to drug test.

 

 

We were very lucky with Owen and found a fantastic Superminder who we found on our local authority’s approved child-minder list. After nine months of maternity leave, colic, Iggle Piggle and rattle shaking I was ready to offer him to the next person to walk my past house, so I was incredibly grateful to the woman who took him to toddler groups to actually play, not so she could shut her eyes for ten minutes in the hope that somebody else was paying attention. Superminder became a part of our little family for a few years until Owen started nursery, and she was completely funded by the wonders of tax credits - hurrah! Then he started school and they promised to look after him for free – double hurrah!

 

 

Then along came David Cameron who significantly dropped the threshold for financial support with childcare and by the time Ava was born we no longer qualified. So we had to decide whether to fork out £400 per month for three days of childcare per week, to look for an alternative solution or one of us would have to quit our job and our sanity and we’d return to the breadline with malnutrition and bunions.

 

 

We went for the alternative. Our friend Wonderwomum was paying a nursery £50 per day to take care of her (now two-year-old) son Harrison and he would kick, scream and cry on the nursery doorstep, tugging at Wonderwomum’s guilt strings. So we agreed a mutual arrangement whereby Wonderwomum would child-mind Ava for us when Dad and I were at work and we would care for Harrison on our days off. At free, it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than paying for professional day-care but it’s not exactly the most reliable method. If one of the adults are sick, if one of the Gremlins are sick, if work shifts change, if one of us is on holiday, if one of us has an appointment or a power cut or a family emergency then the other is in shit creek with emergency cover to find. This usually takes the form of ringing around the whole family to see who has a day off (and who will answer their telephone once they’ve checked their caller ID) and this tends to fall on 70 year old polio sufferer with arthritis Supergran.

 

 

I’m lucky that I’m employed by an organisation that allows me flexible hours, lieu time and parental leave if I need it. I’ve never had a problem explaining my childcare woes and they nod with understanding when Owen is sent home from school with an egg on his head because he nutted the slide. As you do. Though there’ll always be non-parentals who think it’s “not fair” that a procreator gets “special treatment” because their child has developed fever and dysentery, but considering about 80% of us will be parents of young children at some point in our lives and all of us have originated from a parent at the start of our lives, a little empathy is most appreciated in times of need - and the knowledge that most parents would gladly swop a day of mopping up puke and backdoor trots for a warm office with a cup of tea and reading material that doesn’t involve a Mister Man.

 

 

The Gremlins don’t seem to mind being passed around the family network in an emergency such as when Daddy has a 24 hour shift to contend with or Mammy needs to satiate her Tia Maria addiction. The rules change at different childcare venues - such as at English Gran and Grandad’s house, Owen can play the “I’m not hungry” card to avoid clearing his plate and Ava will vacuum her dummy to her face (at home she’s only allowed it at bedtime). On the occasional evening when we need to let our hair and liver cells down, Ava is usually in bed before we go out and Owen will be wearing his pyjamas and will hardly notice we’re gone, but they make it clear when they need some quality time with their parents:

 

 

Owen: Where are you going Mammy?

Me: Daddy and I are going on a date.

Owen: Have fun. Don’t cut your arm open or fall over and smash your face on some bricks or get stung by nettles.

Me: Errrmmm okay (note to self – pencil in cinema night with Owen).

 

 

I think I might start a petition for all workplaces to contain a free crèche with a “sick room” for any infected tots to sleep in quarantine. It will save the economy millions in sick pay, parental leave and tax credits and would enable all those who want to work to be able to do so without worrying where their child will be the following week and how much it’s going to break the bank balance. Failing that I might have to clear out my bottom drawer, pad it with a pillow and blanket and hide Ava in it on the occasional afternoon. She could chomp her way through my paperwork and reduce my shredding pile. I may rent out the drawer space to other parents and they could claim it as a tax-free expense. The money I make will pay for Ava’s future therapy.