OK, clearly it's not Easter but I have to say I feel that it is looming, in much the same way Christmas looms once October spills out of bed and cracks open a withery eye on September's breakfast. Already the dandelions are up in my lawn, winter must have gone.
I'm ambivalent about Easter. One the one hand, the whole rolicking pagansism of new chicks, painted eggs and hares and the rebirth of light (combined, of course, with all the chocolate) makes me deeply happy. On the other, this ancient and most awe-deserving of holidays has become just one more retail cash cow.
However, Easter, like All Hallow's Eve is, I think, powerful enough to overcome the crass consumerism that envelops some of our other old holidays like Christmas (Yule) , Valentine's Day, Mother's Day and all the other calendar-based excuses to spend needless money. Oh yes, we are inundated by invitations to spend money on cheap tat at Halloween and Easter, but critically, the things that sell on these two festivals, really, are absolutely relevant to the ancient intent of the dates.
What this means in fact is that at Easter, the biggest selling things are all to do, pretty much, with joy and happiness - and chocolate. Egg decorating, chocolate bunnies, cheesy bonnets, baskets of sweets, egg hunts - I have no issue with Easter as a commercialised event; because with the exception of a few very serious types, we don't celebrate death at Easter, we celebrate new life; joy; happiness - we turn our noses up at winter and possibly dance around the odd field. Or is that just the hares?
Anyway, all this preamble started off as an explanation as to why we accepted a PR invitation to go and see a screening 'Hop' the other week - because it looked like it was in the right spirit. And you know what? It was. Yes, the whole concept is as light and fluffy as the main character and one could fit the whole cinema into some of the gaps in the plot; but hey, this is a children's film. About Easter. It has rabbits and chocolate in it - and the evil chick is not Angelina Jolie in a leather corset but something yellow and ridiculous with a beak.
The screening was sponsored by Lindt and there is seriously nothing like walking into a room and finding a man in an apron surrounded by chocolate rabbits to make everything OK but I would have loved this film anyway for what it is - a little bit of celebratory confectionary; a bit funny, a bit sweet, perfect. It's not the world's greatest anything; but if you have kids, I'd be willing to bet that they'll like this film. Charlie and his mate Einstein, who is fairly discerning for 4, loved it. Go see it.
And that's that. Easter is coming, dig out the bonnets, dig up the garden, all that dies will be reborn. Especially, if you look at my garden, the dandelions.
****This is a review, for which I received 4 tickets to the advance screening of Hop, along with not-inconsiderable amounts of chocolate bunnies and some fluffy bunny ears. For Charlie, people...****
Sunday, April 03, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
screaming heebie jeebies
Charlie has developed a new weapon in his 4-year-old arsenal. While it's not as funny, or frankly inventive, as blowing fart noises out of his bottom with the aid of a plastic hose (see last post) it does however have its own humour value.
I picked him up from a late playdate, having given him a 15-minute warning that turned into 30 while I had a good old gas with his friend's Mum. This however Was Not Good Enough and on the announcement that it was past bedtime and therefore time to depart, he tried pretty much every trick. He hid. He clung to the bannisters. He wailed and screamed and lay on the floor. He went limp when I tried to get his coat on and when it was clear he had to go, he stumbled out of the front door in a sort of 'C' shape with his head practically tucked under his arm in despair.
The moment the door closed, the litany started, like listening to the chanting of a Catholic priest, only sung at top volume whilst walking through darkly silent residential streets. It went something like this... "I-DONT-EVER-WANT-TO-GO-ANYWHERE-AGAIN-BECAUSE-YOU'LL-ONLY-TAKE-ME-HOME-AND-I-JUST-WANT-TO-STAY-IN-OUR-LITTLE-HOUSE-I-LOVE-OUR-LITTLE-HOUSE-I-JUST-WANT-TO-STAY-HOME-AND-I-DON'T-WANT-TO-SEE-MY-FRIENDS-BECAUSE-YOU'LL-JUST-MAKE-ME-LEAVE-AND-I-WANT-100-SLEEPOVERS-AT-NOLAS-HOUSE-AND-YOU-CAN'T-TAKE-ME-HOME-EVER-AGAIN-AND-I-DON'T-WANT-CUDDLES-AND-I-WON'T-EAT-DINNER-AND-YOU-MUST-NEVER-EVER-NEVER-NEVER-EVER-EVER-SPEAK-TO-ME-AGAIN"...
It went on nearly all the way home while I walked beside him biting my lip... eventually I interupted him to ask if he'd like to have one or two stories for bedtime and he went from 60 to zero in one second flat, answering me in a perfectly sane voice "I want three stories Mummy. And do you know? Max has a new car!"
He then chatted aimiably at me for the duration of the walk home.
It's like living with a mad person.
I'm not sure I'll ever keep up
I picked him up from a late playdate, having given him a 15-minute warning that turned into 30 while I had a good old gas with his friend's Mum. This however Was Not Good Enough and on the announcement that it was past bedtime and therefore time to depart, he tried pretty much every trick. He hid. He clung to the bannisters. He wailed and screamed and lay on the floor. He went limp when I tried to get his coat on and when it was clear he had to go, he stumbled out of the front door in a sort of 'C' shape with his head practically tucked under his arm in despair.
The moment the door closed, the litany started, like listening to the chanting of a Catholic priest, only sung at top volume whilst walking through darkly silent residential streets. It went something like this... "I-DONT-EVER-WANT-TO-GO-ANYWHERE-AGAIN-BECAUSE-YOU'LL-ONLY-TAKE-ME-HOME-AND-I-JUST-WANT-TO-STAY-IN-OUR-LITTLE-HOUSE-I-LOVE-OUR-LITTLE-HOUSE-I-JUST-WANT-TO-STAY-HOME-AND-I-DON'T-WANT-TO-SEE-MY-FRIENDS-BECAUSE-YOU'LL-JUST-MAKE-ME-LEAVE-AND-I-WANT-100-SLEEPOVERS-AT-NOLAS-HOUSE-AND-YOU-CAN'T-TAKE-ME-HOME-EVER-AGAIN-AND-I-DON'T-WANT-CUDDLES-AND-I-WON'T-EAT-DINNER-AND-YOU-MUST-NEVER-EVER-NEVER-NEVER-EVER-EVER-SPEAK-TO-ME-AGAIN"...
It went on nearly all the way home while I walked beside him biting my lip... eventually I interupted him to ask if he'd like to have one or two stories for bedtime and he went from 60 to zero in one second flat, answering me in a perfectly sane voice "I want three stories Mummy. And do you know? Max has a new car!"
He then chatted aimiably at me for the duration of the walk home.
It's like living with a mad person.
I'm not sure I'll ever keep up
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
...so you strap what to your feet and go where?
OK, so my attitude to skiing, based on encounters with the smug, orange offspring of the rich during my impoverished and geeky youth, used to be that it is a sport undertaken by awful people. This attitude changed radically when I realised that actually, some of my favourite people ski; but I never for a second felt the urge to participate.
At the age of 39, however, I married a skier (I'm not actually sure which was more surprising). Anyway, it became clear that there was a silent clause in our vows in which, apparently, the JP said 'and will you take this man skiing' just before I said the two dangerous words.
I dutifully followed the Frog off to the slopes with somewhat predictable results, ie, I hated it and only went back on extreme suffrance.
I fell down and couldn't get up, like a living, breathing old lady joke. I shouted. I threw things. I fell over again. I may have cried. 3 ski trips later and I could actually ski successfully, albeit with scant enjoyment. I became resigned to my fate, I purchased ski boots - then, mercifully, I fell pregnant and have managed to avoid skiing for more years than I could ever have hoped.
However, time has a sort of relentless thing about it and we now have a son big enough to be strapped into skis and thrown down a snowy hill - so, an uncharacteristically cheerful Frog booked a ski weekend recently and that's pretty much what we did to Charlie. Poor boy.
He fell over and couldn't get up. He shouted. He threw things. He cried so much his sunscreen washed off. He did, however, actually ski, loved it and is dying to go back. The Frog says he is clearly my son. I say, on evidence, he is clearly his Father's boy.
Importantly however, I've discovered that I have become a better skier simply by not skiing. It's true! I've not been near a slope for 6 years now and I can actually ski like a proper skiing person. This is great.
Perhaps, if I stay off the slopes for another 6 years I may actually become world class... however given I am outnumbered in this house by remorselessly keen ski people, I don't much fancy my chances.
At the age of 39, however, I married a skier (I'm not actually sure which was more surprising). Anyway, it became clear that there was a silent clause in our vows in which, apparently, the JP said 'and will you take this man skiing' just before I said the two dangerous words.
I dutifully followed the Frog off to the slopes with somewhat predictable results, ie, I hated it and only went back on extreme suffrance.
I fell down and couldn't get up, like a living, breathing old lady joke. I shouted. I threw things. I fell over again. I may have cried. 3 ski trips later and I could actually ski successfully, albeit with scant enjoyment. I became resigned to my fate, I purchased ski boots - then, mercifully, I fell pregnant and have managed to avoid skiing for more years than I could ever have hoped.
However, time has a sort of relentless thing about it and we now have a son big enough to be strapped into skis and thrown down a snowy hill - so, an uncharacteristically cheerful Frog booked a ski weekend recently and that's pretty much what we did to Charlie. Poor boy.
Importantly however, I've discovered that I have become a better skier simply by not skiing. It's true! I've not been near a slope for 6 years now and I can actually ski like a proper skiing person. This is great.
Perhaps, if I stay off the slopes for another 6 years I may actually become world class... however given I am outnumbered in this house by remorselessly keen ski people, I don't much fancy my chances.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
A civilised day out...
We've been doing a few things... and not just in my head either; that's just how I'm updating this god-forsaken offering to the lord of the internets.
Charlie and I sometimes meet a group of mates for outings where we basically get the kids outside, crank 'em up and let them run themselves down so far that they sleep for a month. We tend to end up at places like Barnes Wetland Centre where we like to imagine the civilising effect we are having on our offspring; although in fact we are actually there for the awesome playground and the cafe.
This time it was Wisley and it was brilliant - you can walk around all day and every 5 minutes something new heaves into view that the kids want to jump on - and, critically, there is a cafe hidden in every corner. It was a wonderful day out - bracing, educational, lovely flowers, butterflies... and here are the pictures of this civilised and inspiring venture:
Charlie and I sometimes meet a group of mates for outings where we basically get the kids outside, crank 'em up and let them run themselves down so far that they sleep for a month. We tend to end up at places like Barnes Wetland Centre where we like to imagine the civilising effect we are having on our offspring; although in fact we are actually there for the awesome playground and the cafe.
This time it was Wisley and it was brilliant - you can walk around all day and every 5 minutes something new heaves into view that the kids want to jump on - and, critically, there is a cafe hidden in every corner. It was a wonderful day out - bracing, educational, lovely flowers, butterflies... and here are the pictures of this civilised and inspiring venture:
Monday, February 28, 2011
Is that the time?
I envy those who manage to blog frequently... so often these days I either have
a - nothing to say or
b - no memory of what it was I thought I had to say earlier when I was doing something else.
So here I go, trying to wrest some content out of the shallows of my brain pan. I've been trying to learn how to relax recently. You know those bogus questionnaires that ask stupid and meaningless questions with the goal of either promoting some dreadful product or wasting a slack 10 minutes on the bus? You know the ones 'if you were an animal, which animal would you be?' - at the end they tell the reader that one is a wolf with killer instincts or something equally flattering and one bounces off to work feeling all empowered; only to realise that one is in fact a mouse, or perhaps some sort of invertebrate lagoon dweller and one's day is swiftly shot to hell, along with one's self image.
Anyway, I suppose I've always quite fancied myself as some sort of romantic creature; perhaps a deer, swift and mysterious; or a cat, cunning and fast - or perhaps something terribly laid-back and calm. The truth, I realise, is that I'm more like a rabbit; I'm constantly flitting about in a state of high nerves and am capable of long periods of deep hibernation. Actually, I'm pretty much always in a state of high activity.
I've tried a few things to combat this; exercise, booze, meditation;a friend has recommended some NLP techniques which occasionally help. Sadly my brain is a match for anything I throw at it and the result is that sometimes it sort of goes into overload and bits of it disconnect from other bits; which is where I find myself at the moment, with some sort of internal disconnect. I just can't make things match up, as thought two parts of my brain are thinking independently and I just can't communicate with myself.
Which means, of course, that communicating with this blog is hopeless... which won't exactly stop me but might just keep slowing me down.
a - nothing to say or
b - no memory of what it was I thought I had to say earlier when I was doing something else.
So here I go, trying to wrest some content out of the shallows of my brain pan. I've been trying to learn how to relax recently. You know those bogus questionnaires that ask stupid and meaningless questions with the goal of either promoting some dreadful product or wasting a slack 10 minutes on the bus? You know the ones 'if you were an animal, which animal would you be?' - at the end they tell the reader that one is a wolf with killer instincts or something equally flattering and one bounces off to work feeling all empowered; only to realise that one is in fact a mouse, or perhaps some sort of invertebrate lagoon dweller and one's day is swiftly shot to hell, along with one's self image.
Anyway, I suppose I've always quite fancied myself as some sort of romantic creature; perhaps a deer, swift and mysterious; or a cat, cunning and fast - or perhaps something terribly laid-back and calm. The truth, I realise, is that I'm more like a rabbit; I'm constantly flitting about in a state of high nerves and am capable of long periods of deep hibernation. Actually, I'm pretty much always in a state of high activity.
I've tried a few things to combat this; exercise, booze, meditation;a friend has recommended some NLP techniques which occasionally help. Sadly my brain is a match for anything I throw at it and the result is that sometimes it sort of goes into overload and bits of it disconnect from other bits; which is where I find myself at the moment, with some sort of internal disconnect. I just can't make things match up, as thought two parts of my brain are thinking independently and I just can't communicate with myself.
Which means, of course, that communicating with this blog is hopeless... which won't exactly stop me but might just keep slowing me down.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
London Days
Finally, I feel like spring might actually be arriving. Come Imbolc there was still the threat of snow, and while snodrops were up in the park, the ones in my garden hadn't even popped their cherries.
Today, however, I looked out the window and there they were, or most of them, the Frog has stabbed a garden light into the middle of the patch but most of them seem up and bobbing about. Not only that, but yesterday we had actual sun; and the magnolias are out on the next street and a few other blossoms are stinking up the air something lovely.
Tomorrow it's Friday - Charlie day. It's not my day off, it's the one day I spend alone with my son. I can't say how cool Fridays now that the boy is actively involved in plotting them out - sometimes we spend all week planning.
This year we've already been to the Natural History Museum and the Science Museum - and the Transport Museum twice; last time we even found something new. It was sort of a great day; it was pissing down with rain and we rode at the top of the bus to Trafalgar square.
He loves the square even when there's nothing going on; he loves the fountains, mainly. Once there was an ice bear; once some great big tree trunks; once the fountains were full of flowers. The changing sculpture on the 4th plinth has been great - he loved the big ship in a bottle. Last time it was so wet that I splashed out on a taxi from the square to the museum. As I sat, driving through London in the back of a taxi with my four-year-old raving about everything he could see out of the windows, I felt sort of brilliant, to tell the truth. Afterwards we had pizza in Covent Garden and watched the street performers.
London has opened up; we're not just after open spaces and playgrounds anymore; we're on the hunt for new things. I've promised him a trip to the Tower of London when the weather clears up, we've got the Zoo in our sights and the Musieum of London might get a look in . Sometimes we just hang local - last week it was lunch with friends around the corner, sometimes it's just the park or a clear up in the garden.
Suddenly my urge to move out of the city doesn't seem quite so pressing now that all this cool stuff is on the agenda. I don't know what I'm going to do when he goes to school in September. Work I expect. Miss him, probably.
Today, however, I looked out the window and there they were, or most of them, the Frog has stabbed a garden light into the middle of the patch but most of them seem up and bobbing about. Not only that, but yesterday we had actual sun; and the magnolias are out on the next street and a few other blossoms are stinking up the air something lovely.
Tomorrow it's Friday - Charlie day. It's not my day off, it's the one day I spend alone with my son. I can't say how cool Fridays now that the boy is actively involved in plotting them out - sometimes we spend all week planning.
This year we've already been to the Natural History Museum and the Science Museum - and the Transport Museum twice; last time we even found something new. It was sort of a great day; it was pissing down with rain and we rode at the top of the bus to Trafalgar square.
He loves the square even when there's nothing going on; he loves the fountains, mainly. Once there was an ice bear; once some great big tree trunks; once the fountains were full of flowers. The changing sculpture on the 4th plinth has been great - he loved the big ship in a bottle. Last time it was so wet that I splashed out on a taxi from the square to the museum. As I sat, driving through London in the back of a taxi with my four-year-old raving about everything he could see out of the windows, I felt sort of brilliant, to tell the truth. Afterwards we had pizza in Covent Garden and watched the street performers.
London has opened up; we're not just after open spaces and playgrounds anymore; we're on the hunt for new things. I've promised him a trip to the Tower of London when the weather clears up, we've got the Zoo in our sights and the Musieum of London might get a look in . Sometimes we just hang local - last week it was lunch with friends around the corner, sometimes it's just the park or a clear up in the garden.
Suddenly my urge to move out of the city doesn't seem quite so pressing now that all this cool stuff is on the agenda. I don't know what I'm going to do when he goes to school in September. Work I expect. Miss him, probably.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Lies we tell our children
Here are some of the lies I've told Charlie this week:
- Reeses Peanut Butter Cups only have 2 cups in a pack.
- Yes, you DID win
- You did a very good job of wiping your bottom
- That's not funny
- I'm still cross
The hardest one is 'that's not funny'... Imagine if you will... it's late, he's been playing up all evening, he's refusing to put on his pyjamas and has resorted to parading around waggling his bottom in the air and making fart noises. Although funny, this could be resisted if it wasn't for the expression on his face, which is priceless and becomes more so once he feels he has the upper hand, ie, catches me smirking.
Hard to stay cross but somehow, I managed.
I did, however, not feel guilty about that 3rd peanut butter cup.
.
- Reeses Peanut Butter Cups only have 2 cups in a pack.
- Yes, you DID win
- You did a very good job of wiping your bottom
- That's not funny
- I'm still cross
The hardest one is 'that's not funny'... Imagine if you will... it's late, he's been playing up all evening, he's refusing to put on his pyjamas and has resorted to parading around waggling his bottom in the air and making fart noises. Although funny, this could be resisted if it wasn't for the expression on his face, which is priceless and becomes more so once he feels he has the upper hand, ie, catches me smirking.
Hard to stay cross but somehow, I managed.
I did, however, not feel guilty about that 3rd peanut butter cup.
.
Friday, January 21, 2011
The kids are alright - confessions of an honest parent
The frog, in one of his more humorous moments, sent me a link to a story on the BBC website the other day talking about how Mums lie to each other about the amount of TV their kids watch, how many video games they play; how much time they spend with their kids and presumably how well they feed them, dress them, punish them etc etc.
The article said that the main pressure on us parents is - ta dah! Other parents! Well duh. Isn't peer pressure always the main pressure? I read it through and sadly couldn't sympathise; I have to say we don't have that problem in Brixton; at least not the parents I know.
What we have is more like a circle of condolence. It goes like this: I rock up at nursery about 30 seconds before they fine me for being late. As I'm stuffing Charlie's arms into his coat and prying the nursery helicopter out of his paws, I notice his mate being bagged up by the staff, her coat zipped, her rucksack installed on her shoulders - I ring her Mum who is out of breath and five minutes away; she speaks to the staff, I take the two kids back to our flat and start tea. (Sometimes this happens in reverse and I am the one receiving the call as I puff down the street).
A few moments later, the errant Mum rings the bell and we sit down to confess our sins. Wine is drunk, the kids are left to play with their food to their hearts' content. What, you might ask, are our sins? We work too much. The kids watch too much telly. We shout at them. We feed them things out of the freezer, out of tins and packets. We ignore them, spoil them, punish them, bribe them. We're tired, we look like shit, we're wearing the same things three days in a row, we wish we were better parents. We admire each other, confess more sins and end up feeling... pretty damn good about ourselves, to be honest.
There's no oneuppance here and it's the same whenever any of us get together. We're free to bitch, moan, produce cake out of a packet and expose ourselves - and do you know why? Because we have a troupe of happy, healthy kids.
Yes, they probably eat too many fish fingers, watch too much TV and play too many games on their parents' iPhone but evidence shows they are equally happy to pack about together armed with nothing more than sticks and bits of fabric and make up their own games. They fight monsters, they built towers, they say please, they hug their friends; they sing and dance and cajole and laugh and cry and object to bedtime and lie about their misdemeanours; they fight and tell tales and pick their noses and go to bed begging for more stories - in other words, they're perfectly healthy kids.
They're loved, fed, clothed and warm - they're fine. Who cares if we're not up at the crack of arse making fairy cakes and cutting sandwiches into stars? Who? Who cares about this crap? Whatever we might be doing to them, we've come to the conclusion that we're all essentially the same and that they're probably going to turn out just great.
When I got pregnant I was often told that I was about to join the least exclusive club in the world. Billions are in it already - so, come on, let's be honest with each other. Even you, Super-Mum. You may pitch up at the school gates looking immaculate with a hand-cooked lunch, hold down a full time job and bake award-winning cakes before bedtime but be honest with the rest of us - it's hard work and sometimes even you, my girl, fuck up.
Let's cut each other some slack. We're all shit parents in one way or another and you know what? The kids are alright.
The article said that the main pressure on us parents is - ta dah! Other parents! Well duh. Isn't peer pressure always the main pressure? I read it through and sadly couldn't sympathise; I have to say we don't have that problem in Brixton; at least not the parents I know.
What we have is more like a circle of condolence. It goes like this: I rock up at nursery about 30 seconds before they fine me for being late. As I'm stuffing Charlie's arms into his coat and prying the nursery helicopter out of his paws, I notice his mate being bagged up by the staff, her coat zipped, her rucksack installed on her shoulders - I ring her Mum who is out of breath and five minutes away; she speaks to the staff, I take the two kids back to our flat and start tea. (Sometimes this happens in reverse and I am the one receiving the call as I puff down the street).
A few moments later, the errant Mum rings the bell and we sit down to confess our sins. Wine is drunk, the kids are left to play with their food to their hearts' content. What, you might ask, are our sins? We work too much. The kids watch too much telly. We shout at them. We feed them things out of the freezer, out of tins and packets. We ignore them, spoil them, punish them, bribe them. We're tired, we look like shit, we're wearing the same things three days in a row, we wish we were better parents. We admire each other, confess more sins and end up feeling... pretty damn good about ourselves, to be honest.
There's no oneuppance here and it's the same whenever any of us get together. We're free to bitch, moan, produce cake out of a packet and expose ourselves - and do you know why? Because we have a troupe of happy, healthy kids.
Yes, they probably eat too many fish fingers, watch too much TV and play too many games on their parents' iPhone but evidence shows they are equally happy to pack about together armed with nothing more than sticks and bits of fabric and make up their own games. They fight monsters, they built towers, they say please, they hug their friends; they sing and dance and cajole and laugh and cry and object to bedtime and lie about their misdemeanours; they fight and tell tales and pick their noses and go to bed begging for more stories - in other words, they're perfectly healthy kids.
They're loved, fed, clothed and warm - they're fine. Who cares if we're not up at the crack of arse making fairy cakes and cutting sandwiches into stars? Who? Who cares about this crap? Whatever we might be doing to them, we've come to the conclusion that we're all essentially the same and that they're probably going to turn out just great.
When I got pregnant I was often told that I was about to join the least exclusive club in the world. Billions are in it already - so, come on, let's be honest with each other. Even you, Super-Mum. You may pitch up at the school gates looking immaculate with a hand-cooked lunch, hold down a full time job and bake award-winning cakes before bedtime but be honest with the rest of us - it's hard work and sometimes even you, my girl, fuck up.
Let's cut each other some slack. We're all shit parents in one way or another and you know what? The kids are alright.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Great big little white lies
Charlie has discovered lying.
I've suspected this for a while but have cut him a lot of slack given how easily confused a 4-year-old can get about even the smallest things, like remembering what they had for lunch, for example, or where they left your telephone, or which bed they're supposed to sleep in...
Anyway, so when he says something that sounds a little hinky, I've been giving him the benefit of the doubt, however clearly, this has backfired.
We are big fans of star charts here. We incentivise pretty heavily - for every 10 stars, he gets to choose a new Chuggington toy. It's not a give-away though, oh no. The criteria is tough and every day in which he doesn't earn a star we actually take one away... it took him nearly a month to earn his last one. I know, call me Cruella.
While this has moved certain behaviours of his along in leaps and bounds, it's also a pretty keen incentive for him to tell a few big fat porkies - I don't want to damage his dignity here, but I'm certain he's having things done for him at nursery that he's supposed to be doing himself and he's earned a star or two off the back of it... and inspired him to try out lying as, essentially, his default position.
Luckily, while he's got a face that'll do him proud around a poker table later in life, currently his lies are pretty unsophisticated - here's one from tonight:
Charlie: 'I'd like to play for 10 more minutes Mummy'
Me: 'OK, I'll set the alarm for 10 minutes'
Charlie: (realising he bid too low) 'NO MUMMY, I said TWELVE minutes'
Me: (laughing) 'No you didn't, you clearly told me10 minutes'
Charlie: (even louder) 'NO MUMMY, I SAID IT TO DADDY I SAID TWELVE MINUTES TO DADDY'
Me: (to Frog) 'Did you tell Charlie he could play for 12 minutes?'
Frog: 'No!'
Charlie: (Makes general freaking out sounds, shouts, pouts and then gives up when he realises he's done for) 'OK Mummy, you set the alarm for 10 minutes.'
Me: 'It's 8 minutes now'.
It's a bit worrying; we need to teach him to tell the truth but I'm not quite certain how... He's never been punished for telling the truth but we've not exactly made a big deal out of it either; we've sort of assumed a natural honesty in him that perhaps should have been rewarded.
So, perhaps I need to reward him for telling the truth more often. I smell another star chart...
I've suspected this for a while but have cut him a lot of slack given how easily confused a 4-year-old can get about even the smallest things, like remembering what they had for lunch, for example, or where they left your telephone, or which bed they're supposed to sleep in...
Anyway, so when he says something that sounds a little hinky, I've been giving him the benefit of the doubt, however clearly, this has backfired.
We are big fans of star charts here. We incentivise pretty heavily - for every 10 stars, he gets to choose a new Chuggington toy. It's not a give-away though, oh no. The criteria is tough and every day in which he doesn't earn a star we actually take one away... it took him nearly a month to earn his last one. I know, call me Cruella.
While this has moved certain behaviours of his along in leaps and bounds, it's also a pretty keen incentive for him to tell a few big fat porkies - I don't want to damage his dignity here, but I'm certain he's having things done for him at nursery that he's supposed to be doing himself and he's earned a star or two off the back of it... and inspired him to try out lying as, essentially, his default position.
Luckily, while he's got a face that'll do him proud around a poker table later in life, currently his lies are pretty unsophisticated - here's one from tonight:
Charlie: 'I'd like to play for 10 more minutes Mummy'
Me: 'OK, I'll set the alarm for 10 minutes'
Charlie: (realising he bid too low) 'NO MUMMY, I said TWELVE minutes'
Me: (laughing) 'No you didn't, you clearly told me10 minutes'
Charlie: (even louder) 'NO MUMMY, I SAID IT TO DADDY I SAID TWELVE MINUTES TO DADDY'
Me: (to Frog) 'Did you tell Charlie he could play for 12 minutes?'
Frog: 'No!'
Charlie: (Makes general freaking out sounds, shouts, pouts and then gives up when he realises he's done for) 'OK Mummy, you set the alarm for 10 minutes.'
Me: 'It's 8 minutes now'.
It's a bit worrying; we need to teach him to tell the truth but I'm not quite certain how... He's never been punished for telling the truth but we've not exactly made a big deal out of it either; we've sort of assumed a natural honesty in him that perhaps should have been rewarded.
So, perhaps I need to reward him for telling the truth more often. I smell another star chart...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)