As One Door Closes...

They say as one door closes another one opens and I am reminded of this today, son number one’s last day at preschool.

Things like this tend to sneak up on me then jump out when I least expect it. People kept warning me the preschool years would pass quickly but I brushed them off, even when the last term began it felt like ages away. But it has finally hit me that my baby is now a big boy about to start his journey into the world. Preschool was the test run, now for the real thing.

I have tried not to arouse any suspicion or anxiety in son number one (or myself) by only ever casually mentioning that his pre school career is about to end and he will soon be catapulted into the world of ‘big school’; where you can’t take your toys in, or wear your Buzz costume instead of uniform any time the fancy takes you, and being friends with everyone without question gives way to the serious playground politics. It doesn’t seem like five years ago that he determinedly refused to enter this world of his own accord, and that determination to stay close to me has remained. Two years ago he had to be cajoled into entering preschool and it took weeks for him to join the other kids at circle time. Now he runs in willingly, often forgetting to say goodbye. But another one opens, and we are back to the start. I have no doubt that the same anxiety will rear its head and more cajoling and gentle pushing will be required to get him in the door. I’m sad and wistful, and just a little bit anxious.

Being a stay at home mum, preschool has been my first experience of leaving him anywhere other than with family, and I was lucky enough to find a preschool where they have made him (and me) feel safe and secure in our first forays apart. It’s been a learning experience for son number one, and so too for me. Preschool has taught me to get myself and two children into the car at the same time (admittedly always late) everyday, wash a school uniform (breaking me in gently with just a t-shirt, I am now going to have to get more complicated with PE kits and school trousers), live by school holidays and learn to trust, lean on and seek advice from teachers who see things in my son that I don’t, and know how he acts when I am not around.

We can learn a lot from looking at kids, whether we are parents or not, and watching them experience the world. The last couple of years taught me that bringing a child up is not an exclusive job, but the task falls on everyone that child has contact with, parents, family members, teachers, friends, even people who would never expect to have influence often do. Children soak up the best of what they see around them, they have no preconceptions or judgements of people, they are trusting, always see the good in people and usually overlook the bad. They see delight in the smallest of things, what to us is just a bottle of bubble mixture to kids is better than a winning lottery ticket. To us it’s a cardboard box, to them it’s a castle to protect from dragons and randomly, sharks. They often seem wise beyond their years yet so innocent and unaware of their wisdom. The saddest thing about childhood is, in my opinion, that most of us grow up and lose this sense of wonder, trust and imagination. Maybe if we could all hold on to, or reconnect with, these things the world would be a happier place.

And another one opens, not just for son number one but for me too. I will now need to help him make sense of this new world he is about to enter, understand why he isn’t invited to everyone’s parties, be brave when he falls over and there is no longer a friendly preschool teacher or me to kiss it better, and hold his head high when his feelings have been hurt.

Son number one may be ready for this transition, but I am lagging behind. I’m really going to miss preschool stage, and have loved seeing him grow from a baby clinging onto me, to a little person with a life of his own.

Thank you to everyone at the preschool, all the teachers, all the kids and all the mums and dads who help to make it the family it is. We will miss you. But we can’t wait to get back there in a few months with Son Number Two. All I can say is good luck with that one.

I'm an HSP... are you?

My first subscription issue of She magazine arrived on my doormat on Saturday morning. Behold the humble magazine! Where else can you get sex tips, fashion advice, celebrity gossip and psychological analysis all in one place? Genius.

In this months issue, I got a peek into a day in the life of a freelance writer, found out how one female blogger blogged about her sex life for 52 weeks, discovered what I should be wearing and eating this week, read an in depth interview with Cameron Diaz and, in the space of one article, two small pages, single-handedly answered one of the biggest questions that has been plaguing me my entire life: Why do I think too much?

It turns out that after a brief self test I can confidently diagnose myself a “highly sensitive person”. While anyone who knows me or has read many of my blog posts will be saying “Well, hello? You’ve only just worked that out?” for me it was a real eye opener to discover why I lie in bed obsessing for two hours about whether or not I had offended the check out lady by asking if she had grandchildren, and what exactly did the man mean when he said I’m high maintenance?

American psychologist Elaine Aron has written many books on the subject of highly sensitive people (HSP’s), what it’s like to be the parent of a highly sensitive child (I might be making a purchase of that one as son number one is displaying HSP tendencies), or the partner of an HSP (that’ll be on the man’s crimbo list) and has a pretty in depth website for anyone wishing to know more.

I took the self test on the website and answered 24 out of the 26 questions in the affirmative. I’d say that was pretty conclusive. Innately anxious (check), susceptible to caffeine (check), nervous when performing in front of people, rich complex inner life, constantly obsessing about offending other people, check, check and check. It didn’t say often described as neurotic, obsession with self help books or taking time-wasting yet seemingly helpful self tests online, but I’d say that goes without saying.

Being highly sensitive is very common according to Aron, who believes up to a fifth of the population might be HSP’s. So of my 200 facebook friends, 40 of them are probably HSP’s as well. And it’s not something that we can do anything about, it’s actually something that has been found in our genetic makeup. So despite us trying to change our behaviour and “grow a pair” (as I’m often told to do), it’s like using coloured contact lenses, I can have blue eyes on the outside, but I know on the inside my eyes are still hazel.

But before you start feeling sorry for our affliction (please don’t, we’ll only obsess about it), there are some upsides to being an HSP. Apparently we are also unusually creative people, attentive and thoughtful partners (the man take note, my ‘high maintenance’ is good for you) and intellectually gifted (yes it’s official, I am a genius, despite my A-level results saying otherwise).

So what do we do with this new found knowledge of ourselves? Well for a start we can stop obsessing about the fact there is something ‘wrong’ and see it as the gift it is. OK life might be just a little more hard work for us than people who are not HSP’s (and admittedly more hard work for those around us, the man regularly has to spend hours placating me when I think I might have inadvertently hurt someone’s feelings or said the wrong thing: “Just chill OUT babe, it’s perfectly acceptable to say “you’re looking well” to a pregnant woman”). We might find it impossible to quieten the chatter in our brains, I am always jealous of the man when I ask him what he’s thinking about “What do you mean what am I thinking about? I’m eating my breakfast, I’m thinking about my breakfast”. Sometimes it feels like my brain never sleeps, in those rare times when I’m supposed to be sleeping in, my eyes are closed but my head is going a mile a minute with plans for the day, the week, the month ahead, I seriously need to deflea and worm the cats and did I say the wrong thing in that situation that happened fifteen years ago and doesn’t matter now anyway?

But I am also lucky enough to have found an outlet for my creativity (and neuroses) in my writing, and obsessing about offending people means that hopefully I won’t do it, and if I do, I will be aware of it and apologise (probably a little too profusely).

The best part of my new discovery is finally feeling that I’m not alone. I’m actually part of a rather exclusive club. There must be millions of people all over the country who are right now obsessing over whether or not the flippant use of “you’re looking well” actually meant they looked as if they were piling on the pounds.

See, that is why I love magazines. I’ve found all this out without having to spend a fortune on expensive therapy sessions or spending two hours in a germy doctor’s waiting room. Now I’m going to go and discover how Cameron Diaz gets her flat stomach.

A Rose By Any Other Name

Am I the only person that likes Baby Becks name, Harper Seven? Let’s be honest, we would all have been disappointed if they’d called her Jane. It might seem weird now but give it a few months to sink in and the latest round of copycat chavs will make it seem acceptable.

I never really thought about the responsibility parents faced when naming their children, but it’s a huge decision to have to make for someone. Do you go down the traditional or quirky route? If I was to see say, Rain Honeydew on a job application, I would most certainly expect someone to appear barefoot, chanting and smelling of patchouli. You can’t help but draw conclusions, and often forget that that person didn’t choose their name, it was their parents fault.

When pregnant with our first child we had a real struggle coming up with a boy’s name. All of the ‘normal’ boy’s names seemed too boring for this intelligent, popular and highly attractive offspring we had created, but at the same time we didn’t want to name him something totally bizarre and risk being the cause of ridicule. We went though baby name books, read the credits at the end of telly programmes and looked down every avenue in the hunt for the perfect title for our special little boy. Eventually the man came up with it while on the loo (true story, like most men, he does his best thinking there). Decision made, we stupidly asked people what they though about it. Forgetting of course that names tend to have a marmite effect, people either love them or hate them. Never ask people’s opinions about your baby name, it’s hard not to be offended when someone doesn’t like it; it’s tantamount to them not liking the baby.

If you talk to any parent about the name debate a big consideration is whether or not there will be four other children in their class with that name. They want their child to have a sense of individuality (although I think Zowie Bowie was pushing it a little). But, like everything else, certain names are fashionable, so no matter how ‘cool’ you think you are being, the likelihood is that some other parent not so far away is thinking the same thing about the name Harper or Aloicious. It’s also easy to be put off a name when you see a child with your chosen moniker behaving appallingly or with an incessantly snotty lip.

I quite like Harper, it’s nice and simple yet different. I have a problem with names that are not spelled phonetically. So I struggle with Irish names like Aoife and Siobhan because I just can’t work out how to spell them correctly. And trying to get two excited boys ready for a party is hard enough without trying to wrap my head around a random spelling situation for a birthday card. People sometimes get quite offended if you spell their kids names wrong, but I think you have to expect a certain amount of bad spelling if you have taken it upon yourself to choose a name whose spelling bears no resemblance to its pronunciation.

There are names which seem normal on the surface but are spelt in an unexpected way, just to make it seem different, or in the case of the brother and the man, because parents don’t like certain nicknames so try to avoid them being shortened to something more normal and boring. This plan will always backfire, if there is a normal and boring nickname that can be adopted it will be, children like normal and boring, and like me, like phonetic spellings.

To middle name or not? I think middle names are a great opportunity to get a little more creative, honour someone special or slip in a bit of family history. They don’t really serve any major purpose except giving you an extra initial, but R.W. Smith sounds so much more rounded and exciting than R. Smith, and of course there is the essential joy of any parent, being able to middle name you in public: “Richard Washington Smith if you do that one more time…”

What’s in a name anyway? Do we live up to our names? I think a name can provide a blueprint for how we are as a person, people with ‘weird’ names often feel like they need to prove that they are ‘normal’, and people with ‘normal’ names feel the need to prove that they are ‘special’ But as a parent, everything you do is wrong anyway and we will be blamed for their all their failings, weird name or not.

Welcome to the world Harper Seven.

Warning: Do Not Read This Blog Post

I’m a total sucker for reverse psychology, even unintentional. I was going into a garage the other day and there were cones all round the door and a huge sign saying “DANGER! Do NOT touch the door”. It took all my self control not to touch the door on my way past. Signs like that are just asking for trouble. I can often be found loitering with intent next to a wet paint sign, thinking “I wonder how wet it actually is?”

That “Do not click the red button” thing on the internet still always gets me, even though I have found myself clicking away at it knowing that nothing actually happens in the end, many, many times. Someone out there really knew how to waste people’s time. And why does Facebook seem so appealing when you’re at work and not meant to be looking at it?

I can go about my days perfectly happily not eating chocolate or stuffing cake into my face at every available opportunity, until I’m on a diet and instantly start craving Kit Kat Chunkys and ice-cream (and I normally don’t even like KitKats).

Why do I have to fight the urge to poke a knife in the toaster just to see if I really will electrocute myself? It’s not like I’m regularly standing over the toaster, knife in hand wrestling with myself, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a tiny part of me wondering what would happen if I touched those red stripy things with my butter knife.

We get so much information bombarded at us every second of every day no wonder we are susceptible to the most basic of human manipulation strategies.

Could the News of the World final edition also be reverse psychology at work? They say it’s the last, all proceeds to charity, now all of a sudden I am mourning its loss and rushing out to buy the final edition. And I don’t think I’ve ever actually bought it before. After all, companies use mind games like that on us all the time.

Teachers unintentionally used reverse psychology on us at school. We used to take our skirts up so people could “see what we’d had for breakfast” (that has to be the grossest but funniest line a teacher ever used on me), and every time we were told to let them down we would take them up even more. They really could have used reverse psychology to better effect there. If a teacher had said to us “You know what? Don’t wear a skirt at all tomorrow, we’d really like to see your pants” we all would have shown up in maxi skirts the very next day.

Children are very susceptible to reverse psychology. I use it often. You might call it manipulation; I call it getting out of the house on time. In fact, I use it so often and so casually I don’t even realise I’m doing it.

“My finger hurts!”

“Oh dear, maybe we should take you to the hospital, they’ll probably chop it off but you don’t really need that finger anyway do you? More peas?”

“Oh, it’s better now. Yes please, and can I have a biscuit for pudding?” I’m slightly concerned that I am doing nothing to prevent a hospital phobia in my children, but at least they don’t whine so much when they hurt themselves.

Is there something inside us that makes us want to do the opposite of what we’re told? Is it defiance, curiosity or just childishness? I will admit to all three.

So I asked the lady at the garage what would happen if I touched the door, I don’t know why but I was expecting a more exciting answer than a minibus had reversed into it leaving the whole framework of the door very unstable. Electrocution maybe, or at the very least some kind of buzzer going off and a voice coming out of nowhere saying “door has been touched, alert the guards”.

The funniest thing was that she said people had been touching it all day just to see what would happen. I wonder had they used a sign saying “Hey, touch this door now!” if everyone would have still touched it, I expect they would have. But if they had not put a sign up at all, just left the door propped open, I doubt anyone would’ve gone anywhere near it. What a bizarre bunch of folk we are.

And yes, I did touch the door on my way out, and much to my disgust, nothing happened.

Do me a favour

I’m one of those (irritating) people that will shamelessly ask for favours. I see nothing wrong in asking for help, maybe because I love doing favours myself. I just like to feel useful.

Giving and receiving favours contributes not only to a sense of community (which in my opinion we are in danger of completely losing in this country) but also creates feelings of good will on both sides. It feels good to be of use and to help someone, and it feels nice to be on the receiving end of an act of kindness. Good karma all round.

Research suggests that asking for favours actually endears you to people because the person has to justify to themselves why they are willing to help you. Do they like you? Or is it just to feel good themselves? Either way, it’s a win-win situation.

Last Christmas when we had all the snow there was a knock on our door. An elderly gent had brought his dog for a walk at the park by our house, but had locked his keys in his car. He asked me to call him a taxi so he could go home and get a spare. With two small kids staring at him like he was from outer space, and his poor dog looking terrified in our doorway, I called a taxi. The car arrived promptly but just as promptly sped off, refusing to take a “dirty, stinking old dog” in his car. I bundled up the kids and took the man and his dog, Ben, home to pick up his spare key. When I dropped him back off to his car the man tried to press a fiver into my hand. I of course refused, saying “I would hope if I were in a similar situation someone would do the same for me. Happy Christmas!” I have felt good about that day ever since (probably even better than the man did at the time) and I wouldn’t hesitate to do the same thing again. 

Recently I was asked to make a cake for a friend’s birthday. It took at least five hours of my time, plus traipsing about getting supplies but I loved every second of it. The friend was happy with his cake, and I loved every second of the five hours in clouds of flour and icing sugar and knowing I was helping someone out.

I don’t understand why some people are so averse to asking for favours. It’s not a sign of weakness and it’s no imposition unless you are guilt tripping someone into doing something they don’t want to (I have done it a few times but only to family members who are technically obliged to do anything I ask) and people are free to say no if they want. Some people may think they can get through life without asking for help, but it’s a damn sight harder and they won’t make any more friends along the way. There’s nothing like saying “Thank you, you really helped me out” to cement a friendship.

When working abroad for a bar I was paid in commission, but soon realised that I could boost my income by getting tips. People don’t generally tip for drinks so I needed to gently ask for them, by pushing my tip jar towards them, or casually pointing out that I only worked on commission. Many a time I was told I had a “brass neck” for asking, but I soon found that despite my “brass neck” the same people were coming back to me time and again, even asking for me on my nights off, and my tip jar was soon doubling, or even tripling, my otherwise pitiful income. The people who gave me tips usually got a slightly larger cocktail, or time spent outside work hours showing them around or telling them the best places to go. I still have many friends who started out as my customers at that bar, friends who I had asked for a “favour” of a tip of a few cents, and we have been giving and receiving favours ever since.

I’m not saying we should go overboard, and sometimes there’s a fine line to asking for a favour and blatantly taking the piss. But I see nothing wrong in asking for advice or help with something that I couldn’t otherwise manage myself.

In asking someone for a favour you are actually saying “Hey, I trust your judgement/ expertise/ knowledge/ kindness” and we could all do with a bit more of that in our lives.

So do yourself a favour, ask someone else for a favour this weekend, it might just make someone’s day.

You'll find me in the reduced section

I was watching some crap Saturday night telly – just realised how many of my blogs start with “I saw something on telly” - anyway, the idea was that Loraine Kelly, Jimmy Carr, and that guy from Gavin and Stacey would settle couples disagreements. One woman absolutely loved buying reduced food. She saved them an absolute fortune (although they both repeatedly said they didn’t “need” to so they must be minted), but the panel actually sided with the guy and she is now no longer allowed to shop in the reduced section. Harsh.

She was a bit of an extreme case but I absolutely love getting stuff reduced. There’s nothing quite like the thrill of getting something really cheap. Not just the half priced, half hearted “offers” the supermarkets are constantly throwing at us (although I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth) but it’s when you get something for just a few pence that really gets me going. I’ve been known to actively stalk the person with the reducing machine, and often walk down the same aisle five times in order to get that pizza that is already half price for even less because I just know it’s going down even more. Strangely, the reducing person is usually quite crabby and doesn’t appreciate being stalked.

I’ve seen a couple of episodes of an American show (telly again, but I write about popular culture, it’s my job to keep up to date with the current zeitgeist) called Extreme Couponing, where people were getting hundreds of dollars worth of shopping for a few dollars by seriously exploiting coupons. They also have days when coupons are worth double, and taking advantage of in-store offers, they were regularly getting paid to take stuff away. The shop staff loved it! Even the manager was laughing and giving them a round of applause.

That would never happen in this country. In Sainsburys that little printer regularly spews out about fifty little slips of paper which clog up my purse and usually end up in the bin. I actually tried to use one the other day and the till lady looked at me like I was trying to pay with a dog turd. She got her glasses out and read the small print, checking the date and the T&C’s, desperate to find a reason to refuse it. Seriously, you give them to me woman! It’s not even as if it was a coupon cut out of a magazine, although god forbid how they would react if I tried to pay with one of those. Maybe one day I’ll be organised enough to give it a go, I expect they have some kind of alarm system for those situations; I will be prepared to be escorted off the premises.

Shops actually get paid by manufacturers to use coupons, it just takes a bit more administration to process them. Clearly the supermarkets are rolling in so much cash they don’t need to spend an hour or two logging coupons to earn themselves a few extra quid. 

The man didn’t get my obsession with yellow labels until about a year ago when I sent him off to Tesco late one Saturday night with a short list of essentials. He happened to arrive just as they were doing the last of the reductions and got an obscene amount of stuff for a ridiculously low amount of pennies. He came back positively buzzing, fresh from popping his reduced food cherry. Finest sausages were the best buy at 49p a pack, straight in the freezer for them, 4 bags of slightly brown lettuce for 4p each, not quite so good as the man doesn’t eat lettuce and frankly I didn’t fancy it.

I watched another programme a few months ago (seriously, I have to get out more) about this guy who spent a month living off out of date food. He never once got ill, even when he ate some slightly green week past its date mince. I wouldn’t take a risk on the green mince, but most of the stuff I buy reduced just goes in the freezer. But I would stay away from dairy products that you can’t freeze, I think even my kids (who have been known to eat week old rice and peas from a drain and lick hose water off the patio) would question a lumpy yoghurt. But fruit, vegetables and freezable stuff is fine. It’s not as if the clock strikes midnight and food is suddenly sprouting mould and maggots anyway.

Reduced shopping is not without peril though. There have been a few times when I’ve come home with really random items that we would never eat, which technically means I’m wasting money rather than saving it. An old housemate had an obsession with reduced shopping, and one night he came home all excited because he had bought two tiny octopuses for 10p. They were too small to do anything with, and spent weeks going smelly in our fridge. 10p down and a smelly fridge? No thanks.

All danger of stinking your fridge out and making the kids ill with lumpy yoghurts aside, there’s nothing quite like the thrill of seeing those little yellow labels. And it’s great fun coming up with ways of using stuff that you don’t usually cook. Octopus and lettuce soup anyone?

Do Something Different

One of my favourite sayings is “if you keep doing what you’ve always done you’ll keep getting what you’ve always got”. It’s not just that I kind of have to think about it every time I hear it (so I can get my head around it) but I just love the way it’s such a universal concept, one saying fits all situations.

There’s a great episode of Friends (OK they’re all great) where Ross’ new years resolution is to do something new every day. One day he decides to try leather trousers. He has a total disaster date thanks to his trousers but his little son draws a picture of him dressed as a cowboy in his leather trousers, which makes it all worthwhile. Just goes to show that doing something different may not always work out, but something good will usually come of it.

I have to admit to being a bit of an adrenaline junkie as far as change is concerned. There’s nothing I like more than a good house move, new baby or change of career to get the adrenaline pumping and blow away the cobwebs. Trying new things revives me, and thinking about the possibilities of the unknown is a real thrill.

But it’s easy for me, the adrenaline junkie, to simply say “go out and do something different”. I get that there is comfort in doing what we’ve always done, the outcome is predictable. It might not be what we want it to be, but at least we know what will happen and can prepare for it.

We also reach a point in life where sweeping changes aren’t so simple. Suddenly there are other people and other factors to consider. Packing up and living abroad means taking kids out of school, and what about the mortgage?

So maybe drastically “doing something different” is impossible, and doing a 180 is just not practical. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t make smaller changes and see big differences.

After having each son I had period of time when I was very overweight, but continued to do nothing and eat everything. “I’m so fat” I would wail to whoever listened, spraying cake crumbs and wiping fallen cream off my (still maternity 6 months post pregnancy) top. One day I thought of the “if you keep doing…” phrase and I decided to do something different and change my habits. I am now fitter than I ever was pre-pregnancy, and back into clothes I haven’t been able to wear for five years. The benefits of more exercise and eating less crap far outweigh how hard it was to do something different.

The happiest people I know are the ones with their fingers in lots of different pies, and who aren’t afraid to try something new. My best friend, a single mum with a 2 year old to support, has recently started her own business and has plans to start another one, the mans oldest friend has his finger in lots of different business pies and his wife is not only about to make a major career move but recently took on learning to play the guitar. These people, and many others in my life, inspire me because they don’t just keep doing what they’ve always done.

Then there are our kids. As a rule, kids are generally happy little things. They lives are constantly changing, whether it’s a new class every year (or the move from preschool to the next “big” school), trying a new activity or that irritating way they like one food one week then despise it the next. Most kids aren’t set in their ways and are completely open to new ideas (even if they don’t realise they are). Maybe we can learn from them.

Making changes requires bravery, self belief and maybe a little of the thirst for the unknown that children seem to have. And we all have those things, if we just dig a little deeper to find them.

If I manage to teach my kids one thing I hope it will be that they can be whoever they want to be, get whatever they want, do whatever they like, as long as they’re willing to put the work in. Putting the work in doesn’t just mean getting your head down and doing it, but also being open to new ideas and being brave enough to put your ideas into practice.

Doing something even slightly differently can reap big rewards. Trying a new shower gel with a different fragrance might have a big impact on your day, if you’re into smelly stuff. Or trying tea instead of coffee, or a new class at the gym, or just phoning someone up that you haven’t spoken to for ages because you always text.

If you keep doing what you’ve always done, you’ll keep getting what you’ve always got. Think about it.

OK maybe this is all self help “clap trap”. We all know I’m a sucker for it. But don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Hey, it could be your something different to do today.

Parents Need A Laugh Too

A hit new book for parents entitled “Go The F*ck To Sleep” written as a parody of a children’s bedtime book has caused a media storm and hysterical rantings on the forums. The book is purely for sleep deprived parents who can see the funny side (and frankly, need a laugh) and not in any way intended to be a children’s book, but the do gooding crew are out to spoil our fun yet again.

The book is part of a growing section of the literary world. A quick peek on Amazon and I found a number of books in a similar vein including a book about dinosaurs entitled “All My Friends Are Dead” (which I thought was genius).

No one in their right mind would read any of these books to their children, but it has hit a raw nerve and everyone seems to have an opinion. One person on a forum I read even compared the book to combining In The Night Garden with hardcore porn. Seriously? The worst criticisms seem to hint that any parent who enjoys the book loves their kids less or worse still, are bad parents.

Parenting is such an emotive subject, with many people pious about their own methods and judgemental about others. Maybe it’s because we think we know so much more these days about what supposedly works and what doesn’t; breastfeeding boosts immunity and apparently IQ, never give your children turkey twizzlers or they’ll end up obese, don’t smack, do smack, don’t let them talk to the neighbours and even their teachers can’t be trusted (and don’t let a friend pick them up from school unless they are CRB checked), don’t let them spend the whole time indoors watching telly but don’t let them go to the park on their own. And now, apparently, don’t read grown up books with swear words in them.

Despite all the available advice I am struggling to find a solution specific to my particular problem. Son number one is nearly five and capable of opening the four stair gates that defend the rest of the house from his barrage, and also now it seems, capable of bringing son number two downstairs and serving up “breakfast” while the man and me are sleeping peacefully assuming the kids are doing the same. This morning I was greeted with an open fridge door swinging on its hinges, and a trail of food going from the kitchen to the sofa. Everything had been pilfered. Sausages, jelly, cheese, yoghurt, the last of the Easter eggs… son number one has a marmite sandwich and a pile of fruit for his lunch box today because the little monkeys ate everything else.

The naughty step has been hailed as a basic cure all when it comes to discipline, but how do you keep a two year old on it? There’s nothing son number two enjoys more than an hour or two of hysterical laughter watching mummy sweat as she keeps returning him to the step, son number one also enjoys that particular matinee performance. After two hours and being laughed at by two under fives, even I have forgotten the initial rule break.

I have also removed toys. In fact, the kids bedroom is now totally devoid of all toys, everything is in a bike locked cupboard, one box of toys to be removed at a time for supervised play.

But I’m really at a loss to know how to deal with the early morning fridge raids. Poor old son number one gets all the blame, after all he knows right from wrong. But son number two is only 22 months, and maybe he’s slow, but he just doesn’t get it. I am not going to start sleeping on the floor of the kids room, I know locking their door would be beyond dangerous, they don’t have access to any toys and are too young for pocket money. As a rule we don’t smack or hit, it just seems to give the wrong message and the few times we have done it has resulted in us getting a smack back.

Apparently you can get extra high stair gates for people with large dogs, which may be an option. Although what might confound a German Shepherd would be peanuts to my 2 year old with his advanced climbing skills.

We stick criminals in prison to teach them a lesson. I realise that having a cage for a naughty kid is a basic infringement of human rights, but every time I go to one of those soft play centres there is always a tiny part of me that thinks, could I make a small one of those and stick a lock on it…?

Being a parent is hard and we need a laugh occasionally. And as far as I know, the best parents are open-minded, flexible and most importantly have a sense a humour. I love the idea of “Go The F*ck To Sleep”, in fact I think they should make an entire series including “Eat Your F*cking Dinner”, “Because I Blo*dy Said So” and “Stop Kicking The Back Of My Car Seat You Little Sh*t”.

Summertime and the living is... dead flies, hairy armpits and torrential rain

Happiness abound, it is officially summer in the UK. So we can start to enjoy all those wonderful things that we wistfully dream of in the cold winter months, the smell of freshly mown lawns, barbeques… blah, blah, blah.

Summer gets romanticised in this country (because we get so little of it), however everyone is so busy extolling its virtues that we come back to earth with a bump when reminded of the crap stuff. Always one to err on the side of controversial, these are my top 5 summer snags.

1. Flies, wasps and other winged things

My house isn’t that messy or dirty, nor is it filled with rotting rubbish, or other unsavoury things that flies are meant to be drawn to. So why then, does it become overrun with huge flies the size of small dogs, constantly buzzing and bashing themselves against the windows? The fly infestation is made worse by the man’s regular killings sprees, leaving the carcasses lying around for son number 2 to examine, or worse, smeared across the window. I’d rather listen to them crashing into the window than have to deal with dried up old fly corpse.

Trying to enjoy a picnic in the sun? The second you open a packet of crisps a swarm of wasps will start flying threateningly around your ham sandwich. And I don’t care how many people tell me to stay still, it’s a basic fight or flight response to run around wildly flapping my arms. You can’t argue with science.

Mosquitoes keep me awake half the night too, not with their pitiful little whining noise, but with the man’s almost OCD-like hatred of them. He will go from peaceful slumber to leaping out of bed with absolutely no warning to jump around the room naked to kill the tiny beasts, lest they eat him alive: “It’s gone behind the bed, help me get it out so I can kill it”. Anything with wings spells trouble, and they seem to triple in volume sooner than you can say “cold glass of pinot blush on the patio”.

2. Unpredicitable weather

Winter dressing is easy: layers, layers and more layers. Summer clothes are far trickier, flipflops and boob tube (to avoid strap marks) are great when the sun is out, but when you get outside you find the wind chill is minus one and the kids are getting hypothermia in their vests and shorts. Then, just when you think you are beating the system “Ha, it might look warm but you got me with that one yesterday, I’m wearing my winter coat and dressing the kids in their thermals” only to get outside and find it’s sweltering and everyone is melting. And what’s with all this rain? Squelching and flapping about in wet gladiator sandals does not a happy me make. Not to mention spending numerous hours everyday putting washing on the line then retrieving it when there’s a downpour.

3. Dirty Windows

As soon as the sun comes out everyone walking past my house can see that I haven’t had my windows cleaned since Christmas.

4. Holidays (Or Not)

Summer holidays with kids are stressful, packing enough stuff to survive two weeks in a hot country without CBeebies on tap takes weeks of preparation and military precision. Not to mention the complaints; “this doesn’t taste like a normal sausage”, “it’s too hot” and crying for some random toy that hasn’t seen the light of day for months but suddenly is the most important  thing in the world and has been left languishing in the toy box at home, hardly a relaxing getaway. But despite all that, I would love to have a holiday, although the man and me are never organised enough or have the spare money to actually get one off the ground. I often think we are the only people on the planet not to have some sort of summer holiday. So while everyone is swanning off to some far flung corner of the globe to get all tanned and wrinkly in the sun I am still at home getting washing on and off the line.

5. Constant pressure to have toenails painted, legs waxed and fake tan on (and/or avoid unsightly strap marks)

In winter no one could ever know that your legs resemble an unmown lawn, or your toenails are long and horny with six month old grown out nail varnish on them, and there is no constant fear of dodgy strap marks (if you accidentally wear a vest top in May on a hot day, you will be ‘wearing’ it until next summer). But less clothing in summer means more upkeep. Maintaining a respectable level of personal grooming is so much less time consuming when you don’t have to shave your armpits every day.

Hey, I love summer as much as the next person. But let’s be realistic here, it’s not all barbeques and mojitos. Happy summer everyone!

I'll Get My Coat

I love You’ve Been Framed. It makes me feel so much better to know I’m not the only person who does embarrassing things. The difference being that the people on YBF have had their one, single embarrassing incident recorded for the entire nation to laugh about (it hasn’t happened to me yet, but it’s only a matter of time) but embarrassing things happen to me every day.

A few weeks ago I mentioned a mortifying situation where I had sent a rather personal and hideously graphic text message to the wrong person. This weekend I experienced the joys of reliving the entire sorry affair when I actually ran into the guy who received the text in a restaurant. To make it even worse, he hadn’t realised the text message was from me, and I not only reminded him of the incident but also revealed that it was me that had sent it. And this wasn’t simply an uncomfortable private exchange between me and said friend, it was witnessed, with much hilarity, by my entire book club. My only redemption was that the guy was a total gentleman, and dealt with the situation with the kind of grace I can only dream of having.

All I want is to get through my life with a little bit of class and some dignity please. Is that really too much to ask?

Having kids has provided even more material for the god of embarrassment to have a laugh on me. They get a daily treat of a lolly each and son number 2 being only 22 months has a habit of having what he wants of the lolly then leaving it lying around when something else comes along to take his attention. I regularly find lolly sticks stuck to the wall, shoved in the DVD player or floating in my coffee cup. So off I went one day to pick up son number 1 from preschool, for once feeling vaguely presentable because I had done my hair and put some slap on, only to get home and realise I had a sticky Drumstick with stringy stretched bits and tiny tooth marks in it, stuck to the back of my coat. Seriously, it could only happen to me. At least I’m well prepared for the moment when the kids start accusing me of being an embarrassing parent, I’m already there boys.

School was a particularly shameful time for me. I was the girl who once accidentally farted in class and my ‘friend’ outed me. I left a pair of knickers (lent to a friend who had stayed over at the weekend and returned that day) half hanging out of my locker, and came back to find a crowd of kids standing around my locker, laughing at my apple catchers. I could not deal with public speaking in any form and spent the most uncomfortable five minutes of everyone’s life stumbling through my essay on what I did on my holidays. Feeling like I was going to vomit, I decided to miss out the middle section so the story made no sense whatsoever, but was blissfully shorter than the original. My teacher glared at me, but the other kids and parents in the audience just looked relieved. They will thank me forevermore for cutting short a story which probably felt just as uncomfortable to them as me.

What made it worse was that teachers had absolutely no sympathy for my apparent lack of social grace and actually seemed to revel in my awkwardness by casting me in the worst possible roles in pageants and plays. The Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz, drawing attention to my rounded form in a costume made out of cardboard tubes covered in tin foil, and the Queen Mother in the Royal Wedding re-enactment (hideous hat, crepe dress and my mums bra stuffed with oranges). I never even got a look in as Dorothy or Lady Di, as I clearly did not possess the charm for such dignified ladies, only the kind of clunky demeanour which suited a large man made out of metal and a doddery old lady in high heels four sizes too big.

This is one of the reasons why I am reassessing my relationship with alcohol. Without it I am aware that I’m a magnet for embarrassing situations, and can attempt to modify my behaviour accordingly, yet after a few drinks I am still a magnet but start to believe I am actually graceful and dignified, dangerous territory.

I love You’ve Been Framed because while I can be the cackling person laughing at other peoples misfortunes (a side of the fence I rarely get to enjoy being on), I also totally empathise with the poor people falling off the stage, or catching their hair on fire on their birthday cake candles; because that person is ME, every single day.

The catch phrase “I’ll get my coat” may have been created just for me, because I so often wish I had just never left the house, the risk of humiliation is so much lower within your own four walls. When I want the ground to swallow me up I just feel like saying “I’ll get my coat”, except my coat would have a lolly stuck to the back of it, you know it.