Boyhood? Richard Linklater's intimate portrayal of 12 years in the life of an average Texas family is compelling viewing for anyone who is in the process of rearing a family. It explores the formative years of a boy called Mason, whilst taking in the lives of those around him including his divorced parents and sister Sam, played by Linklater's own daughter.
As it was filmed over 12 years in real life there are none of the unconvincing prosthetics or awkward jumps between different child and teen actors. Instead the real growing pains of the children involved are captured in all their celluloid glory. It shows the main character's growth from a cute six year old into a disaffected and pretentious teen without pulling any punches. In fact, Ellar Coltraine, who plays Mason, says he cringed as he watched himself literally grow up onscreen.
It is probably this realism that makes the film so compelling. At almost three hours long I was convinced I would be twitching in my seat long before the end, bored by a self indulgent director's inability to edit his own work. Instead I was riveted. Mason's family isn't that similar to mine, there were just two children instead of four, mum and dad were divorced and the family lives a peripatetic life of moves, new partners, siblings and schools, but some things are universal.
I got a not entirely pleasant insight into what young boys get up to when unsupervised. It appears that this revolves around sex and drink, with a few soft drugs thrown in for good measure. This is not particularly comfortable viewing for a mother of pre-teens, but I guess it lets me know what I am in for.
But scene after scene tugged at my heartstrings as I saw my future, or at least a version of it, played out in front of me. I watched as Mason pushed his mother away when she went to give him a goodbye kiss at his new school, as he was embarrassed by her pride in his graduation and most heart wrenching of all the scene where he leaves home for college. His sobbing mother declares it the worst day of her life, and I was crying along with her at just the thought of my boys leaving home.
It is a fascinating film that kept me captivated from beginning to end. But more than that it made me go home and stroke the baby soft skin of my five-year-old twins with a new found appreciation. It highlighted just how fast time goes with children. The parents compare notes at Mason's graduation party, incredulous that their kids had both left high school. I know that sensation well, where you feel as if just a moment ago you were cradling a baby and now you are making applications to secondary school for that same boy.
It is so easy to rush the business of being a parent. When you are under the daily cosh of school runs, washing, cooking, taxiing and nagging to do homework, tests and music practise, it doesn't feel like a magical time to be treasured. Instead you want to get through the day and into bed with a good book. At least I know that's how I feel, but this film did give me reason to pause.
It made me think about how I am missing the best bits, or at least failing to savour them as I spend so much time grumbling about how hard it is to rear small children. It's not that Boyhood sugar coats the early years. They are shown as the familiar chaotically harassed mess of pick ups, drop offs, arguments about school work and a juggling act of earning a living alongside bringing up children. But when viewed in sharp contrast to the adult years that leap upon us so fast, they take on an altogether more precious feel.
So Mr Linklater thank you for making me smile, cry and pass two and a bit hours in the company of your celluloid family, but more importantly for showing me that I should stop from time to time and relish my boys' boyhood, for it is a just a fleeting moment in a lifetime that passes all too quickly.
Wednesday, 30 July 2014
Tuesday, 29 July 2014
Swearing in front of children is, by and large, frowned upon. Which is why I am so ashamed of my inability to keep my language from turning blue on an embarrassingly regular basis when there are small people in my vicinity.
One early warning sign that perhaps I should project a more clean living image was when my eldest son announced that he couldn't wait to be an adult because then he could "Drink, swear and gamble". How to make a maternal heart swell with pride. I should point out that this was declared after a trip to Las Vegas where he had been endlessly shooed off the gaming floor by zealous security guards keen to retain the casino's gambling and liquor licences.
But even so it is shaming that at his tender age he saw swearing as sign of maturity (let's not get into the drinking and gambling here). I had taught my little boy that swearing was both big and clever. This is surely not the job of a good mother? Then only problem is that I find it hard to work up much of a head of steam about the use of bad language.
Of course I don't like to hear it from the lips of little children, and have made this crystal clear to my boys. They know that swearing is for adults only. I accept this is a deeply hypocritical line to take, but I find it nigh on impossible to keep the odd naughty word from slipping out under duress, so what alternative to do I have? I do try self regulate, and make sure the really strong words are kept under lock and key, but I suspect that my children learned the word shit at about the same time as they picked up mummy and daddy.
Sadly the oldest's nosy eavesdropping means that now even the strong words are popping out of Pandora's box. During a recent stressful house move I felt moved to insult our potential buyers by declaring them them to be "a pair of C**TS" over the phone to my husband. Only to discover my eldest lurking outside the door, grinning gleefully that he had added another profanity to his growing lexicon of curses. Ooops indeed.
He did get the lecture that this is the nuclear weapon of expletives only to be unleashed in the most severe of circumstances by adults well over the age of 18. I think he understood, but such words are sprinkled with the glittering the allure of the illicit. I think using a hardcore swear word is the 2014 equivalent of taking a puff of a cigarette behind the bike sheds for my generation. Possibly naively I don't think many modern kids would give this a try, but using a naughty word seems to hold the same fascination - or perhaps it's just my eldest who is drawn to the dark side.
In fact my middle boy is the polar opposite and is one step away from introducing a swear box to at least profit from his mum's bad language. Every time I employ the mildest oath he snaps "Mummy" at me in the disapproving tone of a prim maiden aunt. He takes a very dim view of rude words and is forever trying to wrench my language out of the gutter.
I fear that he is fighting a losing battle though. I am part of a hard swearing bloodline where the air in the family home was often turned blue with casual obscenities. My mum's favourite was the inventive phrase "Fxxxing Shaggers", which was employed at the drop of a hat, glass of milk, chest of drawers on her foot and so on. I then worked in magazine offices where every other word began with the letter F and as a freelance I am at liberty to swear at my screen as much as damn well like. I am a lost cause when it comes to dainty language.
Ab Fab, they will decide that to be as square as possible is the best way to show their old mum the error of her ways.
Friday, 25 July 2014
It's the summer holiday, so naturally your thoughts will be turning to ways of entertaining the children. For all that is written about how boredom is good for children, the reality is often utterly intolerable forcing the average parent to resort to highly expensive and inconvenient amusements. Hence the decision to do a family day out - be it to a theme park, to a stately home or just to anywhere other than under your feet - there are some simple rules I have discovered through painful trial and error, which should go some way towards making the experience more bearable.
So here are my golden rules for a successful family day out:
DON'T DO IT!I realise this appears to be a rather contradictory rule, but while bored children within the confines of your home are hard to take, imagine that distilled to the inside of car for several hours on a hot day. It doesn't really bear contemplation and at least at home you are in close proximity to drinks, snacks and a toilet.
LET THEM EAT, AND EAT, AND EATIf you insist on pressing ahead with this harebrained scheme then you do not, whatever you do, leave the house without a proper supply of food. It amazes me how leaving the house appears to create an insatiable hunger in my boys. It's as if as soon as they are out of range of the fridge their stomachs start to panic. Even a short walk is accompanied by whines that they are hungry, no matter how recently they were fed, and who can forget the soporific effect of a breadstick on a testy toddler? I know that boxes of raisins were the only way to survive a shopping trip when mine were still buggy bound. For a long car journey the rule is pack as many snacks as you can physically fit around you in the footwell of your car, and you will still run out before you get there.
THE LURE OF THE SILVER SCREENI know the reason that you got them out of the house in the first was to get them away from screens, but if your trip is likely to take more than an hour, then sink your principles and plug them right back in again. We have travelled across Europe in blissful silence all courtesy of the combined forces of an iPad and an in-car DVD system. It really is the only way to travel without dumping at least one child beside the motorway when their bickering becomes too much to take.
CHILD'S PLAYWhen I was a grown up, as opposed to a parent, the idea of a child-friendly destination filled me with dread. What constituted a good day out was perhaps a brief flit around an historical site, a long walk in the gardens and a slap up lunch in a top notch restaurant. Or maybe there would be live music and a bottle of fizz on a stretch of manicured green lawn, or perhaps an indulgent picnic and some open air theatre. Essentially the key to it was that these activities actively discouraged the participation of small children, what with their requirement to pay attention to something for more than a few seconds without shouting, screaming or getting bored.
Now, when selecting a destination there are only two things that are essential: 1. a cafe serving child friendly food, for which read chips and anything in breadcrumbs and 2. a play area, or preferably two, one indoors and one outdoors, so you are covered for all weather eventualities. Other than that I'm easy.
PACK HEAVYIf I am going out for the day I need a phone, keys, money and a pair of sunglasses. If I am going out for the day with my sons I need the aforementioned trailer load of food, wipes, suncream, bottles of water all round, a change of clothes or two, towels if we are likely to go anywhere near water, toys, aforementioned entertainment devices and yes, more food. It is better than when they were tiny and you had to add a buggy, nappies, milk and several more changes of clothes to that list, but still getting the boys out of the house is like a military exercise and I still always find I have forgot the one crucial thing I really need.
BE PREPAREDBy this I am not referring to the previous point, instead I mean you need to prepare for your return. This is very simple. Make sure that you have a chilled bottle of white resting in the fridge, ready to be cracked open the second your children have been herded into bed. After the first glass or two the post traumatic stress following a family outing starts to fade and blur into a false memory of a lovely day out. This can be the only explanation as to why we are sure to put ourselves through it again next school holiday.
Wednesday, 23 July 2014
It's the end of term and all my sons are in party mood and ready to celebrate six weeks of freedom. No surprise as the last few days at school seem to have involved nothing but watching DVDs and eating cake in the classroom.
Strangely, despite the fact that I will be in sole command of my little troupe of terrors for the next few weeks, I am feeling equally demob happy. While I am sure that I will be a frazzled wreck come the end of summer I am gasping for a few weeks off school.
School can be very wearing, what with the early starts, endless pickups, interminable concerts, picnics, performances, cake sales, fetes and so on that require parental helpers (or at least those mums such as myself who appear to have 'MUG' tattooed on our foreheads). That's not to mention the politics and infighting that is the inevitable result of interacting with other people over something as fraught as the education and welfare of our precious children.
The moaning never ceases and even though I hold my hands up to being one of the worst culprits, I long for a break from it all. I don't want to worry about who will man the popcorn maker, who failed to put the things away properly in the PTA cupboard, who hasn't given their fiver for the teacher's collection, who has resigned from a key position on this or that committee leaving us in our perennial position of 'in the lurch'.
As I walk out of school today I want to shut the door on all of that and have five weeks with my boys. I want them to get up when they like and spend all day playing computer games if that's what they want. I want to explore sunlit fields searching for dragons in the undergrowth, I want to see just how wet and muddy they can get while playing in the local stream. I want them sticky with ice cream and lazy with days spent in the garden in the sunshine. I want to watch movies and not worry if they get to bed too late.
I don't want to nag about homework, or search for PE kits and book bags, I don't want to sign any permissions slips, or remember packed lunches, or make sure music practise is done. I don't want to do load after load of washing to ensure there is clean uniform available every day. I don't want to wake up at 7am to drag myself out of bed to extract my grumpy children from beneath their duvets. I don't want to start the day by screaming at them to remember to brush their teeth and to hurry their way through their breakfast or we will be late.
In short I am sick of the drudgery, the never-ending school runs and the unceasing flow of admin that has to be dealt with to manage the school lives of four children. The forms, the invitations, the applications for clubs, the music lessons, the tutors, the school applications…the list goes on and on.
This is why I think it is so important that we keep our long summer holiday. It's not for the children's sake, it's for all the parents. Of course the children love a break, but it's us mums and dads who need a few weeks away from the school gates. So I say hurrah for the summer holiday (but check back with me in a couple of weeks and see if the boys have managed to dampen my enthusiasm by then).
Thursday, 17 July 2014
There are lots of challenges facing parents. We all have to endure the sleep deprivation, the mess, the noise, the brutal curtailment of our social life, the demotion to a combination of cash machine, short order cook and mini cab driver, but I think that perhaps one of the hardest things about bringing up children is the number of choices you have to make.
When they are babies we agonise everything: from the birth plan - should we go natural or drugged up to the eyeballs? - to feeding. Breast or bottle, organic puree or the shameful convenience of jars? From nappies - Pampers or reusable? - to sleeping - tend to their every whimper or leave them to scream themselves into slumber?
It doesn't get any easier as they grow up either. I still remember agonising over whether or not to go back to work and if I did which nursery would be entrusted with the care of my precious little toddler. My ultimate choice for number one (who, as the test case, has been the cause of the greatest degree of soul searching) was a chi, chi Montessori pre-school that set us back as much as a decade's worth of five star holidays and about which he remembers not a thing.
Don't even get me started on primary school. I will never get back the hours I devoted to poring over Ofsted reports and league tables, the days wasted traipsing around schools being soft soaped by head teachers. I remember we were so desperate to see the school our son ultimately went to, we braved a snow storm to attend the open day only to be greeted by a sign telling us it was closed due to bad weather. Shows our naivety, we subsequently learned that the head closed the school at the faintest whiff of a snowflake.
I don't recall ever taking so much care with decisions I made about my own life and you would think that as a slightly more seasoned parent I would have realised how little difference most of the choices I make as a mother ultimately make.
If only. Though, in mitigation, I do think that my painful vacillation is partially fuelled by group hysteria. It is not possible to get together with a group of mums with children the same age as yours and not be dragged into a conversation about the pros and cons of the choice of the moment. NCT friends would furiously debate those baby choices over coffee in the park, while now my fellow Year 5 mums cannot meet even for a swift coffee without the topic turning towards secondary school places.
These conversations turn on hearsay and nuggets of information from those who have trodden that path before us. Misinformation spreads like wildfire. Tales from friends of friends who have apparently either discovered the secret formula to get into the school of your choice, or whose poor choices left their child with no option but to attend the local comp, which draws it's feral pupils from the surrounding sink estate.
Such tales imbue every tiny choice you make with a terrifying importance. It's no wonder that it is so hard to make a simple, straightforward decision when every conclusion you think you have reached is sub-consciously second guessed by something we overheard, or read in the paper or has been fed to us via the school gates web of Chinese whispers.
The only glimmer of hope on the horizon is that where once my sons believed I was the fount of all wisdom and my word was law, the eldest has developed a healthy scepticism (or some might say scorn) when it comes to the infallibility of the opinions of adults. So I think the days of me making choices for him are numbered, and I say amen to that.
Tuesday, 15 July 2014
I still recall the sheer terror of report day when I was at school. I would try to cook up any number of reasons why that dreaded sheet of A4 paper wouldn't make it home. Could I claim to be the only pupil the teachers deemed so outstanding as to not need a report? On past form I felt this claim probably wouldn't fly.
I could lose it, destroy it, shred it or find some other way to blast it out of existence, but even before the days of computerisation there was probably a carbon copy of it it somewhere. Either that or my disgruntled teachers would remember word for word each criticism they had to level against me and would relish the chance to relay the report verbatim to my parents.
When I started at school I was mystified by the rules and regulations that surrounded education. My home life was a ramshackle affair that ran on mess and chaos, so I really didn't understand why it was wrong to simply get up and go to the toilet when you needed a wee, why you needed to put your hand up and wait to be asked to speak or why you shouldn't rest your feet on the desk in front if that made you more comfortable? Of course when asked 'Would you be behave like this at home?', my innocent reply of 'Yes', was interpreted as insubordination leading to a trip to the headmaster's office.
The strongest memory I have of my primary school is picking away at the khaki hessian board that was hung outside his office. Endlessly pinning and unpinning the spare drawing pins used to stick up school notices. I can feel it's hairy roughness under my fingers and make out the uniform pattern of the fabric, bumpy and scratchy to the touch.
It is perhaps no wonder that my school career was blighted by poor reports that complained of my insufficient regard for authority, my failure to fulfil potential, my disruptive nature in class, my stubborn refusal to ever apologise to anyone.... As one form teacher from my secondary school sighed 'Ursula has an answer for everything'. You would think this would be a positive trait in an educational establishment, but I am pretty sure it was not meant as a compliment.
I just thank my lucky stars that so far my boys have not trodden in my footsteps when it comes to reports. I suspect this is in part due to their altogether more pleasant natures, but also because schools are much kinder, more friendly places than they were in the late 70s. In this brave new multicultural world differences are to be celebrated rather than quashed, which means an odd bod like me would probably have been singled out for extra care and attention rather than relegated to endless hessian gazing.
So far report day has been an occasion of celebration, last year the eldest managed to net a full brace of A grades and a report so flattering that it brought a tear to my eye. So different from the school reports of his dear old mum.
I do have an inkling that the plain sailing might not last forever as I see far too much of myself in my youngest boy. He shares my utter rejection of the concept of compromise and insatiable desire to get my own way, a combination that is, I fear, destined to challenge future teachers. As yet he is still at the Playdough and Phonics end of his education, so for now I imagine his educators think these are things he will grow out of. I can hear my husband's hollow laugher in my head as I type these words and he knows better.
Despite my own mortifying experiences, I can't help feeling a fizz of anticipation on report day for my boys. I can't wait to rip open those envelopes and read all about how much they are liked and appreciated by their teachers. How well they are doing and how much they have achieved. Perhaps if I had ever managed to deliver such a welcome package to my parents report day would not have such a bittersweet flavour.
Monday, 14 July 2014
It is not until you share your home with four young boys that you realise how precious being alone is. Solitude is something I crave in the same way an alcoholic surely yearns for the crystal clear hit of vodka or a smoker aches to draw that first puff of nicotine into their lungs. To be by myself with no demands made on my time is the stuff of dreams. An hour or two without the word 'Mummy' being drilled into my skull with all the persistence and volume as a pneumatic drill, without anyone wanting a drink, a snack or to tell me some interminable fact about Minecraft. This is the drug I crave.
I know working mothers whose main reason for returning to work was to enjoy the peace and adult time afforded by a commute. To sit huddled on a hot, overcrowded train, crammed into close proximity with all manner of human kind, with wildly varying interpretations of the concept of cleanliness was preferable to the unceasing chatter and needs of their young brood.
Oh how I empathise. Forget the smells, the heat, the delays, the fact is onboard London Underground no one will bother you. There is an unwritten rule that no matter how closely you are squeezed into someone's armpit, no matter if their groin continually nudges the pages of your newspaper, you do not speak to one another. What utter bliss. I wish I could institute such a rule at home.
I would insist on a vow of silence from the moment I pick them up from school to the moment I have finished depositing all their crap back into the hall at home. No voices could vie for my attention to tell me how disappointing my choice of after school snack was, or to demand why had I forgotten to bring a drink, or to insist that I was more than capable of juggling a cello, four school bags and my youngest son's latest cardboard creation, whilst also holding the hands of both my twins. No one could cry, or get upset because I failed to stop the world so I could give them my undivided attention the instant they required it.
I suspect that if I were able to create this regime I would not feel anxiety rising like a hot tide within me the moment I reached their classroom door. It's not that I don't want to hear about their day, it's just I don't want to hear about all four of their days simultaneously, whilst listening to them each ramp up the volume to ensure that I am listening to their story most closely. I don't want to endure another argument about who gets to sit in the front of the car, or debate about how old you should be before you start carrying your own school bag. I don't want to unravel the mysteries of how my eldest son managed to lose his shoes, or to hear about how so and so was mean to the middle boy.
I want silence. I want to switch them all off and transport them in a monastically quiet car until we reach home, at which point they all peel off to amuse themselves leaving me to perhaps have a proper chat with just one son, or to cook their supper in peace once again.
The only way I keep a slippery grip on sanity is to regularly escape family life and revel in relative isolation of a walk or run by myself. In fact a year or so ago I joined a running group in the hope that it would improve my performance. But, while I met some truly lovely people, I discovered that I hated running in company and rather than boosting my running I all but gave up.
It dawned on me that it was not the fitness that running gave me that I loved, but the chance to get away. To cover miles of city streets and green fields all by myself. To slip through mud, sweat through sunshine and discover my little corner of London alone. Friends would ask to run with me, but I will admit that for me that defeated the object. Chatting and company shattered that precious isolation running gave to me.
Since then I have had my ups and downs with running, but despite having lost my marathon fitness, I am still addicted to the seclusion of a good run, even if now it might be more of a waddle and a walk than a swift jog. The main upside of this is that now all my friends are far better runners than me and no longer want to accompany me as I wobble and puff around the streets three times a week. Instead I sometimes invite Messrs Kermode and Mayo to chat to me about films, but other than that it's just me, myself and I and that's the way I like it.
So while a bunch of flowers is always welcome, I never say no to a box of chocolates or a jorum of fizz, the most deliciously decadent gift anyone could bestow upon me is an hour of uninterrupted peace. Not to do the washing, or cook dinner or tidy the house, but to just be me. Not a mother or wife, a worker bee or housekeeper, just to be alone with my thoughts and take the pressure off.
I wonder how many other mothers are shouting snap as they read what comes top of my wish list?
No longer do I seek a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, instead I long for a house free from infinite quantities of multicoloured mini elastic bands. Everywhere I look from inside the washing machine to the hob, from the sofa to in between the sheets and the mattresses of my boys beds there are loom bands.
Rubix Cube that gripped the country in an obsessional fever back in the 80s has a toy craze appeared so all pervasive. You cannot go out without encountering an industrious child beavering away on their tiny loom to create garish bracelets, rings and even more inventively, hard-to-identify elastic band animals to hang from their clothing.
Mothers at school have discard tennis bracelets, watches or any other type of bangle in favour of hand-crafted loom band jewellery that their children would be mortally offended if they failed to show off on their wrist. Even dads have their hairy arms embellished with pink and white knitted bracelets kindly made by their offspring.
Invented by Cheong Choon Ng who, like many parents before him, identified that most children would far rather play with rubbish than with actual toys, and capitalised on his daughters' fondness for making things out of elastic bands by creating Rainbow Looms. A smart move that has netted him millions, and discovered the secret formula to get children away from screens.
While I am filled with admiration for his ingenuity, I cannot forgive him the plastic detritus that he has spread across the house. I will not forgive him until I stop waking up spitting out elastic bands carelessly discarded in bed, until I stop having to wear woven elastic bands biting into my wrists and until I stop having daughter envy when I see the creations made by my friends' girls compared with the sorry attempts made by my sons!
It's arrival in our house certainly proved popular as it always does when one item arrives in a house with four children, but as usual the most obstreperous twin won out and spirited it off to school where they have recently invested in 3,000 bands plus looms for his reception class. I am expecting big things, not least that the cereal boxes covered in lolly sticks and tissue paper I am handed at school pick up be replaced by a new kitchen knitted entirely from elastic bands. Now for that I really would thank Mr Ng!
Tuesday, 8 July 2014
I know that I am as guilty as any mummy blogger of seeking to preserve those precious moments of baby- and toddler-hood. To use my blog to stroke their golden curls, to suck in the fragrance of a warm and milking babe in arms, to capture those ephemeral bubbles as they burst at bath time. I used to believe that there were just a few fleeting golden years of childhood, that were provided to ensure that you could cope with older children once their cuteness was buried under sulky moods and ill judged pre-teen fashion fads.
The image of your dungaree clad toddler smudged with yoghurt would somehow blur the edges of an acned teenager throwing a strop over pocket money, allowing you to retain some degree of maternal love long after the cuteness that first won your heart had worn off.
As usual I was wrong. I find that as my children grow older I grow ever fonder of them. Of course I have not actually hit the teenage years yet, but there are certainly plenty of hormones stewing within my volatile 10-year-old to give me an inkling of what lies in store, but I'm not scared anymore.
Yes his chubby cheeks have slimmed down and he wouldn't appreciate me covering his bottom in kisses any more, but it turns out that the fulfilment derived from having a sarcastic exchange with him, or discussing The Fault in Our Stars with him is far greater than basking in a toothless baby smile.
Yes we fight, he was horrified at my heartlessness when I failed to cry while reading the aforementioned Fault in Our Stars. But then we make up as he almost had to carry me out of the cinema as I sobbed uncontrollably at the celluloid version of the book. We hurt each other occasionally as we share the same mildly cruel sense of humour, but he is the only man to whom I will willingly apologise and he melted my heart by bringing me a bunch of flowers after a particularly contentious exchange.
I have discovered that while a deliciously cute toddler offers a hit of sweetness like a swiftly gobbled chocolate, an articulate and sceptical pre-teen is to be savoured like a fine and complex wine. Sure I can't make him giggle by blowing raspberries on his tummy (though I could still try, he's not that grown up), but I can discuss the relative merits of religion or whether or not it's worth wading through the arcane language to get to the heart of Shakespeare.
So while now I might feel a twinge of nostalgia in the making as I watch my twins run the obstacle race at reception sports day, their little legs pumping under their shorts as they pound to the finish line, their little arms reaching for me when I tell them it's time for mummy to go. Now I am comforted by the thought that this isn't the end of the line when it comes it feeling your heart contract with love for your children, in fact the best is yet to come.
Sunday, 6 July 2014
I have always been far too lazy to be a tiger mother. Forcing my children to devote their spare time to improving their sentence structure, decoding mind-frazzling puzzles and endlessly practising scales, rather than their preferred activities of shooting things on the Xbox and devising ever more ingenious ways to irritate other family members just seemed way too much like hard work. But now the dread spectre of secondary school looms large I begin to wonder if I have perhaps missed a trick.
Even as the most mathematically challenged mother I have worked out that if x= four sons to educate and y= approximately £20,000 school fees per son, per year then parents= too poor. This leaves me with two options. Option one is the true sloth mother choice, simply let my boys brave the local comp and hope for the best, or at least that they survive the experience intact and free from an addiction to any class of drugs.
Now call me a helicopter mother but I have seen the boys that go to our local comp and they scare me. Given that my eldest has strong nerdy tendencies and a marked preference for reading over football, I fear that taking the path of least resistance would see him having his head forced down the toilet by nasty rough boys within his first week. You might think I exaggerate, but this is exactly what happened to the last sweet little boy who was fed to this pride of schoolboy lions by his laissez faire mother.
Moving swiftly on to option two. Selective schools. Well this is where I feel that in failing to roundly punish children every time their thoughts turned from those of academic improvement I have let them down. While I am a firm believer that childhood is a time to do as little as possible, after all adulthood is deeply marred by the requirement to work hard to make ends meet, this philosophy looks a little shaky as I put my children into the ring against the cubs of tiger mothers.
Yesterday my boy auditioned for a music place at a local selective school. The odds are not stacked in his favour as thousands (I exaggerate not) of children vie for 20 places, but he valiantly carried his cello into battle. I even made him wear a shirt in an attempt to curry favour with those music teachers who would decide his fate.
I soon discovered that I am an amateur in these matters as we sat down next to a girl in the full regalia of a gold embroidered sari strumming away on a sitar that was at least twice her size. Clearly a shirt and about the fifth cello in the room were not going to cut the mustard against competition like this.
Perhaps I should have had some inkling of what we were up against during the soloists concert at his primary school. While my boy gave a perfectly creditable performance, with only a few screeching wrong notes to let him down, a fellow pupil gave a virtuoso performance I would pay money to see. The rumour mill at school assures me that this level of excellence is achieved courtesy of some particularly red in tooth and claw tiger mothering.
These are early days in the rounds of tests and exams that will seal his fate. But it's too late to get fierce now and I have to pray that being such a pussycat mother won't end up being tacked onto the roster of parenting errors I have made.