Dear Dave

  Being there

Dear Dave,

I'm sorry to hear that Sam has lost his cuddly green cat called Blue Rabbit. Have you checked inside his wellies, behind the sofa and under his mattress? How about coat pockets and the freezer? (Yeah, sorry, I know you're an old hand at this and you've probably searched everywhere twice but sometimes it's easy to overlook the obvious places).

Before Christmas, Marie lost a pink hat by posting it through the gap between the back and hood of her buggy. She thought it had landed safely in the shopping net underneath but, in fact, she'd cunningly dropped it on the pavement behind us. The next day, when we discovered it missing, we went searching but it had vanished. She was distraught. She wanted us to go door-to-door asking for it. Eventually, I had to tell her that it had 'gone to live on a farm' and it was happy gambolling through the fields. "No, it's not," she whimpered. "It's crying because it's lost me."

What can you do?

I hate not being able to fix things. It's particularly frustrating when children go out of their way to create insoluble problems. The other day, Marie burst into tears because I'd brought her raincoat rather than her umbrella when I collected her from nursery. We got soaked as she shuffled slowly and miserably home. All the way, she whined that she wanted her umbrella. Since the umbrella was at home and that's where we were going, I'm not sure exactly what she wanted me to do. She was just determined to be annoyed.

Usually in these situations, she gets a handful of Extra Strong Mints to cheer her up. She loves having 'a fiery mouth', apparently. Unfortunately, the day before, she'd got a public health DVD from nursery detailing how to brush teeth and trying to persuade us to avoid sugary snacks. She'd insisted on watching it half a dozen times. It made her feel hungry and me feel guilty. Now, when she's not whining about me having brought the wrong waterproof equipment, she's whining because I won't give her Extra Strong Mints in case her teeth fall out.

Still, for a while, it was nice being able to put almost anything right with a touch of minty freshness.

Dental hygiene aside, though, it wouldn't have lasted anyway. The boys have already encountered emotional issues that are much harder to deal with than by just fobbing them off with sweets. For instance, when Lewis was only four, he was inconsolable for weeks after he learnt his best friend was going to a different school.

Fraser gets upset if particular kids won't play with him at school. He comes out of the gate at the end of the day and wants me to talk to their parents. I have to explain that adults can't force other children to be friends with him. He doesn't really seem to understand, though:

Years ago, when he was in nursery, I asked him who his friends were and he laughed and said, "We're all friends in nursery. That's the rule." I kept trying to find out who he was particularly friendly with but he just kept saying, "We're all friends in nursery," in a Stepford kind of way. All the kids had obviously had this drummed into them. It's a nice idea but, you and I both know, it's really just institutional short-hand for, 'We will peacefully tolerate each other's presence and not whack each other senseless with Duplo.' Fraser took it rather more literally, however, and hasn't quite recovered.

I try suggesting other children in his class he could play with but they won't do. He wants everyone to be friends with him but reserves the right to be selective about returning the affection. (Which, I guess, is normal - it's just a shame for everybody involved). My instant desire is to fix things for 'my little boy' and to make it all go away. That's not possible, though, and maybe it's not even a good idea. Coping with loss and disappointment is an important skill he should learn. I can help by acknowledging the hurt and giving him sympathy but there's no point pretending that everything's OK and it doesn't matter really. He needs to know that it's all right to be sad sometimes.

Admittedly, sometimes he needs to get a grip - in my book, it's not acceptable to burst into tears because you got the wrong type of bedtime hug nor to kick your brother in frustration because he doesn't want to play the same game as you. These situations require patience, respect and negotiation rather than emotional outbursts. Still, there are occasions when he has a right to feel genuinely upset and I shouldn't expect him to just shrug it off. Being rejected isn't fun.

All I can do is let him know we love him no matter what he does or achieves, and encourage him to explore and control his emotions. Giving him something to look forward to doesn't do any harm either. A Pokemon card battle is a great healer.

Good luck finding a replacement for that cat/rabbit. Will Sam be happy with a brand new one or will he insist on it looking, feeling and smelling the same? Hopefully he'll just accept your explanation that you've 'given it a wash'. If not, at least you can vent your parental frustration by giving the flipping thing a good battering with a shovel.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS Don't forget to pour some milk on it and leave it in the sun for three days before wiping it on the nose of a passing dog. That should get the scent and texture just about perfect...

Labels: children, depression, parenthacks

  9:30 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  My pet consumer

Dear Dave,

Our efforts to teach Fraser the value of money are failing miserably.

He was always pestering us for stuff, so we started giving him a pound a week pocket money. Now, if he wants something, he has to buy it himself. We thought giving him money of his own would dissuade him from demanding the first shiny thing which came to hand whenever he walked into a shop. The hope was that he would be more discerning.

The reality was that we lost a certain level of control on his purchases.

How much tack can he fill the house with before he gets the idea? We've got the dreaded Golden Coin Maker and Scooby-Doo! Cyber Chase, more pokemon cards than is sensible, various oddly shaped plastic doodads, a santa with flashing LEDs, some fluffy pencil toppers, a compass and three packets of gingernut biscuits. He won the biscuits in a tombola that he insisted on entering despite the fact there was nothing he wanted to win.

He blew four pounds on a Lazy Town sticker book at the school book fair the other day. I took exception to this for a number of reasons:

• He blew three pounds he didn't have on stickers, this time last year. He was broke but he was so desperate for this box of random stickers, he took out a loan against his future income. Then he didn't use them. They've been sitting on his bedroom table gathering dust for months... next to several hundred stickers left over from some birthday or other... only a few feet from the half-full tub of 2000 stickers Lewis got for Christmas... and under a shelf upon which rests a still sealed box of Scooby-Doo! stickers the grandparents turned up with one day.
  
  There's probably more stickers in the the kids' arts-and-crafts drawer...
  
  He doesn't need more stickers.
• The school book fair is a bit of a money-making scam. In essence, it's a bookstall that's set up at parent-teacher evenings for parents to buy their kids vaguely educational books. An outside company supplies the books but the school gets a cut of the sales or free books or something.
  
  The catch is that the teachers take the kids to look at and fondle the books during class time. Their desire for ownership is conceived without parental caveat and then fuelled by discussing with friends what they're all going to get. It's further reinforced as they spend the rest of the day trying to remember what 'their' book is called so they can place an order when they get home. It's pretty hard to exert any influence by then.
  
  I'd rather the school just asked for donations. We'd pay less, they'd get more and I'd still have shelf-space.
  
  What's next? Is the school going to sign up with Amway?
• Fraser's not actually a great fan of Lazy Town. Sure, he'll watch it and enjoy it but he'd rather watch a dozen other things. If I'd offered to buy him a book and taken him to a proper bookshop, he'd have come home with something pokemon related.
• He's supposed to be saving up for Super Paper Mario on the Wii. He'd have enough money by now if it weren't for yet more pokemon cards and for the sticker book. This is particularly galling because I want to play it.
  
  Barring the tooth fairy taking matters into her own hands and turning up with pliers, however, he's not going to be able to afford the game until Christmas i.e. the point when the boys (and myself) will be getting various other games anyway and won't have time for them all. In the meantime, Fraser gets to sit around not twiddling his thumbs because he's finished everything he can be bothered to play and spent his cash on stickers he didn't need.
• He hasn't read the books he got from the last book fair.

Maybe some of that's a little uncharitable. I chose the books last time and I did so on the basis that they looked both entertaining and educational. He really wanted the Lazy Town sticker book even then but they were out of stock when I got there. He's been wanting the book for six months - that's not just the passing whim of a magpie who's seen something shiny and suddenly must have it. It's the tenacious whim of a magpie who's seen something shiny and just will not let it go. Ever.

Still, you've got to admire his stubbornness.

I asked him twice if he really wanted it. I suggested other things he might want instead. He was adamant he wanted the sticker book. I couldn't see the point, I didn't think it was a good idea but... I let him buy it anyway.

You see, I have issues:

When I wasn't much older than him, I really wanted to get a handheld Pac-Man game. I even went to Jarrold's in Norwich with my mum to buy it. I had my birthday money ready. I'd been saving up. I was going to get it.

Except my mum asked me if I was sure so many times that she made me unsure.

I didn't get the game. Admittedly, it cost £18 twenty-five years ago, so it was pretty expensive, but I had the cash and I really wanted it. I would have played it until my thumb fell off. Then I would have turned it upside down and played it until my other thumb fell off. I would have loved and cherished that little Pac-Man machine. Instead, I got left with the lasting impression that spending money on something I wanted was somehow wrong unless (a) it was cheap or (b) my mother could see the point of it.

The upshot is that I can spend several hundred pounds on a discounted washing machine without batting an eye but I go through a lengthy internal dialogue whenever I get the urge to spend a fiver on a computer game magazine. A dialogue that my mum usually wins. I reluctantly put the magazine back on the shelf and then walk a couple of miles home in the rain.

When I arrive back at the house, dripping the contents of a small cloud onto the carpet, I justify the decision to walk by claiming that it's good exercise. If pressed, I might add that it's stressful fighting my way onto the bus with the buggy. The real reason, however, is that walking saves me the pound for the fare. If I've got the boys with me, it saves me two pounds twenty. Each way. That's worth getting a little wet for. (Although the boys may not entirely agree). Besides, my mum never catches the bus, so it must be a waste of money.

I wish I'd stuck to my guns over Pac-Man. I might have a little more perspective and a better idea of the value of money myself.

I want Fraser to be sensible with money. I want him to learn to live within his means. I want him to be able to plan prudently for the future. I want him to consider the effects his purchases have on the exploitation of the planet and of other people. I want him to understand the importance of money but not base his life upon it. I want him to be able to give money to those who need it. In short, I want him to be wise but generous. It would be nice, however, if he was also able to spend money on himself without feeling bad about it.

Most of those things I need to teach him. At least, I'll attempt to teach them to him - he won't listen but I'll have tried. The last one I need to remember not to knock out of him.

Wish me luck.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS My mum never catches the bus because she has a car and drives everywhere. I really need to get a grip.

Labels: children, money, parenthacks

  9:30 AM - Permanent Link - 2 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Pester power

Dear Dave,

Sorry to hear that Sam's constant demands for attention and material gratification are driving you crazy. Let's face it, he probably knows that his entire life is about to go down the pan with the arrival of a sibling, and so he's just trying to get what he can while the going's still good. Stay strong and don't let him pester you into buying anything other than consumer electronics.

I'm fairly immune to pestering, myself. Well, actually, that's a lie - it makes me irritable, crotchety and prone to shouting. Pestering annoys me as much as the next dad. What I mean to say is that it doesn't get the kids what they want.

Much of this is down to Fraser. He has a bad case of Alpha Male Syndrome and desperately thinks he should be in charge. When confronted with two chairs and the command to sit down, he will begin by ignoring the command. On the second repetition of the command, he will argue. Why does he have to sit down? Wouldn't it be better if he sat on the floor? Why can't he witter about pokemon first? Why isn't Lewis sitting down? On being shouted at and pointed to the left seat, he will perch on the edge of the one on the right. It's a near certainty he will fall off and injure himself within a couple of minutes and then complain about how he didn't want to sit down in the first place.

He's been like this for a long time. When he was still two, I had a big fight with him over a beaker of milk. We both wanted it transferred from his hand to the table beside him; we disagreed on the method in which this goal could be achieved. I wanted him to reach over a few inches and put the beaker down. He wanted me to cross the room, take the beaker from his hand and put it down for him. We were there for fifteen minutes before his arm got tired and he put the flipping thing down. It was all about dominance and control.

The thing is, all that petty, pointless pestering has built up my resistance. If I feel I'm being pestered then I'll even actively delay doing something I was about to do anyway. I hope that, one day, the kids will learn from this to be polite and patient. It's not working so far but, in the meantime, at least I get to sit around for a few minutes and claim it's all in the name of teaching them manners.

Of course, it's best to try and nip the pestering in the bud whenever possible. When we go to the supermarket, for instance, the kids are each allowed to choose one special treat. If they've already got something in the trolley but see something else they want, then simply being reminded 'they already have their special thing' is enough to stop them asking any more. If they really want to swap, they can, but usually they're just too lazy to bother. In essence, they get to automatically win a small battle in exchange for not starting a war. I like to think this set up teaches them decision making as well but, deep down, I know that's just the deluded longings of a middle-class stay-at-home-parent. They usually just go for the shiniest thing they see first. (If I'm fortunate, they'll choose an item I was going to buy anyway, such as crisps. Normally it's probiotic yogurt drinks(!) or cheestrings. One time Fraser pushed his luck with an enormous bowl of trifle - we all ate well that week).

Lewis has a different pestering technique from Fraser. He tries to grind me down with questions:

Lewis: Can I have a chocolate biscuit?
Me: No.
Lewis: Why not?
Me: Because it's almost teatime.
Lewis: Why's it almost teatime?
Me: Because it's five o'clock.
Lewis: Why does that make it almost teatime?
Me: Because you normally have tea at five thirty.
Lewis: Why?
Me: Because, if I left tea until later, you'd get hungry.
Lewis: Why would I get hungry?
Me: Because you wouldn't have had anything to eat.
Lewis: Why not?
Me: Because it wouldn't be teatime until later.
Lewis: Why wouldn't it be teatime?
Me: Because... No, hang on, it is going to be teatime at five thirty.
Lewis: Why?
Me: Because that's when you normally have tea.
Lewis: Why do we normally have tea at five thirty?
Me: So you don't get hungry.
Lewis: Why would I get hungry if I'd had a chocolate biscuit?
Me: You wouldn't get hungry if you'd had a chocolate biscuit.
Lewis: Why not?
Me: Because you'd have had a chocolate biscuit.
Lewis: Why can't I have one then?
Me: Because it's almost teatime.
Lewis: Why's it almost teatime?
Me: Because it's... Look over there! Something shiny!

All I can do is run away - it feels wrong to tell a child to stop asking questions. He still doesn't get what he wants, though. Marie has found a much better way to get round me - if she wants something, she acts as if she has it already.

Marie: I want ride my pink scooter to shops.
Me: You don't have a scooter.
Marie: Yes, I do.
Me: No, you don't.
Marie: Yes, I do. It pink.
Me: Where is it then?
Marie: It in kitchen.
Me: No, it's not.
Marie: Yes, it is.
Me: Show me.
Marie (going through to kitchen): It not here! It not here! We go look for it.
Me: But you don't have a scooter.
Marie: Yes, I do. It pink!
Me: Er... How about we go to the swing park?
Marie: Hooray! I scoot there.
Me: BUT YOU DON'T HAVE A SCOOTER!
Marie: I do... (Bites lip and looks sad). You help me find it?
Me: I, er...
Marie: Please...
Me: Er, I think you might have left it in the toy department at John Lewis.
Marie (brightening): We go get it! It pink!

She's trouble, that one. It got to the stage that she coveted pink Crocs so much that, whenever she saw another child wearing them, she'd run over and accuse them of stealing shoes she didn't have. Credit to her, though, while Fraser unwillingly sits on a chair listening to Lewis ask questions about the relationship between teatime and chocolate biscuits, she scoots round them, happily wearing fuchsia footwear.

I was unwrapping a Mars bar for myself today and she walked over and said, "That's mine." AND I JUST GAVE IT TO HER. It's like some strange form of Jedi mind control.

I think she may have bitten off more than she can chew for her next project, however. Apparently we're all going to Euro Disney. At Easter. In a plane. She's totally convinced this is happening but I'm wise to her schemes now. I will resist.

Good luck with Sam.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children, parenthacks

  10:00 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  The battle for the remote control

Dear Dave,

Following on from our recent correspondence about the effects of kids' TV, I have a confession to make. I have to admit that Marie is addicted to Numberjacks. Just as I can't function in the morning without my cup of coffee, she needs her fix of single-digit superheroes.

In case you haven't seen it, it's a mixture of CGI and live-action, involving the numbers zero to nine living in a sofa and being teleported out to help people who are experiencing maths related problems created by villains such as the Puzzler, the Numbertaker and Spooky Spoon. It sounds weird but the reality is pretty straightforward. The characters look like numbers and they're named after numbers so kids learn to recognise numbers. (If you want weird then check out In the Night Garden which is also on CBeebies - that's weirder than discovering your eyebrows have turned purple or than finding a tube of toothpaste embedded in your cheese. Lewis was watching it the other day and asked me, "Why did Upsy Daisy kiss the Ninky Nonk?" I honestly answered that I had absolutely no idea).

Anyway, if Marie doesn't get Numberjacks at regular intervals then she starts to get grumpy and uncooperative. Leave her too long and there's anger and tears. Eventually she turns into a quivering, whimpering wreck. Flick on the TiVo, however, and it's instant smiles and little squeals of relief. Then her eyes glaze over and she stares in rapt attention for twelve or so minutes until the episode finishes and she demands another one.

The boys were the same when they were younger. We ended up watching the Scooby Doo movie two or three times a day for a month at one point. I wasn't complaining, though, because (a) it has Sarah Michelle Gellar in it and (b) it kept them occupied for quite a while. Having to start up five episodes an hour is more of a chore while constantly reminding me how little 'real' parenting I'm doing. On top of that, she's not always entirely sure what's fact or fiction. She knows numberjacks are only 'in the telly' but if snot starts dripping out her nose then she's convinced it's the Problem Blob's fault. She was scared to go to bed last week because she thought the Shape Japer was waiting in her room. ("He bad! I not want light off!")

This leaves me with a dilemma. Which makes me a worse parent - letting her watch and risk her living in fear that an animated miscreant is going to turn her into a triangle, or not letting her watch and risk her being so miserable that she makes herself vomit? I'm not sure of the answer. On a practical level, however, not having to clean up sick always makes a course of action more attractive.

I had been quite smug about controlling my childrens' viewing up to this point. Our TV set up is so complicated they can't change the channel themselves and so I have control. As what they watch is limited to start with, I've only had to put a stop to a few things on Cartoon Network. There hasn't been much conflict.

On the occasions when I've discussed censorship with other parents, it's usually computer games we've talked about. On the one hand, there are people who don't realise how much games have progressed since the days of Pac-Man and don't realise just how unsuitable some of them are for children. On the other, sensationalist news coverage singles out violent games above any other medium as the root of all kinds of evil. As a keen gamer myself I've tried to point out the middle ground. Games have age ratings on them just like films. These are suitability ratings based on content such as sex and swearing. (I've overheard confused parents in shops think they were difficulty ratings. '3+' means it doesn't have nudity or terrifying brain-eating, chainsaw-wielding zombies; it doesn't mean a toddler will be able to play it).

Obviously, there's room for some parental discretion. In my household I do the games buying and it shouldn't be too hard working out what's suitable for my kids' ages and maturity as they grow older. I've already had to stop Fraser from playing Paper Mario 2 - he's good at the fights but for me to sit there for thirty hours reading the text wouldn't be fair on my other kids. He wasn't happy but we got through it. Am I going to stop him playing Grand Theft Auto until he's eighteen, when, here in Scotland, he could get married without my permission at sixteen? I don't know. Still, armed with reviews and my own gaming experience, I should be able to make a decision and argue my case.

As I said, I was smug. Then some thoughts crossed my mind. Forty TV channels enter my house but all I watch is Dr Who, 24 and three flavours of CSI. I can't remember the last non-animated film I saw at the cinema. My CD collection stops at 1997. My video rental card has bio-degraded. The library thinks I'm dead. There are... Oh...

One day they're going to figure out how to work the TiVo remote. I can't maintain control forever. Let's face it, I'll have little idea what my kids are listening to, watching or reading. They'll probably have unsuitable friends as well. Games are only a small part of what they will be exposed to. Every practical detail of drug use and benefit fraud I picked up as a teenager, I gathered from my parents' Daily Mail and from News at Ten (thanks, Trev!). Most episodes of EastEnders portray more lying and cheating than any game I've ever played. For every book full of enlightenment, there are three biographies of footballers. Shielding children and teens from difficult issues is impossible without solitary confinement. It won't make good kids anyway, just ignorant ones.

I guess, in some ways, our job is going to get harder as our children get older. Difficult issues should be a regular part of conversation. We need to talk honestly and openly to our children about everything - sex, death, violence, drugs, sexuality, God, relationships, anger, money, failure, love, forgiveness, everything. We need to listen to them and discuss these issues. In short, we need to fill them full of real sense so that the nonsense can't take hold.

Which is easier said than done...

Marie's still allowed to watch Numberjacks but we had to talk to her about it and convince her everything's OK. We reasoned with her as best we could but played along a little as well - we told her the Shape Japer had gone far away on a train. This cheered her up a lot. "He lost in tunnel," she said and went to bed. Crisis averted for now.

It's a start, I suppose.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children, computer games, parenthacks, TV

  11:10 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Taking the effort out of being ignored

Dear Dave,

I'm sorry to hear that little Sam has ceased to listen to a word you say. You're right that he might have picked up some anxiety about your pending new addition to the family but it's more likely that's he's simply two-and-a-half now and believes that he knows better than you. Honestly, you're probably lucky he's listened to you this long.

Take my three, for example. They were all standing in a line next to a low wall today. Marie wanted to climb onto the wall and jump off. "No, it's wet," I said. So she climbed on. At which point Fraser sat on the wall. "No, it's wet," I said. Fraser grinned and then Lewis rubbed his sleeve backwards and forwards along the top of the wall. "No, it's wet," I said. They all looked at me blankly. Then they complained they were wet.

Sam will be ignoring you entirely before you know it. You'll have to say things three times before he even realises you've spoken. This could be quite annoying but fortunately I have been working on a solution. The prototype is complete. Another couple of weeks of testing and then my Patented Parental rePeater (TM) will go into full production. The Triple-P (TM) will save the voices and sanity of childcare operatives the world over. Hang it round your neck, go about your daily life and then, at the touch of a button, have it repeat the last thing you said. Press a different button and it will continue to repeat the phrase at regular intervals for several minutes. Each repetition is louder than the last and delivered in a more exasperated tone of voice.

A number of useful phrases come pre-programmed into the Triple-P. These include:

• Look where you're going.
• Don't eat that.
• Say, "Please."
• Not up your nose.
• Put your shoes on.
• Take your shoes off.
• Don't do that.
• Sit down.
• Eat up.
• That's not a hanky.
• Do what you're told.
• Not up my nose.
• Close the fridge.
• That's my foot you're standing on.
• Leave my Triple-P alone.
• That's not yogurt.
• That is yogurt.
• Where did you put my phone?
• For crying out loud, not up anybody's nose.
• Turn your hearing aid on. (For use on grandparents who are supposed to be helping out but have in fact opted for a crafty nap).

There is also memory available for the user to record often repeated phrases of their own. From your letters, I suggest that in your case these might include:

• Shredded Wheat is not for shredding.
• Put the PlayStation down.
• Don't feed the hoover.
• You'll be needing those trousers.
• Why's my phone in the fridge?
• Step away from the hamster.
• I'm not a camel.
• Don't eat your shoes.
• Don't use your grandparents as a hanky.
• What's this yogurt doing up my nose?

The Triple-P also has several special modes:

• Stressed Whisper - for use in church.
• Firm but Polite - for use on other people's children.
• Extra Loud - for parties, playgrounds and natural disasters.

The Triple-P is waterproof, shockproof, easily portable, resistant to toxic bodily fluids and has a battery-life of between 3 hours and 7 weeks (dependent on the number, age and behaviour of your children). Look out for it soon in all good retailers (and on ebay shortly after).

Triple-P - taking the effort out of being ignored.

(Go on, you know you want one...)

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children, parenthacks

  9:35 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Parent and Toddler

Dear Dave,

Thank you for telling me about your experiences with little Sam at the parent and toddler group. It sounds like you're blending in well. (Or at least as well as any man can in a room full of women who don't believe he can really exist. You'll know you've really cracked it when someone asks you what your husband does for a living). I have to tell you, though, that the competitiveness you mention is unavoidable. The desire to come out on top always surfaces whenever any group of children is involved.

The parents are bound to succumb.

It starts innocently enough as parent A checks that her kid is normal – that it's not too odd for a child to only have had four teeth at a year, or to still be crawling at fifteen months. Parent B reassures. Her child only had six teeth at a year and only learnt to walk at fourteen months. Parent A isn't reassured. Six teeth is more than four. How about speech? Can child B say 'tractor'? Ha, no! That's a point back to Parent A. Parent B retaliates. How many blocks can Child A stack? Only twelve? Really? He hasn't built a scale model of St Paul's, complete with dome? Well, I'm sure he'll learn. 3-1 to Parent B.

Then it escalates.

Before long there are unconfirmed reports of advanced calculus and fluency in five distinct and unrelated languages. Meanwhile the kids happily sit oblivious, chewing on brightly coloured bits of plastic.

It's very strange. Still, Genius Girl came out on top today. At playgroup she demonstrated her innate understanding of the world's socio-economic system and put the knowledge into practice. She took the brightly coloured bits of plastic from the other children, chewed on them herself and then gave them to the nearest adult. In essence, she took from the little people, gave to the big people and had her own small nibble on the way. There's a bright future ahead of her in the City. That or a beating by a mob of angry toddlers.

Ho well, at least she'll probably grow out of it. When she's eighteen, the chances are that she'll have tie-dye clothes, peace symbols painted on her cheeks and a Communist boyfriend. They'll go off to India together to hug trees. Meanwhile I'll still be playing the Progeny Edition of Top Trumps with the neighbours. (You call your kid a dropout? How many Highers did he fail? Ha! And I bet his girlfriend's only a socialist…).

As I said, the competitiveness is unavoidable. If you think you're not doing it, it probably just means you're winning. The important thing is to love the kid even if you're losing.

Oh and by the way, I'm glad to hear that Sam's differentiation is coming along nicely but I have to tell you that Genius Girl can already integrate trig functions.

And she can speak Swahili.

Yours, as ever, in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: parenthacks, playgroup

  5:03 PM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post