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.





Driving Me Crazy

 

I hate walking. Putting one foot in front of the other is a form of exercise and therefore is on my naughty list. I enjoy taking the Gremlins and Fudge on nature trails to jump in muddy puddles Peppa-Pig-style now and again but otherwise I am in love with my car and have a massive carbon footprint. I would drive from my living room to my bedroom if I could, I hate the process of getting from one place to another and when I need to be somewhere I want to be there NOW. I’m very impatient as I have to tick so much off my to-do list that journeys are a waste of my time. My ideal superpower would be to blink and be transported to exactly where I need to be, taking whoever I was clutching onto. It would be a much easier way of transporting the Gremlins from A to B.

 

As most parents will know, travelling even a short distance with small children usually has to be planned down to the finest detail. The first step is packing everything that you need to take with you and when they’re young that could include nappies, wipes, bum cream, bibs, drinks, snacks, dummies, favourite toys or blankets, pushchairs, change of clothing, sun creams and hats if it’s hot, rain coats and hats if it’s cold, toys to keep them entertained and if they’re staying out overnight you can add travel cots, pyjamas, hair brushes, toothbrushes and baby monitors to the list. Not to mention your own bag for the day including money, keys, mobile phone, electronic diary and to do lists etc. In our case, it takes half an hour to get it all together and put it in the car, we’re always 20 minutes late and there’s barely room to squeeze in the car seats and kids. It then takes a further 10 minutes just to get them in the car as Owen will need to be asked forty times to put on his shoes and when he eventually takes notice of the request he’ll move in slow motion and suddenly forget how Velcro works. While he’s staring into space and contemplating the universe, Ava will run and hide under the dining table so I have to move every chair and crawl on my knees to pull her out by the ankles. I’ll fasten her coat – she’ll unfasten it. I’ll put on her shoes – she’ll take them off. I’ll put my shoes on – she’ll have a poo. Then I’ll spend 5 minutes undressing her to change her nappy and by this time Owen will have half a shoe on. When I get the wriggly rugrat to her car seat she’ll stiffen like a board making it impossible to fasten the straps and she’ll howl for manky blanky (this is the blanket she’s had since birth that probably harbours a million tiny creatures even though it’s washed on a weekly basis). Once she’s firmly secured and clutching onto manky blanky, Owen will have both shoes on and he’ll be examining the snails in the garden, ignoring my twenty commands to get in the car: “but look mam this snail is on a leaf!” I have to physically open his door for him like the chauffeur I am and escort him into the vehicle – by which point Ava’s arms will be free of her restraints and she’ll be opening and closing her electric window.

 

Then we’re off....

 

Ava will continuously release herself from her straps so that I have to pull over and stick her back in. The only way to stop her is to feed her and keep her hands busy. If I don’t, she’ll also pick the stuffing out of her car seat and throw it out of the window. I’ve recently learned how to lock these windows, and when her hands are busy with raisins or popcorn she’ll kick the back of my seat instead in a steady rhythm.

 

Owen insists on playing his One Direction CDs, he’ll turn the rear internal light on and off, slouch down and stick his mucky feet in the air, continuously tell me what speed I’m driving at and ask me questions that he knows I’ll say yes to because I’m trying to concentrate on driving:

 

Owen: Mam can I have some chocolate after school?

Me: Uh huh

Owen: Mam can I play in the garden later and make a tree house?

Me: Uh huh

Owen: Mam can I buy a chainsaw to cut down the tree then burn it in a bonfire with a high strength accelerant and smoke the ashes in a cigarette whilst swigging alcopops?

Me: Uh huh

 

If Dad is in the car, we’ll try to have a conversation or a “handover” between him finishing work and me going to work of who’s been fed, what they ate, who’s going where, when they need to be collected, what housework needs to be completed, who called and what they said – but the Gremlins do not allow conversations that don’t involve them, whilst in a moving vehicle, and that’s the time they’ll insist on your undivided attention and HAVE to tell you some really important urgent information:

 

Owen: Dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, mam...

Me: Hang on a moment Owen

Owen: But mam it’s important! Mam, mam, mam, dad, DAD!

Dad: What is it Owen?

Owen: Errrrrrrmmmm....isn’t the sky very pink today!

 

When I try to ignore the attention grabbing and try to continue my handover with Dad, Ava will take off a shoe and launch it at my head. It’s a common misconception that headrests were designed to protect your neck in case of a car accident - they were actually designed to protect your head from children throwing missiles.

 

Driving can be an educational experience for children. My Gremlins have learned most of their bad language from car journeys with Mammy and Daddy. Due to always being late for every appointment, we’re usually in a hurry and feeling harassed and intolerant, so when other motorists forget to indicate, cut us up, drive too slow or drive right up our tail end, we can forget to censor our words and the occasional “shit”, “twat”, “bloody idiot” and “for fluffs sake!” can escape, which of course the Gremlins will repeat over and over in fits of hysterics. The daughter of my friend Wonderwomum discovered the word “wanker” whilst travelling in the family Volkswagen.

 

We have tried public transport in the past but quickly realised that bus journeys are the perfect environment for children to embarrass you and demonstrate to the world what a bad parent you are. Ava would smile sweetly at little old ladies, then take off her shoes and order them to kiss her feet. Owen would sing songs about S&M (thank you Rihanna), call me a motherlover (thank you Lonely Island) and say “hi sexy” to the already horrified elderly passengers. So I tried to entertain them with innocent childhood games such as I-spy:

 

Me: I spy with my little eye something beginning with “D”

Owen: Dick.

 

We no longer travel on public transport.

 

In order to visit Dad’s family, it’s necessary to do regular six-hour car journeys to and from Wales. This used to be a nightmare of feeding, changing, screaming and bored wriggling – and that was just Dad. Most journeys were planned at night in the hope that the Gremlins would sleep and we could listen to some inappropriate rap CDs instead of vanilla pop – fat chance. Until we discovered the wonder that is the portable DVD player! Every parent’s must-have item for long (or short) peaceful, stress-free excursions with young family. The children are entertained with the innocence of Pingu and Ice Age and the grown-ups get to converse with each other and escape prosecution for dangerous driving due to missiles flying around the vehicle. Getting from A to B has never been so calm, effortless and undemanding...

 

...until you’re driving down the motorway and someone pipes up: “I need a wee”.

Baby Daddy

 

It took me a long time to house train Superdad.  When we met he lived with a group of rugby boys and his house smelled of wee, sweat, feet and heavy petting. He slept on a mattress on the floor – I don’t know why because he had enough money to buy a BMW so I assume he had enough to buy a bed – all of his belongings fit in one chest of drawers and I don’t know if they owned a cooker never mind knew how to work one. Life was simple. Food was supplied by KFC, drinks were supplied by the local pub and as a result there were no dishes to wash. When I met Dad, he didn’t know how to peel a banana, had never eaten pasta and couldn’t put his own contact lenses in. Welsh Nanny told him and his brother that they had a cheese allergy because she wanted to eat all the cheese in the house herself (I might try this with chocolate). Dad discovered that he didn’t have an allergy when he accidently bit into a cheeseburger at McDonalds and didn’t die. And he realised that he really likes cheese.

 

Then along came Supermammy who began to teach him some skills for independent living and he developed these skills very well. Superdad learned to put his dirty clothing in the wash basket, he’s been introduced to food from around the world and is even able to cook it (he can knock up a smashing chicken korma and he loves a carbonara), he can peel a banana, hoover, sweep and mop and he’s the household dishwasher. He has no choice but to put in his own contact lenses as I won’t touch his bloody eyeballs and we’re currently working on how to put the empty packets from the daily disposables into the bin. He has learned not to open the door to strangers who ask for money after he bought shopping vouchers from a doorstep seller –

Dad: Guess what, I’ve just bought £100 worth of shopping vouchers and I only have to pay back £5 per week.

Me: How long do you have to pay £5 per week?

Dad: I can pay it over 30 weeks

Me: So you have to repay £150?

Dad: Errrm.....

Me: Where can you spend these vouchers?

Dad: B&Q

Me: What do we need from B&Q?

Dad: Errrm...we could buy some laminate flooring

Me: Okay. Let’s go and buy £100 worth of laminate flooring for £150.

 

He didn’t learn his lesson. He recently paid for a subscription to the Evening Chronicle even though he doesn’t read a newspaper. But...we’re slowly getting there and at times he can even recognise that the house is untidy without me having to leave a list of jobs to be done.

 

Then after nine years of training, sweat, tears and nagging...Welsh Nanny will arrive to stay with us for a few days, all of my hard work goes out the window and Dad reverts back to the little boy who needs his Mammy to butter his bread. He forgets that he’s a 31 year old father of two with responsibilities and capabilities and he morphs into my third child and sadly pouts at his Mother with eyes that say “I don’t know how to do it.” For example, note the difference between these two conversations –

 

Typical day at home...

Dad: Oh I’m so hungry, what do we have for a snack?

Me: You could make a sandwich or have some toast or a bowl of cereal?

Dad: I think I’ll make a ham sandwich

 

Typical day when Welsh Nanny is visiting...

Dad: Oh I’m so hungry

Welsh Nanny: What would you like love? Do you want me to make you a sandwich?

Dad: Oooo I’ll have a bacon, sausage and egg please Mam

 

I’ve tried this a few times myself whilst visiting English Granny. This was the outcome –

 

Me: Oh I’m so hungry

English Granny: You’d better go home then and make yourself something to eat

 

Eh???!!!!! How is that fair???!!!!! What happened to equality between the sexes? Welsh Nanny will have sandwiches prepared for Dad when he returns from a night out at 2’o clock in the morning. Though I think she does this to stop him from raiding the fridge and eating tomorrow’s lunch. One Christmas she found the beef joint had two bite-size chunks missing out of it. We knew it was Dad because he has a gap between his two front teeth and a teeny tiny mouth. Luckily he left the turkey alone because bones freak him out.

 

When Welsh Nanny is visiting, Dad will suddenly forget how to use an iron and his jeans will keep falling to the ground from the ironing board. He’ll huff and puff and complain about how our iron is rubbish and the board is too low and his jeans are stitched awkwardly, and I’ll observe with a twist in my mouth and deadpan eyes whilst Welsh Nanny takes the iron from his hands and says “here love I’ll do it.” I’m sure the Welshies think I’m the most neglectful wife he could have chosen – that poor boy has to make his own breakfast, he wipes down the benches, she doesn’t iron his clothes for him and he even changed a nappy today! And when Supermam comes home from work all she does is nag at him because he’s watching some TV, because he’s been home all day and hasn’t made anything for her to eat, because he had a nap for an hour, because she tripped over his shoes in the passageway and because he didn’t flush the toilet after his last plop. Poor lamb. And it’s not just Daddy’s parents, my own family assume he’s hard done by, including my grandmother Supergran who is always singing his praises because “that lad goes to work all night then he has the kids all day on his own. He does very well.” Errrrmmmm....I go to work all day and have the kids all night so where’s my round of applause? Dad gets to go to the cinema and have meals at Taybarns then he gets to sleep at work. He recently admitted that he probably gets more sleep than I do when he’s at work, as I have to contend with broken sleep when Ava is thumping the walls for juice or kisses and when Dad’s home I lie awake listening to him snore and count all the ways I could murder him.

 

From my suffering I have learned that I will always be a Mammy to Owen but I will not always be his Mother. If he can reach his teeth he can brush them, if he can reach the sink he can wash his dish, if he has arms he can pick up his toys. I tell myself this is for his own benefit, but it will also benefit his future wife (or husband) and it’ll benefit me too because I’m not making bacon sandwiches for any 31 year old unless there’s one for me too.