Category Archives: Parenting

October blues

16 Tuesday Oct 2018

Posted by in Divorce, mental health, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Parenting

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It’s been a funny old month, October. For a number of reasons.

The light is going. And the twinkly Christmas ones to replace it are still a long way off. Dark days often breed dark thoughts…

It was, of course, mental health awareness day, an issue close to my heart (and head), but that I’ve struggled to write about, because I’m… struggling.

It’s also baby loss awareness month (and day earlier this week) and like so many others I’m remembering, keenly, my miscarriage. Perhaps because my Big baby turns 7 this month, perhaps because my Small baby is losing her squidge, perhaps because of the increasing certainty she is indeed my last baby – perhaps because it’s the birthday month of the baby inbetween, that never was.

But perhaps mostly because I can trace the rot in my marriage back to this loss… Which meant everything to me, maybe too much. And not enough to him.

This is also the month Dadoffthenetherege officially left, a year ago. It has been the very fastest and tortuously slow year of my life. And things are currently more uncertain than ever. I still don’t know where we’ll live, how to make it all work, how to support the kids through it, how I’ll support us going forward, or what to do for the best.

The common theme that draws all of this October stuff together is the loss of a vision for the future.

I didn’t lose a baby, you see. I lost an empty egg sac. But it was real to me – I yearned for it, I invested in it. And when it was gone, I grieved it. The same for my rotten relationship. I lost a future – and a family I wanted so badly that I hung on to the false vision for far too damn long. I still pine for it.

This loss of future vision is the crux of mental ill-health, for me. The source of the very darkest days. As a child, my OCD left me without being able to see a future for myself that didn’t include debilitating rituals – where I could only see the gloom and falling doom of not completing them. Similarly my depression and anxiety are all about interrupted vision – not being able to see clearly through the fog, the wood for the trees – or only being able to see potential disaster, and choking on it daily.

I have never yet reached a stage where my vision for the future is so distorted or obscured that it looks better without me in it. But I can feel and understand how that pathway unfolds. And that is frightening enough.

People are built on their visions for themselves, their families, and their futures. And when something rocks that, blocks that – whether it’s loss or life or something else – that’s when we struggle. That’s when the dark creeps in round the edges, or rushes in all at once.

The thing I’ve learned, I suppose, is that your vision can’t always be trusted. What you see or can’t see, in front of your face or into your future, isn’t always real.

Sometimes it’s idealistic, and just isn’t true or achievable.
Sometimes it’s catastrophic, and that isn’t true either.
Sometimes it’s just blurred, and you need to give your eyes a good rub and your glasses a good clean.
Sometimes it’s a dream, and you need to wake up.
Sometimes it’s a mirage, an hallucination, and you need medical intervention – or at the very least a bit of a lie down.
Sometimes you’re just looking at it from the wrong angle, so you can’t see it properly.
Sometimes everything you can see really IS completely awful and empty and black – but it’s not really everything. There are still some good bits underneath the big bad bits.

The point is, you can’t always believe what you see. And you can’t always see what you believe. Vision changes. And if you can wait it out you will see things differently. There will be a new vision. Always. You just have to live through the loss of the old one. And be brave enough to look again.

Right now, I am between visions. And I’m not going to lie to you, it is a scary place. I daren’t look at anything in too much detail, or look too far around or down – in case I fall.

So I’m going from day to day hoping for the best, refusing to worry about the worst, and trusting it will all work out in the end – or that someone will catch me before I hit the bottom. I’m living for the light days. And there are more of them.

And one day, I know there will be enough light to see a new future, and enough stability to build it.

It just probably won’t be a day in October.

The Packing Of The Bags

31 Tuesday Jul 2018

Posted by in Humour, Motherhood, Parenting

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The Packing Of The Bags.

This, more than anything else, epitomises for me what’s now called the ‘mental load’ of motherhood.

And I’m afraid it is Mums who cop for The Packing Of The Bags, more often than not.

Everyone knows that as soon as you have the baby the physical load of what you have to carry round is frankly enormous. Nappies, spare clothes, change mat, wipes, bottle, dummy, sanitisers, warming holders, spare bottle, food, food options, the one spoon they’ll actually eat from, muslins, bibs, scratch mitts, hat, toys, nappy bags, pram/buggy, umbrella, etc etc.

But it’s not the fact you have to leave the house carrying slightly more than the SAS on 3-day exercise drills that’s so draining – it’s the thinking through the day’s eventualities for each and every member of the family – day in and day out.

It is debilitatingly exhausting.

And misunderstood.

“It’s just putting a few things in a bag, what are you making such a fuss about?”

This is a direct quote, and fairly typical of the mystified reaction of, let’s face it, Dads.

I once (perhaps twice) threw all my toys out of the pram (metaphorically) and told HIM to pack the bag for a change. I was told it was harder for him as he doesn’t do it that often and easier for me because I do it all the time. WHICH IS EXACTLY THE POINT.

All. The. Time.

The minutiae of everyday, step-by-step, running through your head on a loop. Who’s got to be where by when. What they need with them. If they/you can carry it. Where the car seats are and when they can be swapped round. All of it.

It’s like constant crisis, contingency and inter-dependency planning, in your head.

And it’s NOT easy.

When you’ve got more kids you’ve got the school bag, too. **Shudder**.

Not to mention your work bag and handbag.

And no, just because it’s now the school holidays DOES NOT MAKE IT ANY EASIER.

Because now you have The Packing Of The Picnic and The Packing Of The Suitcase too – GOD HELP US ALL.

Even in regular term time, it’s not like it’s the same stuff going into The Packing Of The Bags every day.

A consistent groundhog day would actually be comparatively easy – but this really never happens.

* On a Monday it’s swimming, so pack the kit – not THAT towel the other one – and don’t forget the snack for afterwards.
* Oh, and they’re painting at nursery so there needs to be an old t-shirt in there somewhere.
* Bring £1 for sports day/wear green day/wear spots day on Tuesday.
* Might be sunny, so don’t forget hats and suncream – all labelled.
* And raincoats, because Britain.
* Small has ballet later and we might not get back to the house so need shoes and tutu in there.
* Don’t forget Baby!!!!!!
* No not that one – the other one. No, she was the favourite LAST week, apparently.
* Play date after school so there needs to be a change of clothes – Sarah’s bringing her bridesmaid dress so something like that.
* Library day – don’t forget the library bag.
* Return the X form by Y in the book bag. No, not the library one, the other one.
* The new school shoes rub a bit so put the trainers in as back-up, just in case.
* More pants for nursery, please, she came home in spares.
* Return the spares, washed.
* Homework is due. Ask other mothers what the hell it is at on the WhatsApp group and scramble to put together in the morning before school.
* Multi-sports/dancing/jazzercise club after school so another change of clothes.
* Nursery are walking to the library – don’t forget sensible shoes and permission slip.
* Bring in plastic bottles for the recycling sculpture.
* Packed lunch day, and we need to buy more jam for sandwiches. No, ham will not do.
* Nursery needs more medicine! So call Dr, call pharmacy, collect and deliver.
* Dress down day at work – bring in home baking. (LOL).
* Period – throw in sanitary towels – once wrestled as novelty play items from the children.
* No, tampons are not cat toys.
* Even if you draw a face on them.
* Big external meeting on Thursday – find ancient lipstick and bag-sized hairbrush – probably in the Barbie box.

I could go on. But you get the picture. You probably LIVE the picture.

And now your picture involves outdoor entertainment and sustenance supplies, too! JOY!

During The Packing Of The Picnic you must cater for every taste, take pains to appear relatively healthy if you’re in public, include pudding unless you want to be stung for another ice cream, a full size rug, bin bags for the debris, all of which must all pack away into a bag you can carry solo, alongside the toddler who won’t a) walk or b) buggy, and two scooters/bikes, for an unspecified distance until a suitable picnic spot is found. And back again.

Oh, and you may need kites/footballs/wet play stuff too.

Don’t even get me started on The Packing Of The Suitcase. This was a previous blog, where I take you through the process in approx 181 simple steps. Go look in my page archive. You’re welcome.

THIS is the mental load.

Right here.

Now the instinct of your average Dad, is to try and SYSTEMISE this.

Because, MEN.

But in a highly unscientific survey of Mums I Happen To Know, this systemisation is resisted, seemingly in some kind of unspoken yet instinctual last ditch feminist stand.

I’ll be honest, I’m not entirely sure this is what the first wave of feminists were trying to achieve…

I’ll give you an example.

“My mother,” said Dadoffthenetheredge, helpfully one day, “used to do HER washing on regular days, and plan out all the meals for the week beforehand.”

Obviously, this is just what every wife wishes to hear.

I believe this is the same conversation where I was told I was “underperforming at washing” (direct quote). I can’t imagine why we split up.

I tried to explain, to his bemusement, that I would rather DIE than live life like a 1950s housewife, with a whites wash on a Monday, coloureds on Wednesday, and fish supper every Friday.

It literally makes me want to poke my own eyes out with the one plastic spoon the baby would eat with.

So does the thought of keeping laminated lists of what everyone needs on each given day, and ticking them off one by one, as I diligently pack the bags the night before and line them up neatly at the door – presumably wiping my hands on my apron afterwards in satisfaction, setting my curlers, and possibly ironing a newspaper, for reasons no one has ever understood.

It might make life easier; it would also make it INFINITELY MORE DEPRESSING.

So here’s a radical idea. What if we didn’t systemise the mental load – what if this summer, we SHARED it?

Whoah.

Rad.

What if The Packing Of The Bags was something both parents both did – perhaps on a rota system if you really really can’t live your life without management systems?

I’m pretty sure that’s the way the SAS operate.

No man left behind:
No woman left bogged down by the unexpected but very real weight of family administration.

Until that happens, though, good luck with The Packing Of The Picnic and The Packing Of The Suitcase.

Only 6 more weeks of Summer!!!!

😉

Do you hug other kids?

31 Tuesday Jul 2018

Posted by in Motherhood, Parenting

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Do you hug other kids?

I don’t really.

Even the ones I’ve seen pretty much weekly since the Big Small was a baby.

I high five them. I look at and admire/sooth injuries and missing teeth. I lift them in and out of swings. I play chase. I pick up the crying ones and return them to their main care-giver. I may stroke a small head or two if it’s hovering at hand-level, usually on my way down to eye-level for a conversation.

If a hug occurs naturally then GREAT.

But for the most part, it just doesn’t.

I think the rule is, they initiate.

And there now seems to be some science – or at least recognised psychology – behind this.

Small children tend to know that a hug MEANS something. And they will seek out that comfort when they need it, or share that joy with trusted people – often in a hierarchy of who is around at the time. (So the nursery key worker unless Mummy is in the room – etc).

By insisting children kiss Granny goodbye, or even by opening our arms to a semi-strange child in invitation, we are teaching children about the ‘social’ hug. Manners over instincts – how to fulfill expectations and play a role assigned to them.

These are not real displays of either affection or acceptance.

And the gap between what is natural and what is forced – by expectation or endorsement or reward – can be dangerous.

This is really the first base of consent. And that’s been in the news a lot lately – #MeToo #TimesUp

By confusing what is instinctual about touch and what is social nicety, we are robbing children of a very important and organic barrier that is really very valuable.

So they know if something actually feels right, or if it just feels like the right thing to do.

Or if, God forbid, it actually feels wrong.

If you can no longer tell the difference in reward between genuine oxytocin or pleasing the adults around you, where does that leave you?

Telling children what to do with their bodies, how they feel about touch, and then praising them for what feels weird just isn’t quite right, is it?

Some children are naturally more affectionate than others. (I know a 3 year old at my music group who dishes out hugs like a Las Vegas card dealer deals cards). But others are slow to bond, and precious of their personal space. In these children swift affection could even become a sign of anxiety.

So how do you tell the difference?

They initiate.

Every time.

And just because they hugged you the last time doesn’t mean they’ll hug you again.

Boom! We’re right back into the consent narrative, aren’t we?

I’d love to hear how it works with your friends’ kids.

(NB. on this post. Yes, it was precipitated by the Other Woman. Who sat in my family car. On my family drive. On the first time she met me, and the third time she met my kids. 8 months down the line from a 20 year relationship ending. Commanding them to tell me what they’d had to eat at their lovely family meal out. And then insisting Big supply a hug before she left. So she seemed…. nice).

Life is too short to scrub gussets

25 Sunday Mar 2018

Posted by in Humour, Parenting, Poetry, Uncategorized

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Life is too short to scrub gussets
Some advice both useful and sage –
I give it to you with my blessing
To apply it to life’s every stage.

It’s particularly apt when training
Small bottoms to use mini loos –
Because rubbing the poo out of cotton
Can give you the laundry blues.

The very worst bit of the process
Is keeping your cool unconcern
When faced with more toxic hand-washing
From a child taking AGES to learn.

So if you’ve got a toilet-resistor
And you’ve quite reached the end of your rope,
Let go of your scruples and Persil!
And save yourself heartache and soap.

Go buy up some Paw Patrol knickers
In cheap B&M packs of five –
And when the next accident happens
Chuck them out and raid your supplies!

My thanks must go to the woman
Who first passed this secret to me
It’s the key to zen potty training –
Untroubled by stray poos or wee.

The rule works for other odd soilings
(From quickies to menstrual leaks)
So abandon those pants with abandon –
And discard them without blushing cheeks!

Yes, I officially give you permission
To bugger the unseemly waste
Because life is too short to scrub gussets –
A new mantra to wholly embrace.

Mother’s Day

25 Sunday Mar 2018

Posted by in Divorce, Motherhood, Parenting

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I thought today was going to be okay. And then I went to the park, and saw all the families there. Mothers – with children – and with fathers.

Teams.

I was jealous.

Because this Mother’s Day I am not the Mum I wanted to be. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t create that family. We were never a team.

And as a result I am not the Mum that is there no matter what, for every crisis big or small, every achievement or every joy.

Sometimes I’m not there at all.

And the reality is that all too soon someone else will be. They will be the team at the park.

I’m told often I need to get over this. I need to move on. But I cannot describe the pain of it. Why couldn’t I have that? What’s wrong with ME?

The only consolation I can find is that in some ways, I’m actually more of the Mum I wanted to be now than I was before.

Because it turns out parenting on egg shells around someone else’s moods completely sucks. It changes you.

There is now no unhappy, brooding presence in the corner, on the phone, judging and criticising and refusing to join in.

I can wind the kids up before bedtime. Dance like a loony. Eat tea on the floor with the Barbies. Stay at the park for hours on end. Not sort the washing. Bugger the washing up. Cover the house in slime. Go to bed when the kids do. Tickle them in restaurants. Sing the three lines of Moana I know on repeat at the top of my voice. Instigate lick fights. Do the Mystery Inc voices in public. Be too intense, too loud, too soft, too rigid, too – whatever I like.

I just have to get beyond too damn sad, and too damn hurt.

And I’m afraid I still don’t quite know how that’s done.

The sexism of emotions

27 Tuesday Feb 2018

Posted by in mental health, Motherhood, Parenting

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The most popular post I’ve ever written on this blog was about the #metoo movement.

It turns out people really, really want to talk about low level sexual discrimination, harassment and assault. In fact if you read the comments on the post, it’s very clear how quickly and smoothly those turn into medium level, and then extreme examples.

I cried reading about some of those experiences.

And as I cried, I realised that crying was kind of one of them… a subtle, everyday way women are undercut.

The last few months have been emotional ones for me, in many different ways. And while in theory I know having an emotional reaction to an emotive situation is both rational and consistent – there is a large part of me that believes it is not.

Because I have been conditioned to think that my emotions are untrue, disproportionate, and inconvenient.

I have stopped trusting them. And I have stopped trusting myself. Because if you can’t believe what you’re feeling, what can you believe? You have no foundations to stand on.

But slowly, as I pick myself up, I am beginning to realise that there is an innate sexism attached to emotions, and how they are perceived in society.

If a grown man loses his cool (without resorting to violence, obviously) he is being assertive, sticking to his line, drawing one in the sand, sending a clear message – not being a pushover. He is strong.

If a grown woman does the same she is being hysterical, volatile, erratic, she is over-sensitive and over-emotional. She is easily dismissed. She is weak; and she is wrong.

I imagine a lot of women out there could say, ‘me too’ to this. Because the refrains used to undermine the validity of our emotions are so familiar, and so ingrained. And the most frustrating thing of all is that if we rail against them, we are doomed to PROVE them in the most frustrating of catch 22s.

How many do you recognise?

“You’re overreacting.”
“You’re misinterpreting what I’m saying.”
“Is it that time of the month?”
“You need to bring it down a notch.”
“You’re being really intense.”
“You’re too sensitive.”
“What are you crying for?”
“Psycho.”
“I can’t deal with you when you’re like this. “
“You need to calm down.”
“You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

Our emotions are unreliable.

And we are told so in no uncertain terms from a very young age.

Robert Webb has written of the damage caused to boys by being told not to emote. But there is similar damage caused to girls too, by being told they OVER emote.

Hysteria is the term historically used to dismiss female emotion – their wombs making them less. Less rational, less reasonable, less able to cope. Less everything.

The fact is that as women, to gain respect we are expected to make things easy for everyone – not to make a fuss. It is part and parcel of the same insidious secrecy and silence that is unravelling in the public eye in #metoo and #timesup.

Because our reaction to a situation – no matter what the provocation, mistreatment or injustice – is STILL always somehow greater than the original crime.

It is the woman scratching her keys down her husband’s car who is more frowned upon – the psycho – than the man having the affair.

It is the woman speaking out against assault – and daring to do so with emotion – who is unstable, and untrustworthy. Not the man she is accusing – not unless many hundreds more join her chorus.

The only recourse deemed suitable by society in these situations seems to be silent dignity. Because showing anything else makes women more guilty and more wrong.

But silent dignity is still silenced.

It still denies us a voice.

I have undoubtedly been more emotional since I had children. And I have assumed – and been told – it is a weakness.

What if that’s a lie though?

What if we’ve ALL been lied to?

What if emotion is a strength?

Emotional intelligence is not about NOT showing emotion or pretending not to feel it. It’s not about sucking it up, bottling it up, or denying it.

We certainly should not be at the mercy of our feelings. Not everything you feel should be immediately acted upon – that’s the ultimate key to emotional intelligence.

But it IS about feeling your feelings, recognising them, accepting them, appreciating the purity and truth of those instincts. Letting them pass through you and coming out the other side.

Because by going through them authentically, you will be a truer you, and you will make BETTER decisions.

And maybe that skill – because it is a skill – makes you a better person, a better employee, a better spouse, a better friend, and most certainly a better parent.

Because how will our children ever learn to process their emotions, connect with them, recognise them in others, and ultimately trust themselves, if we don’t show them how to do so?

My feelings, my empathy, my heart, my tears, my sense of justice, my poetry, my LOVE – they are the best bits of me. Not the worst.

And I will no longer be afraid of them.

Finding love in the little things

11 Sunday Feb 2018

Posted by in Divorce, Love and sex, Motherhood, Parenting

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A year ago, I wrote an alternative love letter to Dad-then-on-the-nether-edge.

In summary, I told him I loved him more than a soiled Bristol loo.

Ok, it did go somewhat deeper that that, and was rather more romantic (I thought) than the loo thing implies! Here it is.

Basically, it was a blog about being with someone for a really long time, and wearing grooves into each other’s souls.

It was a blog about the sheer and unrelenting monotony and exhaustion of life with small children.

It was a blog about the hidden beauty and love in all of that – in knowing someone so well, and in the awful/awesome details of family life.

It was also about not taking all of that for granted.

The verdict from Dad-now-off-the-netheredge was that it was a ‘bit depressing, actually.’

At the time his response hurt, but it did not open my eyes to how differently we viewed things.

In hindsight, I don’t think I wanted to see.

The truth is, where I saw beauty, he just –
didn’t.

He wasn’t looking anymore.

Or maybe he never saw it at all.

Or maybe it was me. Maybe I was blocking or spoiling his view.

It really doesn’t matter, anymore, does it?

I thought I was investing – in small, everyday deposits – into our life together. I was banking those beautiful details like they were precious. He had already checked out of the account.

It is always hard to be the person who falls out of love last. It is always hard to see the other person move on SO swiftly. It is always hard to be the last to know.

This Valentine’s Day, I am on my own. I imagine I will be on my own for a long time.

But I still believe, so strongly, that beauty and love IS in the little things, the ordinary things, even the mundane things.

One of my favourite poets put it better than I ever could – ‘Glory be to God for dappled things.’

Because speckled sunshine through the leaves, a baby’s belly laugh, a family game, the sweep of lashes on a cheek, the mutual comfort of the post-bedtime slump on the sofa – they can add up to something greater than the sum of their parts.

You just have to agree what the little things are – for you and your Valentine and your family.

And then you just have to keep looking for them.

And while that isn’t always easy, even from my new vantage point in spurned ex-wife world – I still believe it is always worth it.

So to old lovers – and new ones – Happy Valentine’s Day.

Xxx

9 reasons Moana is the best Disney film EVER

21 Sunday Jan 2018

Posted by in Humour, Motherhood, Parenting

≈ 2 Comments

  1. There’s not a sniff of romance

It’s a good old fashioned adventure story, with a girl as the main protagonist – and without a love interest in sight.

It’s almost as if people can find meaning in life and relationships beyond romantic love! Imagine!

  1. It’s a feminist utopia – in both the film and the village of Motunui

Not only is the main character female, but she never has to pretend not to be (or indeed pretend to be anything she’s not). Neither is she the ONLY female character of substance, which is surprisingly revolutionary.

Plus she’s going to be the next Chief of the village despite being female, and without the need to marry.

As she says to Maui – she ain’t no Princess.

Boo yah.

  1. She’s got thick ankles

Okay, so her eyes still take up 50% of her face, she’s got perfect tresses (although she does tie them back out of the way for sailing at one point), and she’s obviously as thin as a whip.

But she does have thick ankles, strong legs and arms, so I am going to count this as progress in the animated portrayal of realistic body types.

  1. Her animal sidekick is a vacant, agoraphobic chicken

What is not to like here??? Comic genius. Whoever came up with this nugget (chicken, obvs) almost certainly did not get the recognition they deserve.

  1. Her parents aren’t dead!

This never bothered me that much as a kid, but as a parent I find myself strongly resenting Disney’s ongoing penchant for patricide. Save the Parents!!!!!

  1. The casting of Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson

I’ve never been a particular fan, but have nevertheless apparently been harbouring a benign tolerance for Dwayne, which has grown (as a direct result of his involvement in Moana) into full-blown affection.

If I hear any #metoo #timesup Hollywood crap about him I’m actually going to be mildly heartbroken. (A bit like I was over Rolf Harris).

If you find yourself with a spare 5 minutes, look up Dwayne actually singing ‘You’re Welcome’ in person. I promise you it is well worth your time.

  1. The songs

The sound track is flat out awesome. In fact ‘We Know the Way’ is probably my new favourite song in the world ever.

  1. The twist

***Spoiler alert!***

Te Ka the big bad monster is not really a monster.

!

Too often plot twists are now shoehorned into narratives at the climax and make no sense to the story that’s actually been told – adding nothing but cheap shock value and leaving the audience (or at least me) with a vague sense of betrayal.

In contrast this twist is rather beautiful.

  1. The ending

I think I *may* have taken the ending far too much to heart, but it resonates with me so much I literally tear-up every time I watch it. (Which is a lot, as I have equally Moana-obsessed Small People).

I’m not entirely sure what finding psychological comfort in Disney says about me, but hey, I’ll take it where I can get it. The lyrics:

‘I have crossed the horizon to find you
I know your name
They have stolen the heart from inside you
But this does not define you.
This is not who you are –
You know who you are’

I recognise myself in that burnt out husk of a woman that is Te Ka, lashing out, afraid, protecting what she has left of herself, clawing her way on hands and needs in roaring desperation towards Moana.

Towards youth, and truth, and clarity.

My heart was stolen from me – and like Te Fiti I didn’t even realise until it was gone and the rot had already spread through my life. Until it had turned what used to be good to ash, on the inside, where no one else could see it. Like the coconuts of Motunui.

But this is not who I am.
This is not what defines me.
I know who I was, and who I can be again.
I know who I am on the inside.

I am love.

I just needed my heart returned to me.
And it’s been a very long journey to find it.
And now I get to grow again.

So, you know, if you haven’t yet seen it – please do. It really is a great film – for girls and boys, mums and dads.

 

Mumonthenetheredge

xx

 

10 indoor activities for the cold and tired

07 Thursday Dec 2017

Posted by in Humour, Parenting

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Getting out of the house with small children is notoriously hard. It’s even harder in the cold when they have to be bundled into a million layers (but not in the car seat, because safety) and are allergic to both gloves and simultaneously/frustratingly to even very mildly chilly fingers.

It’s harder still when you are bone-deep tired.

That’s pretty much a feature of winter for lots of people – whether it’s Seasonal Affective Disorder, party season, or just a loooooong half term.

(This year I’m extra tired because it turns out emotional turmoil and break-ups are pretty exhausting, and also seem to be playing havoc with my already dicky thyroid).

The only thing harder than going out when you’re running on zero – in terms of both energy and degrees centigrade – is STAYING IN.

Especially staying in with over-excited, over-tired, chocolate-maddened, Santa-feverish children.

In case this rings a bell (jingle, of course), I have put together a list of my top 10 low-effort things to do indoors with children in December!

 

  1. Tattoo parlours

So you’ve exhausted all colouring based activities. Don’t reach for the glitter! (Things are not yet that bad – and they probably never will be, I promise).

Instead, change the canvas! Get out the felt tips, roll up your leggings and let the kids play tattoo parlours! You get to lie down on the carpet and rest your eyes while the kids go to work.

Tip tips:

  • Don’t actually go to sleep, or the children will soon tire of your legs and start on each other’s faces/the cat. School and nursery will not be impressed. Neither will the cat.
  • Also, don’t do this if you want to wear any hosiery below 100 denier any time in the next 2 weeks.
  • Finally, please don’t judge my weird alien toes and saggy old lady knees in this picture. Cheers. 

 

  1. Colour pouring

Every kid loves a bit of pouring! Invest in some cheap paper party cups for novelty pouring value, and some food colouring. Lay out a big beach towel, and let them pour to their little hearts’ content.

Your role here is to sit in the sofa and accept cups of tea – which will get increasingly browner and more tea-like as the activity goes on.

Top tips:

  • Add in a till and other stuffed toy customers to create a cafe.
  • The trick here is to limit the volumes of water. You don’t need loads, because pretty colours, kids!
  • Also, just forget about your carpet. You’ve got small children – write it off. You can have nice things in another 5 years or so. Maybe. Though by that time the cat will be so traumatised and elderly it will start pissing on everything … Okay, look, you’ll wait until they’ve all left home (one way or another).

 

  1. Toy washing

Like the above really, but with bubbles. Let them wash all hard toys, and provide old toothbrushes and cloths to help.

Wash tangled Barbie hair with cheap conditioner and encourage them to open a hairdressing salon afterwards. (Brushing takes hours).

Top tip:

  • Turn up the heating and dress them in swimming costumes.

Warning:

  • There will be wet patches. Roll with it. (Kitchen roll).

 

  1. Let them raid your make-up

Look, your make-up is shite. You’ve had it for years, some of it is almost certainly out of date, and it ain’t hiding the wrinkles anyway.

Take out the few bits you use everyday and abandon them to the rest. It’s nothing a bath can’t fix – and will keep them happy for hours. Plus you get to ask relatives for new stuff for Christmas! Think Elizabeth Earle rather than No 17! Life goals!

Top tips:

  • To be administered on a plastic tablecloth! (Although this still won’t save your doomed carpet. Sorry).
  • If you are feeling very brave (or very tired) let them do your make-up too (lying down). Then take funny selfies so you feel like a good parent. Then put them on Facebook so you feel like a really REALLY good parent.

 

  1. Play dates

Stay indoors, but at someone else’s house!

Genius.

They have different toys, and hopefully tea and biscuits. And they have children your children can play with without involving you!!!! (Either that or the combination of children will prove so awful and feral that you will constantly be breaking up fights and be forced to leave early. Still, it’s a day out).

Top tip:

  • Invite yourself round on the pretext of  just ‘dropping off some Christmas presents’. If you all then stand at the door looking hopeful and in need of tea, very few British people will turn you away. Exploit this weakness!

Warning:

  • They may return the visit!!!!

 

  1. Doctors and nurses

When you’re next in Tesco, pop by the medicine aisle for some new plasters and bandages. I reckon if you do some sort of comedy fall and lie moaning on the sofa you can get a good 25 minutes of horizontal time while you are poked and prodded and bandaged.

Tip tip:

  • You may have to fall out if bed once or twice to extend your hospital stay – this is a small price to pay.

 

  1. Christmas Eve

Get in some Christmas practice by playing Santa! Bring duvets and pillows downstairs to make beds, and take it in turns to be Father Christmas delivering presents. Assemble odds and ends and small toys which can be deposited in stockings (or – lazy option – the socks you’re wearing) and opened with delight and wonder over and over and over again. And again.

Top tips:

  • Try and be the person asleep in bed as much as possible as it involves lying down, obvs.
  • Try not to poke your own eyes out at the sheer monotony of imaginative play.
  • Add in the afternoon snack (wrapped in cling film) when it’s your go as Santa.

 

  1. Christmas pass the parcel

This is a sitter, not a lie-er. Wrap random small stuff in layers of muslins and assemble favourite stuffed toys in a circle. Go.

Tip tips:

  • Place any naughty toys who aren’t taking turns sharing on the naughty step. Hours of disciplining fun for their Small Person owners!
  • Extend the party to include musical statues and knackered-parenting classic SLEEPING LIONS.

 

  1. Christmas cards

You cannot get through Christmas without crap craft. Sorry. But if you make cards (still no glitter!) the crap craft has to leave your house and go and live elsewhere! Result!

Top tip:

  • Take it with you when you execute no 5. Then they’ll defo be obliged to put the kettle on.

 

  1. Hide and seek

Kids are rubbish at both hiding and seeking (at least mine are), so you have the natural advantage of the field.

Top tips:

  • Lie down flat in any bed at any given opportunity and get in a few minutes duvet time.
  • Sit on the sofa for a bit describing your detailed seeking activity, without actually doing it. (Let’s face it, you already know where they are and can probably see them). Every rest-second counts.

 

If all else fails you’re just going to have to watch a Ceebeebies panto. Again.

Good luck in there parents!

Remember, very soon every day will be getting a little bit lighter. (But not warmer. Bummer).

Mumonthenetheredge

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