How to deal with bullying

As a mummy, I had my first encounter with playground bullying when Bobby was at preschool. There was a little girl in Bobby's class called Cinzano (I kid you not). Cinzano was definitely on the 'no' list for potential sleepover buddies. It really wasn't her fault, but she was rude, grubby, crawling with goodness knows what and was nasty to all the other little girls. I say it wasn't her fault because a) she had to live with the name Cinzano, which is enough to drive any girl over the edge, and b) she had an aggressive mother who had a chip on her shoulder so large she could have supplied a well known burger chain with fries for at least 20 years.

Cinzano's mother had so much anger and resentment that it showed on her face, the result being that she looked rather like a bulldog chewing a wasp. Most of the other mothers had been on the receiving end of her temper at one point; consequently, most other mothers avoided her. She was one scary lady- large and manly in figure, tattooed, pierced, grubby- and Cinzano was a miniature version.

Bobby frequently came home from preschool in tears because of something Cinzano had said and, despite much tantruming and complaining on my behalf, the actions of the school had had little effect. One day Bobby again came home in tears; she had been given some pretty hair clips by her auntie and Cinzano had made fun of them. I comforted my small daughter, explaining that Cinzano probably said those things because she was sad that SHE didn't have pretty things, and was jealous of how pretty Bobby looked in her new hair clips. I (perhaps foolishly) added that poor Cinzano didn't have a nice mummy like Bobby did who would cuddle her and brush her hair etc etc and this would make her sad and cross.

The next day, Bobby trotted off to preschool feeling confident and loved. When I picked her up at lunchtime she was, miraculously, all smiles. I asked her how her morning had been and if she'd had any more trouble from Cinzano. She said, "Oh yes, mummy, but I just remembered what you told me. I told Cinzano that you said she only picks on me because she's the fat kid."

Nooooo!!!!!!! No, no, no scary mummy of Cinzano, that's not what I said!

Avoiding Bulldog Wasp Mama we legged it out of the playground. Unfortunate as the choice of wording was, it worked. Bobby and her friends had no more trouble from Cinzano, who evidently didn't want to be proved to be 'The Fat Kid', and I remained safe from her mummy.

Bobby and Peter have both been bullied at some point, especially since starting secondary school. Peter is a prime target as he is so odd, bless him. Thankfully both of them felt comfortable enough to tell someone and the problem was sorted out swiftly, with their dad and I monitoring every step to make sure the problem doesn't resurface.

If you have a child in this position, kick up a screaming fuss until it is sorted, and monitor closely. There is no shame in making sure your child is happy. You are the parent. If you don't do it, no-one else will.

If your child has never been bullied, keep a close eye on them. Chances are that if they are not in with the wrong crowd, or being picked on by the wrong crowd, they ARE the wrong crowd. That's teens for you, sorry and all that. Prepare yourself for a 'phone call...

Today: Where to get help if your child is being bullied

http://www.kidscape.org.uk/parents/

http://www.childline.org.uk/Explore/Bullying/Pages/Bullying.aspx

Bullying and teens http://www.bbc.co.uk/health/physical_health/child_development/teen_bully.shtml

To keep them safe online http://www.thinkuknow.co.uk/

How to feed a fussy eater

All kids go through fussy phases. Bobby went through a phase where she would only eat orange food- carrots, baked beans, fish fingers, marmalade (but not toast...) and of course oranges. She also went through a brief vegetarian phase on finding out that meat came from animals:

"Urgh! That's so nasty! I'm never eating meat again! I don't want to eat a cute little animal!"

Thinks

"Except pigs. I don't like pigs. What can I eat if I eat pigs?"

Ah the morals of the young!

Of all my kids, however, Peter was definitely the fussiest. A fussy tot with autism is a nightmare, and there were times when I seriously doubted that Peter would reach his teens without developing rickets, scurvy or similar. Peter is now 13, and eats pretty much anything, except sprouts (and I have to agree with him there).

To get Peter from fussy to foodie, we used a combination of tactics. First, the paediatrician's suggestion:

To reduce the fear of food, we first had to get Peter to tolerate it in his 'personal space'. Right. A bit nineties therapy, but we'll give it a go.

We had to start by putting a small piece of the new food next to him on a side plate, then moving it in gradual steps onto his plate. Peter was then supposed to touch, smell and play with the new food before trying it. Good advice. Didn't work.

To slip new food past Peter, we realised we had to be wily. We became as cunning as politicians, putting a positive spin on new experiences and lying through our teeth.

When we started, Peter would only eat sandwiches (peanut butter or Marmite), crisps, chips or plain pasta. Peter would refuse all sandwiches unless the bread was perfectly square. We told him that rectangular bread was really square bread that had been squashed in the freezer, and showed him all the loaves squashed in. It worked. When the peanut butter people changed the lid of the peanut butter from blue to yellow, all hell broke loose, but we convinced Peter that peanut butter, like hamsters (see 'How to deal with the death of a pet'), shed their 'skin' in the summer months.

Peter would eat chicken, but no other meat, so we renamed all meat to be chicken. Beef became African chicken which had been out in the sun longer than UK chicken, pork was chewy chicken- chicken which was just a little bit older, fish was flaky chicken, you get the idea.

Peter's autism also meant that he got very stressed if something wasn't quite right, so to get him to eat fruit we labelled all the bananas with the days of the week. Peter was so stressed that the 'Monday' banana wouldn't be eaten until Tuesday that he ate it himself. Job done. His teachers thought we were a bit odd, but it was a small price to pay.

The real turning point came when we took Peter to an 'All you can eat' Chinese buffet. By this time, Peter was eating chips. When he saw chips at the buffet he said, "Oh, I didn't know chips were Chinese. I like Chinese food, then?" This progressed to, "Of course you like prawns/onions/cheese Peter. You eat crisps in those flavours." We've told Peter that he is amazing because he tries anything now, and Peter, ever susceptible to the power of suggestion, believes us to be telling the truth. Thus, another self fulfilling prophesy is brought to fruition.

Phyllis isn't too bad, although she prefers grazing to 'proper' meals. This is fine; she has a tiny giraffe tummy, rather than a whacking great elephant tummy like the teens who trample through my fridge most evenings. She's not the type to waste away, however, and any faddiness soon evens out in the end. We get her to try new things, or things she has already tried and dismissed, by saying, "Ah but you've grown now, so your tongue has grown too and will have more taste buds. Let's see if you've grown enough to like ***** (insert your own food) yet. Wow you have!"

Getting kids to eat is part psychological mind games in which you, as the adult, hold the upper hand, and part relaxing and admitting that it is very rare for a child who is offered food to starve. If they won't eat what you want them to eat, but are growing and healthy, the problem is yours as you have to prepare more food. This is a nuisance, but not life threatening.

Today: A step too far

Trying to persuade Phyllis to eat sprouts (she happily eats cabbage) I told her that sprouts were 'fairy cabbages', small and dainty fairy food.

Phyllis gave me a whithering look. "Mummy I'm 6. Don't be silly."

Ah well, none of us like sprouts anyway. Saves me the cooking.

Mama Jax

How to get the most from your cat flap

Our house, while lovely, is full of...um...'flaws'. Windows don't fit, ceilings are falling down, carpets are beyond help and don't even get me started on the state of the bathroom! Still, it is well loved.

One of the 'flaws' is the front door. Although you can open it from the inside, for some reason known only to itself, it refuses to open from the outside. This means that to get in we have to go through the back door.

One night I had all 3 kids, the 'big shop' (Lidl, obviously), it was dark, it was cold, it was raining. Now I am usually a cheery and patient person- Waitrose fishwife incident aside- but sometimes the fates just seem to have it in for you.
"Oh look!" they say, "She's cold, wet and laden. Let's have some fun with that!" before cursing the back door so it refused to open. I wiggled the key, talked nicely to it, threatened it, then had a bit of a Tourette's moment to relieve my feelings. We were all getting colder and wetter, except for the frozen stuff which ironically was warming and thawing nicely thank you very much.

So, what does one do in this situation? The only thing one can do: choose the smallest child and post them through the cat flap.

Once inside, Phyllis jumped up saying, "I'm a cat! I'm a cat! Miaow, miaow!" to which I responded, "Darling, go and open the front door for mummy."
"I can't, I'm a cat! Miaow, miaow!"
"Darling, please open the door for mummy, we're all getting cold and wet."
I'm paraphrasing of course. I am, after all, a Lidl mummy not a Waitrose mummy.

Eventually Phyllis agreed to let us in, in return for some milk.

A few days later I was upstairs when I heard Peter shouting for me in some distress. I rushed down to see what was wrong to find him in a heap on the kitchen floor.
"Don't worry mum, I'm ok now. I just wanted to see if I could fit through the cat flap too. The answer is...not quite."
I suspect Bobby has had a secret try too when I'm not around.
(So have I! Shh!!!)

Today: Does giving birth really hurt?
This is a question I'm often asked by teens. Here's what I tell them: imagine the baby as Hagrid (Harry Potter) and your vagina as a cat flap and you're some way to figuring out the answer... If they're still keen on having babies after that, try posting them through a cat flap. It usually cures them.

Mama Jax

My Small Fry: The Railway Children

I call my kids the railway children, after the children in the book by E. Nesbit. There is a line in the book that says:

"Mothers never have favourites, but if their Mother had had a favourite, it might have been Roberta."

Well that's my eldest- my 'Bobby' as I like to call her. Always there, works hard, has her moments but generally not too bad! (I actually say to all my children, "You're my favourite...but don't tell the others!" If they ever discuss and find out I've said it to all 3 of them, well they should have done what Mama Jax told them and kept quiet!)

The middle child in the book is Peter, a bit obsessive and rather odd, just like my 'Peter'. My Peter has autism, and that's a blog of it's own! He, like many boys his age, is obsessed with Doctor Who but unlike most boys he can tell you anything and everything about any given episode. Go on- comment a question and test him!

My little 'Phyllis' is the diva of the family (I can't think who she gets it from- I blame her dad!) She's taken to replying to me with, "Whatever...Girlfriend!" complete with clicks.

I have worked with challenging kids for over 6 years now, and I love every minute of it! It's toughened me up that's for sure!!! In this blog I hope to share with you my parenting highs and low. Parenting is hard enough, without having to struggle on your own, so feel free to share your worries, difficulties, tips and successes.

Today, a little laughter...

Me: Peter, the clocks go back next weekend.

Peter: Back where?

Mama Jax