Tag Archives: child

Thoughts On Turning 30

30. It sounds like a scary decade. Or at least that’s what my boyfriend thought as I reminded him that 30 is the marriage and kids decade.

It is strange to think that in ten years time that could be my reality.

If I don’t have children it wouldn’t be the end of the world, but it would  be heartbreaking because I’ve had maternal urges since the age of 18.

This sums up how I feel about being broody.

I know it’s just biology reminding you that your eggs are ready for fertilisation, but it is an unsettling feeling when you aren’t ready for kids – the biggest decision of your life. I go through intense broody phases every couple of years. I used to cure them by watching One Born Every Minute. Even that doesn’t work now. I find myself thinking yes, it looks like a horror movie, but after that she gets a beautiful bundle of joy to love forever.

Copyright: One Born Every Minute – Channel 4

Now I cure broodiness by watching Super Nanny. It should be compulsory viewing for potential parents.

“They won’t fear you with the naughty step. They will fear the punishment.”

When you see a couple going insane for two torturous hours putting little Freddy back on the naughty chair, you realise why so many parents resort to violence. It’s the easy way out, just like plonking them in front of the TV is easier than reading to them.

Copyright: Super Nanny

It was easy to see how parents could lose it when a child screams and screams…and screams. When a friend’s cat cried constantly from when I arrived to when I gave it food I was guilty of snapping at him. I raised my voice and told him off. He then avoided me for the rest of the day and I felt incredibly guilty.

You see it time and time again on Super Nanny. The screaming from parents to children, from children to parents, the slaps. One couple were even shutting their toddler out on the patio like he was some kind of animal. On the other extreme there was the complete lack of discipline, leading to children up all night running wild, children who are tired and cranky the next day. You could see how the couple were creating the nightmare they lived in. On the website debate.org 60% of respondents agreed that there was no such thing as “good” or “bad” kids,only bad parenting. Yes, some kids are just naughty, but who does the child copy? Their parents.

Think about it – by slapping your kids, what do you teach them? You teach them that you solve problems with violence. You teach them to fear you. Sometimes you even see the kids reflecting the parents behaviour, hitting their siblings.

Of course children need to learn that there are consequences for bad behaviour, but is control through fear what you want? Or would you rather control through punishments like the naughty step?

As Super Nanny wisely said in one episode: “They won’t fear you with the naughty step, they will fear the punishment.”

 

No child wants to be ignored and isolated and that’s how this control method works. Part of the reason I watch Super Nanny is that I am fascinated by the way the lady works with the child’s psychological perspective to get into their head and onto their level.

I saw my cousin successfully use a similar technique on his son. He asked his son to go out of the room for being cheeky and the child stomped his feet and had a tantrum. His father patiently let him do this and firmly repeated his request for his son to leave the room until he did so. He then asked his son if he was ready to come back in. The child said he was but continued to be naughty. His father told him to leave the room again. The boy cried and wailed at the perceived injustice. But my cousin did not falter, he simple asked his son if he was ready to come back in and behave again. The child said again that he was and this time he complied.

I have done work experience at nursery so I’m aware of the reality of kids. The endless questions and demands for stories, the tears and the tantrums. Toddlers have to be the focus of attention 24/7. As soon as you look away they are there in your face, thrusting a soggy book at you with that wide-eyed look that you just can’t say no to. There are only so many times you can ask a child what number comes after three. Even the fingers on my hands didn’t help – the kid was convinced two was the answer.

Too many would-be parents think of the cute pink baby and its massive eyes, of the love they’ll feel for this little beauty, of how that baby might somehow make their relationship stronger. As if sleepless nights and endless poo and vomit might somehow create some kind of unbreakable bond.

Too many parents find out later that actually, what seemed like a solid relationship pre-baby wasn’t as strong as they thought, as sleep deprivation and drudgery take their toll.

A study of 2,000 couples in Germany found that the happiness of parents decreases temporarily after the birth of their first child, which is hardly surprising. It even causes 10% of parents to make the decision not to have a second child.

Knowing all this I am slightly terrified about the idea of having children, as I know my partner is. I know it’s something I want and I hope he does too. But could I handle the stress?

It’s not just me that is worried about the idea. My mum had a nightmare last week about me being pregnant. She asked again whether I was definitely just overweight and not expecting. She said in her dream, her and dad were asking each other what they could do and panicking. We worry about it because we know that I can’t handle less than 7 hours of sleep.

I would be reluctant to give up work to become a nappy-changing milk machine.

Scientists have discovered that how well we tolerate sleep loss is actually written into our DNA. Nothing can change that, and if all those affected remained childless, this gene would have been bred out in a kind of natural selection. But people are prepared for the pain and the sacrifice of children. As a friend said: “The sleep loss is only for two years and it’s worth it”.

I think I want to leave it at least five years. When I said this to another friend she warned me about fertility – we have been told that levels decline from the age of 37, or maybe even 35. I want to have two children, so I don’t want to wait too late.

Before I have children I need to be living with my boyfriend and preferably married. At the moment we are no further forward than when we met four years ago, because we are not even living together.

It’s only now that I’m 30 that I’ve started to worry about our current inertia. Suddenly I am aware of the fertility clock ticking in the background.

We women are born with all the eggs we will ever need. They just grow older every year until they become genetically damaged, increasing the risk of conditions such as Downs Syndrome. Genetic code starts to be eroded by the passage of time.

What if we leave it too long and it’s too late? This has happened to other couples. Women who have left children til they were ready and financially sound have found that they cannot conceive naturally anymore and some don’t even have any luck with IVF. What seemed like such a sensible decision in their twenties backfires. The fertility clock has stopped ticking and their time is up. They will never have children naturally or even with assistance, and they have to make the difficult decision to adopt or remain childless.

If I can’t have children naturally, I doubt I will bother going through the long, frustrating process of IVF. I went into an Assisted Conception Unit a couple of times when I worked in an Ante-natal Department and the room was full of miserable, defeated and exhausted couples. I promised myself I would never end up there. I’d rather adopt and help a child less fortunate than myself to have a stable, loving home to grow up in. I feel like I have too much love just for my boyfriend. At the very least I would need to get a pet, something to fill this void that is becoming more and more apparent as I get older.

Who knows what the future holds. Hopefully my relationship will survive whatever fortune throws at us.

If you’re thinking about having children please consider the reality first, think about the practicalities.

Discuss who is going to do what and how you are going to manage the extra responsibilities. Think about how the child will impact on your current lifestyle.

You need to be prepared to support and guide each other through the most intense, stressful yet rewarding time of your lives. Or at least that’s what parents tell me.

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My First 18-Rated Cinema Experience

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“So you think you’re lucky, punk?”hqdefault

That final scene was hardly worth it. My first 18 film was “Dirty Harry“. Clint Eastwood played a seriously unhinged individual wreaking violent revenge in horrific ways. I still can’t get the scene out of my head where he shoots a guy in each limb from close range.

But for some reason I just couldn’t tear my eyes away.

Even a Certificate-15 that I saw at school at 14 (state school incompetence could be unbelievable) took me weeks to recover from.

“I Still Know What You Did Last Summer” was about a serial-killer wielding a massive hook and you can guess how his victims met their excruciating ends. We have an old house that makes noises at night. It was windy and every creak was the psycho coming up the stairs. Every shadow was his cape. I started screaming and mum embarrassingly complained to the school that I’d lost nights of sleep over a film that I was a whole year too young for. The teacher retorted that “none of the other kids had had a problem with it”. We then watched a horror film at home “Don’t Look Now”, again about a serial-killer (clearly a subject I need to avoid). Once again I spent at least a week of disturbed nights imagining I was next.

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Following this I decided that Certificate 15s had to be vetted first and 18s were definitely off-limits.

Partly to blame for my ridiculously realistic and detailed imagination are my parents, who have never had a television.

I can still remember the euphoria in the house when videos were put onto CDs and we could finally watch them on the computer. For the first time we had access to films outside of the cinema (which we went to about once a year) and friends’ houses. Dad was very much into what I term the “Roald Dahl philosophy” which was that screens killed the imagination (I think he wrote this in one of his autobiographies, which I highly recommend).

This is true. Children growing up today are deprived of the ability to imagine, to “make-believe”. It’s all too easy to dump them in front of a screen and let that do the work. But our favourite time of the day was story-time. Dad would be back from work, we’d get cosy and he would create new and exciting worlds full of weird and wonderful characters with different voices. We used to beg for “one more chapter! just one more!”.

Copyright Disney/Pixar

Copyright Disney/Pixar – This scene in Despicable Me 2 shows a typical night in our family.

I used to have incredibly powerful dreams which felt as if a film had come to life in my head. There I was ducking from the searchlight of a helicopter, dodging bullets whilst escaping enemy spies. I’d wake up with adrenaline and sometimes I’d go back to sleep and see what else happened. I even wrote some of them down.

Anyway, last week my boyfriend came back from work talking about this “Gone Girl” film. Quite a few of his colleagues had been discussing it and he thought it sounded interesting. We looked into it and I realised it was 18-Rated.

My first instinct was to say I wasn’t interested. But I was. I also wanted to know what all the fuss was about.

When we went it was clear that reviews had had a similar effect on the packed audience. That or they’d heard Ben Affleck was naked in it (which definitely would have persuaded me and yes, it is worth watching for “that” shower scene).

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Copyright Fox Movies.  The man behind “Gone Girl” is David Fincher, director of Fight Club which apparently also featured an intricate plot. However I stopped watching it due to the constant violence.

As far as 18’s go Gone Girl wasn’t bad and it was a highly entertaining evening. There was a clear warning about the gruesome bit when a sharp implement was picked up. I looked away but the sound effects were bad enough. So I observed reactions instead. My boyfriend stared wide-eyed at the screen holding his breath, white knuckles clutching the armrest. Everyone else was watching in a similar fashion. I asked him when it was over and thankfully it wasn’t a long scene.

I was still a little traumatised by the thriller aspect of the film the next day, getting flashbacks as my brain processed it. It was a story with lots of twists and turns that made you puzzle about it afterwards. I like features that make you do that. The size of cinema screens really gets you involved too.

Would I see another Certificate-18?

Probably not. I don’t need cheap tactics like blood and gore or god forbid, car chases, to get drawn into a film. I need a clever engaging plot (“Gone Girl” was excellent in this regard), well-developed characters and an interesting script. That’s all.

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Buxton day trip

I have had a lovely couple of days off lately. On Wednesday I went to a shopping mall and bought some presents, on Thursday I went to Buxton and on Friday I joined a new gym, went swimming and had a haircut!

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Buxton is a lovely place to visit in the Peak District. It is a village of around 20,000 with some nice cafes and quaint OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAold-fashioned shops, including a chemist that looks like it is still stuck in the Victorian era.

In 1572 Dr John Jones wrote the first medical book on Buxton waters entitled The Benefit of the Auncient Bathes of Buckstones. The spring waters were believed to have healing properties. Even Mary Queen of Scots visited to benefit from them. In the Victorian era it was a popular spa town and there is still a baths. You can drink the natural mineral water for free there and it is still bottled and sold today.

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We went to a tea shop for a drink. It was a bit of a disappointment and tasted the same as when I make it at home.

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The “Devonshire Dome” there is a feat of civil engineering. It is hard to believe it was the roof of stables. It was built in 1789 by John Carr, commissioned by the duke for Buxton Crescent, converted into a hospital and is now restored by the University of Derby. Go in if you get a chance. I only got a chance to view it from the outside but the inside looks impressive just from looking at pictures.

Buxton-Campus-Dome-shot

Buxton_Dome_South_Elevation1000Mum’s main mission was the charity shops. Relentlessly we hit every single one. There were rail upon rail of cheap but tacky clothes, clothes only geriatrics wear and probably had. When I am that old I’ll wear charity shop clothes because I won’t need to look presentable anymore. I’ll be like the lady in the Purple poem.

But surprisingly we did find some that weren’t from M ‘n’ S, Tesco or Primark – Coast ones. I got a painted silk-style sleeveless ruffled top with a dark beige pencil skirt and a 1950s-style A-line dress. It’s blue with roses on and I can’t wait to wear it. Even mum laughed at the “vintage” charity shop. The clothes were like fancy dress for a 1970s party.

We went back to the tea shop for lunch. I was impressed with the selection – chicken curry, jackets with cream cheese and spring onion, steak sandwiches and “Buxton” burgers.

Mum said the burgers were good so I went for one of those. This was served with salad and posh crisps. Salt and vinegar, my favourite. I was enjoying it until I crunched on a couple of bones. I got one and thought that was it, continued eating and then got another…and another. Luckily I didn’t swallow them as I may have choked. I was slightly put off. The meat had been lovely, but I didn’t want to be reminded that I was eating an animal. The whole point of cooking meat is not just that it tastes better but also that you don’t feel like an animal eating another animal, like a lion at zoo feeding time.

I didn’t want to make a scene but Mum insisted we say something. They’d be nice about it, she said. So I told the manager.

“Ohhhhh.” She said, haughtily, the disdain all too audible, “we haven’t had that before. We’ve never had a customer complain about that.”  I thought I must be imagining her tone. I went to the toilet. It was cold like the cafe – at least the food was hot. There were flannels to dry your hands on that you put in a little basket, a nice touch.

On the way back, I saw her poking the burger meat around angrily with a knife, peering at it from the side. She then triumphantly reported to mum that it was “gristle” I had nearly taken a tooth out on, not bone. She said “I poked it with a knife and it wasn’t hard, so it must have been gristle”. How gristle was better than bone I don’t know. One woman walked out having hardly touched her “spicy potato soup” a thick orange lumpy broth. Mum was served hers with stale bread, the staff urging her to “help yourself to more if you want”. Clearly they needed to get rid of it.

Mum bought some cake and they charged her full price for that and the meal, despite my bones of contention. It had butter icing, not even cream cheese icing like mum does, which is much better and tastier. Cheaper ingredients and maximum profit. I stalked out indignantly. Mum was apologetic as I grumbled about the disgusting lack of customer service skills. I wouldn’t be going there again. Its name was “The Cafe at the Green Pavilion”.

Anyway then we went to the library and art gallery, which was a much more enjoyable experience. It was combined in an old building with wooden doors and stained glass windows. But it had also been converted into a museum about Buxton’s history. I expected it to be poor as it was only two floors and looked poorly funded. We went into the exhibition space of a dire modern artist, abstract shapes in different colours spoiling the walls.

In the corner was a dark corridor. I went down it and there were little labels indicating different periods of time hanging from the ceiling and a video showing the passing of time from prehistoric to modern times in photos and drawings. I turned a corner and walked into the Cretaceous Period.

A massive dragonfly clung to a tree and there were noises of the forest around me. I walked on and into a cave.

There were bones of mammoths, bears, hyenas and in the corner roaring at me, a bear that looked rather too life-like. I quickly walked on into the “hunter-gatherer” age and a skeleton lay in a glass case, a man of 25-30.There was a little burial tomb reconstruction that you could crawl into. There were knife and axe heads on display. I went under an arch into the Roman period.

This interactive journey through time just kept on going, a maze of corridors and passages making you feel like you were actually in that era. It was fantastic.

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There were Roman columns all around me and a life-like centurion in full armour standing by the wall.

A ceremonial washing basin was on the right with a bronze head above it. Further on was a Roman rubbish dump – much nicer than modern ones – all broken jars and animal bones. I wonder what future ancestors will make of ours.

There were videos playing and you could hear the audio so you could take it in as you looked at the exhibits without having to watch them. I heard that to become a Roman citizen you had to serve 25 years with their army. Many Anglo-Saxons did and were posted away from their families in the Empire. Some would never have seen their families again.

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Due to space there was only a corridor linking this age to the 1700s, telling of medieval hunts in the forests. Then I went into a 1700s sitting room.

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You could sit on an imitation chair by the fire surrounded by fancy things. In the next room was a reconstructed “Buxton” black marble workshop.

The public went mad for this rare marble in the Victorian era and would buy loads of the stuff while on their spa breaks. It was made into everything – tables, chairs, jugs. But production virtually stopped when the craze was over. You can still buy it though.

There was a corridor dedicated to more recent years and all too soon I was back from my time-travel journey. I enjoyed it so much I went back in time instead of forwards. I couldn’t believe the collection box was empty. Museums are poorly funded these days so if they do a good job they need financial backing. I gave them a little. The time travel machine was too good to be free.

We then went round the flowers in a conservatory, enjoying the sweet scent that filled the air. We passed by the Pavilion Gardens on the way out but sadly it was too cold to enjoy them.

On the way home we saw what looked like World War Two bunkers but they were in fact enclosed kilns (enclosed to conform to blackout regulations) for the production of quicklime from Derbyshire limestone, which was produced in Buxton from the late 1800s until 1944.

If you’re visiting Yorkshire or England for that matter, don’t miss Buxton and its museum. It’s great for adults as well as children.

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Bug Buses

After the 10k on Sunday my legs were achy for the next two days, so I took the bus.

Public transport really bugs me and this week it did quite literally. On Tuesday morning a wasp was diving at the passengers and then angrily hurling itself against the window. It then sought comfort in the blonde’s hair in front of me. The young lady didn’t realise at first and then jerked away instinctively. KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

She hit it with the buttoned sleeve of her jacket. There was silence and it disappeared. She looked around for it for a while and then, satisfied it was out of sight, put it out of mind.

As did I. But then I thought “what if it’s crawled between the seats?”. I patted my wide trouser legs. Since I’d lost weight I’d had to secure them with a belt and they were quite roomy. I felt a sudden sharp pain just below my right knee. Rolling the trouser leg up I realised I’d been attacked and pulled out the sting. Ironically on the bus the day before, I had been reading about a guy who stung himself with various wasps and bees and then rated the pain. This felt like more than a 3/5. I patted my rolled-up trouser leg and couldn’t feel anything. For the next 10 minutes or so I squeezed the spot as fire ran through my blood. Some commuters looked, but no one asked if I was alright. I suddenly realised I may have rolled the damn thing up in my trousers. On unrolling it dropped out, dazed.

Having endured enough for one journey, and not wanting to spend another five minutes in the company of this vicious creature I staggered off and limped to work, unable to bend my leg. When I got there everyone crowded around and marvelled at the red golf-ball sized lump. I took two antihistamines, which luckily I had in my handbag, then soaked a couple of kitchen towels in vinegar and secured them to the area with sellotape. I replaced this throughout the day, ensuring the dressing was always damp. I then took two more antihistamines at lunch time. They don’t suit everyone though – a blogger I follow had a reaction to them, so always read the leaflet first.

People asked after my “wooden leg” and told me to “buzz off”. The next day it was fine, but I still had to take the bus as the weather was horrendous, with rain lashing down and thick fog. 

On Wednesday I felt so tired I felt jet-lagged. My throat was a little tender, so I drank honey and lemon in hot water. It was lovely, really soothing and antibacterial. On Friday I woke up at 5am as I was breathing out of one nostril. The infection had gone into my chest and I sounded like Darth Vader’s wife. My body was fighting for sleep but I had to get through the day.

It has been a long week catching bugs of both varieties. On Friday I had an unidentified insect crawling across my paper and a fly buzzed in my face at work, reminding me it was home time.

I commute on a bus packed with snotty school kids. They are then replaced by sneezing students and parents.

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As I’ve previously noted, public transport is great for strengthening the immune system, although as viruses constantly mutate there’s always something new around.

After doing an Olbas and tea tree oil steam inhalation this morning I feel less congested. I haven’t got a temperature which means it’s nothing to worry about. If I did it would mean my body was still trying to kill infection. I’m just expelling the aftermath of a white blood cell battle. But this weekend I have to clean the house for my parents. It’s going to be a wheeze…

Not only do I sound like Darth Vader, this person shows how you can get the look too. Just use a black towel for optimum results.

Not only do I sound like Darth Vader, this person shows how you can get the look too. Just use a black towel and dim the lights.

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