Peter
Last year, Peter auditioned for the school production of 'Twelfth Night'. Although I prepared him for the fact that he probably wouldn't get a part as he was one of the youngest auditioning and was up against 6th formers, Peter threw caution to the wind and decided to audition for Orsino, the main part.
His audition was like theatre for the deaf. Peter, being very literal, had interpreted his audition piece in his own sweet, autistic way and had added an action for every line for clarity. His audition ran thus:
"If music (conduct orchestra) be the food (pretend to eat) of love (hug chest) play on (conduct orchestra); give me extheth (excess- Peter has a slight lisp) of it (gather in excessive love)"
Alas for Orsino; Peter was cast as the understudy of Lord 4, a non-speaking part made up by the school to give the voluminous cast something to do.
Peter had one performance to do, with the other understudies, where he had to provide background reaction in Orsino's court. The thing with Peter though, as I have already mentioned, is that he is very literal, so when the director told Peter and Understudy Lords 1, 2 and 3 to react that is exactly what Peter did, in a melodramatic style which would make a silent movie star proud.
By the time the performance came round, the director was at his wits end trying to tone down Peter's reactions, and as a last resort had assigned two year 9 girls to stand one on either side of him and be 'Peter Monitors'. Every so often, Peter would attempt to (over)react and those members of the audience in the know would see the two girls gently but firmly hold his arms down by his sides.
Peter is playing a goblin in panto this year. Whilst the other goblins are 'Panto' scary, Peter creeps across the stage like Gollum from 'Lord of the Rings.' But this is fine; panto is one stage genre where overacting comes into its own.
OH YES IT IS!
Today: Is this the most awkward panto moment ever?
I took the kids to the panto one year when they were small and Buttons chose 4 children (not mine) to go on the stage.
Buttons: So, small boy, does mummy have any 'Uncles' who come round to visit when daddy isn't there? (Knowing sniggers from the adults in the audience)
Small Boy: Yes. Uncle Adrian. He comes round all the time when daddy goes to work.
Daddy did not look pleased...
Mama Jax
Thursday, 1 December 2011
Wednesday, 30 November 2011
How to expose your kids to different cultures
There has been a big hoo-ha in the UK news this week over a post on You Tube showing a woman being incredibly racist. The woman has, quite rightly in my opinion, been arrested, but it got me to wondering how people develop these views.
I want my three Peapods to be exposed to as much culture as possible. When choosing Bobby's first school we looked round one where the headteacher told us proudly,
"We're quite multicultural here. We have several different shades of pink."
Umm...no thanks!
Bobby, at 16, has already caught the travel bug, not craving sunny beach holidays, but trekking through the Amazon in Peru and building sensory gardens in Romania. There is no need to travel that far to experience the world. The UK is a lush garden of cultures, which can surely only be a good thing.
To those who say that people should stick to the country they were born in, I would say this: Think of all the things we would not have if people didn't move around a bit. Pizza, Chinese food, Italian fashion, the wheel... A world without cultural enrichment doesn't bear thinking about!
To those who are still skeptical and are worried about overcrowding, lack of jobs etc, I would like to propose a solution to the problem.
(Government, I hope you are listening.)
My solution is this: We simply operate a swap system. We will allow into our country all the people that want to work, pay taxes, contribute to society and live in peace BUT we will swap these people, 1:1, for our violent louts, lazy druggies, drop-outs, persistent criminals and anyone who has ever appeared on Jeremy Kyle. Eventually, the countries where there is violence and political unrest already will be filled with the kind of folks who can basically just slug it out amongst themselves, whilst all the other countries will be filled with good, honest, hardworking people. It's such a simple solution I wonder that no-one has thought of it before. Vote for me!
Where you are born is purely a fluke. If this country became a war-torn dictatorship I would have no hesitation at all in trying to get my children to a safer country, and I believe any mummy would do the same.
Today: My favourite Peanuts cartoon
I remember a Peanuts cartoon I had when I was growing up, where Lucy and Linus discuss the worrying problem of overpopulation.
Lucy: Overpopulation is a real problem! You should be worried about it. Some night you’re going to go to bed and when you get up the next morning there’ll be no place for you to stand.
Linus: Why should I worry? I’ll just go back to bed.
My kind of solution. Don't worry, be happy!
Mama Jax
I want my three Peapods to be exposed to as much culture as possible. When choosing Bobby's first school we looked round one where the headteacher told us proudly,
"We're quite multicultural here. We have several different shades of pink."
Umm...no thanks!
Bobby, at 16, has already caught the travel bug, not craving sunny beach holidays, but trekking through the Amazon in Peru and building sensory gardens in Romania. There is no need to travel that far to experience the world. The UK is a lush garden of cultures, which can surely only be a good thing.
To those who say that people should stick to the country they were born in, I would say this: Think of all the things we would not have if people didn't move around a bit. Pizza, Chinese food, Italian fashion, the wheel... A world without cultural enrichment doesn't bear thinking about!
To those who are still skeptical and are worried about overcrowding, lack of jobs etc, I would like to propose a solution to the problem.
(Government, I hope you are listening.)
My solution is this: We simply operate a swap system. We will allow into our country all the people that want to work, pay taxes, contribute to society and live in peace BUT we will swap these people, 1:1, for our violent louts, lazy druggies, drop-outs, persistent criminals and anyone who has ever appeared on Jeremy Kyle. Eventually, the countries where there is violence and political unrest already will be filled with the kind of folks who can basically just slug it out amongst themselves, whilst all the other countries will be filled with good, honest, hardworking people. It's such a simple solution I wonder that no-one has thought of it before. Vote for me!
Where you are born is purely a fluke. If this country became a war-torn dictatorship I would have no hesitation at all in trying to get my children to a safer country, and I believe any mummy would do the same.
Today: My favourite Peanuts cartoon
I remember a Peanuts cartoon I had when I was growing up, where Lucy and Linus discuss the worrying problem of overpopulation.
Lucy: Overpopulation is a real problem! You should be worried about it. Some night you’re going to go to bed and when you get up the next morning there’ll be no place for you to stand.
Linus: Why should I worry? I’ll just go back to bed.
My kind of solution. Don't worry, be happy!
Mama Jax
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
How to save money on haircuts
When Bobby was small we didn't have much spare cash. (Hark at me acting like we're loaded now! We're not- we just don't care anymore!) I worked hard to save money wherever I could, making their clothes, using leftovers, walking everywhere; you get the idea.
Bobby was born with long thick hair which never fell out, as baby hair usually does, so haircuts were a must. On my tight budget, I decided a haircut in a hairdressers was an unnecessary expense and decided to cut her hair myself. I did some basic research with other mums on budgets; one of the best tips was how to cut hair so it was even on both sides. The tip was, to make sure you get your child's fringe straight, simply stick a piece of sticky tape across the child's fringe and cut it off. Sticky tape is straight, so if you follow the line of the tape the fringe will also be straight.
Right. A Good tip. Sticky tape in one hand, dressmaking scissors in the other and Bobby in the third* I set off on my haircutting mission. What I forgot to allow for was that Bobby was a wriggler. Just as I was about to stick my perfect straight line, she wriggled and ended up with sticky tape tangled in her hair. Her hair was, and is, incredibly thick, so by the time I had hacked out the sticky tape (NOT in a straight line), I still had several layers of hair underneath. I went sheepishly back to the hairdressers and pretended she had cut it herself...
* Not a typo- if you have kids you automatically get given a spare hand. It's God's way of trying to make it up to you, a bit like petrol station flowers.
When Peter was old enough for haircuts I decided to give it another go. Boys had to be easier than girls, right? Wrong. I invested in clippers, but by the time I got round to getting them out of the box Peter's hair was too long and thick to 'clipper' it without pulling.
"Never mind," thought I, "I will cut it a bit shorter, then clipper it."
Out came the dressmaking scissors again. I have to confess I got a bit scissor-happy, pretending I was a proper hairdresser. I then 'clippered', but had cut Peter's hair so unevenly that it was impossible to make his hair look good. By the time I finished, Peter looked like he had mange.
I have never made any attempt to cut Phyllis' hair; she is far too vain to even let me try. Either that, or the other two have warned her to RUN FOR THE HILLS if she ever sees me with scissors.
Today: The importance of teaching your kids to use their 'thinking voice'
Peter (really loud): Oh look, there's the man with no hair again!
At 3 or 4 that would be pretty cute, but Peter was 13 at the time. Not so cute.
Mama Jax
Bobby was born with long thick hair which never fell out, as baby hair usually does, so haircuts were a must. On my tight budget, I decided a haircut in a hairdressers was an unnecessary expense and decided to cut her hair myself. I did some basic research with other mums on budgets; one of the best tips was how to cut hair so it was even on both sides. The tip was, to make sure you get your child's fringe straight, simply stick a piece of sticky tape across the child's fringe and cut it off. Sticky tape is straight, so if you follow the line of the tape the fringe will also be straight.
Right. A Good tip. Sticky tape in one hand, dressmaking scissors in the other and Bobby in the third* I set off on my haircutting mission. What I forgot to allow for was that Bobby was a wriggler. Just as I was about to stick my perfect straight line, she wriggled and ended up with sticky tape tangled in her hair. Her hair was, and is, incredibly thick, so by the time I had hacked out the sticky tape (NOT in a straight line), I still had several layers of hair underneath. I went sheepishly back to the hairdressers and pretended she had cut it herself...
* Not a typo- if you have kids you automatically get given a spare hand. It's God's way of trying to make it up to you, a bit like petrol station flowers.
When Peter was old enough for haircuts I decided to give it another go. Boys had to be easier than girls, right? Wrong. I invested in clippers, but by the time I got round to getting them out of the box Peter's hair was too long and thick to 'clipper' it without pulling.
"Never mind," thought I, "I will cut it a bit shorter, then clipper it."
Out came the dressmaking scissors again. I have to confess I got a bit scissor-happy, pretending I was a proper hairdresser. I then 'clippered', but had cut Peter's hair so unevenly that it was impossible to make his hair look good. By the time I finished, Peter looked like he had mange.
I have never made any attempt to cut Phyllis' hair; she is far too vain to even let me try. Either that, or the other two have warned her to RUN FOR THE HILLS if she ever sees me with scissors.
Today: The importance of teaching your kids to use their 'thinking voice'
Peter (really loud): Oh look, there's the man with no hair again!
At 3 or 4 that would be pretty cute, but Peter was 13 at the time. Not so cute.
Mama Jax
Sunday, 27 November 2011
How to win a fancy dress competition
If you have kids you will at some point be expected to enter them into a fancy dress competition, be it at school, on holiday, for a party or a carnival- if you have small fry it will happen. Best to be prepared.
I'm a very competitive mum. I try not to be, but I'm the one who, for example in colouring competitions, gets their child to create a collage to give them the edge. It's not the winning particularly, it's the prizes I love. Trophies, gift vouchers, chocolate... I'm not really fussy. I really identify with Violet Beauregard's mum from Johnny Depp's 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory': "Eyes on the prize, Violet." That's me.
Ok, here's what I've learned about fancy dress competitions. A bought costume will never win. Much as you think they are judging the kids, they are not; they are judging your competence as a parent. It is also no good to painstakingly sew a beautiful costume. Judges will become suspicious and think you bought it on eBay. The best kind of costume is one that looks as if the kids made it. Luckily, my craft skills are such that everything I make looks like it was made by a preschooler.
Here are a few easy yet impressive ideas, all of which have been tried and tested by either myself or a close friend:
Bin liners:
Boxes*:
Other easy costumes:
The only thing with being a competitive mum is that you will come across other competitive mums. My kids came second with my slapdash Adam and Eve costumes, and the Umbrella Jellyfish woman's child came first, which REALLY annoyed the mum who had spent ages papier macheing her child into the shape of Elmer the Elephant...
One last tip: try to get the judges to focus on the costume, not the resigned and embarrassed face of the small child IN the costume. If you feel a twinge of guilt for being a pushy competitive mum, just think how much fun your children will have when they have children of their own to dress up, and how good they will feel when their friends describe them as 'marvellously creative.' Sure, your grandkids will suffer, but that's their parents' problem.
Today: How this obsession was born
At the age of 10, my school held a Christmas Hat competition. Other kids' parents had rigged up working circuits for lights, sound and moving objects. My mum covered a straw sunhat in tissue paper leaves and stuck what I think was supposed to be a partridge on the front. It had feathers anyway. She then, bizarrely, sewed 4 foil milk bottle tops to dangle right in front of my face in the style of an Australian cork hat. No idea why, so don't ask.
My 'Partridge in a Pear Tree' hat came first. I don't even want to think about what mum did to make that happen. I won a plastic comb from the chemist, just like my Grandad's. Go me.
Mama Jax
I'm a very competitive mum. I try not to be, but I'm the one who, for example in colouring competitions, gets their child to create a collage to give them the edge. It's not the winning particularly, it's the prizes I love. Trophies, gift vouchers, chocolate... I'm not really fussy. I really identify with Violet Beauregard's mum from Johnny Depp's 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory': "Eyes on the prize, Violet." That's me.
Ok, here's what I've learned about fancy dress competitions. A bought costume will never win. Much as you think they are judging the kids, they are not; they are judging your competence as a parent. It is also no good to painstakingly sew a beautiful costume. Judges will become suspicious and think you bought it on eBay. The best kind of costume is one that looks as if the kids made it. Luckily, my craft skills are such that everything I make looks like it was made by a preschooler.
Here are a few easy yet impressive ideas, all of which have been tried and tested by either myself or a close friend:
Bin liners:
- Put your child in a bin liner. Add a few white spots. Hey presto, a domino.
- For the more artistic among you, use a gold pen to scroll on the logo of an After Eight mint
- Glue on some brown cardboard spots, cover a sink plunger and a colander (with the handle facing forward) in bin liners, attach chrome salt and pepper pots for antennae (available in all good budget caravans). A Dalek.
Boxes*:
- Put your child in a box. Cover with tinfoil. A robot.
- Put your child in a box. Cover with wrapping paper and add a bow. A present
- (My own personal favourite, courtesy of one of my very best friends) Put your child in a box. Cover in coloured squares. A Rubik cube.
Other easy costumes:
- Cover an umbrella in bubble wrap. A jellyfish
- Stick a few leaves on a kid's bikini (girl) and swimming trunks (boy). Give the kids an apple and a plastic snake. Adam and Eve.
- Stick some yellow circle stickers for buttons on a red t-shirt. Cover a plastic toy policeman's helmet (or similar) in black faux fur. A Beefeater.
- For the intellectuals among you (you know, those of you who can afford a proper holiday and don't have to go on the £9 holidays from The Sun with all the other Lidl families): Make your child a 'dress' from newspaper. The Guardian is good for this- you will see why in a minute. Add a tiara and a Miss World style sash reading 'Miss Print'.
The only thing with being a competitive mum is that you will come across other competitive mums. My kids came second with my slapdash Adam and Eve costumes, and the Umbrella Jellyfish woman's child came first, which REALLY annoyed the mum who had spent ages papier macheing her child into the shape of Elmer the Elephant...
One last tip: try to get the judges to focus on the costume, not the resigned and embarrassed face of the small child IN the costume. If you feel a twinge of guilt for being a pushy competitive mum, just think how much fun your children will have when they have children of their own to dress up, and how good they will feel when their friends describe them as 'marvellously creative.' Sure, your grandkids will suffer, but that's their parents' problem.
Today: How this obsession was born
At the age of 10, my school held a Christmas Hat competition. Other kids' parents had rigged up working circuits for lights, sound and moving objects. My mum covered a straw sunhat in tissue paper leaves and stuck what I think was supposed to be a partridge on the front. It had feathers anyway. She then, bizarrely, sewed 4 foil milk bottle tops to dangle right in front of my face in the style of an Australian cork hat. No idea why, so don't ask.
My 'Partridge in a Pear Tree' hat came first. I don't even want to think about what mum did to make that happen. I won a plastic comb from the chemist, just like my Grandad's. Go me.
Mama Jax
Thursday, 24 November 2011
How to create an Essex girl
This week I took Phyllis for her first fake tan. I know 6 is a little young, but before you judge me, it's for a theatrical event.
Phyllis was born in Essex. The hospital were selling little pink fleece blankets with 'I'm an Essex girl' written on them.
"Ah look, they're so cute," cooed I, placing one gently over baby Phyllis as she slept.
Little did I know that that one action would be akin to Maleficent's curse in Disney's 'Sleeping Beauty':
"Before the Princess reaches her 16th birthday, she will don a pair of stilettos and become...a TOWIE girl! Mwah ha ha!"
Fearing the curse placed upon his small daughter, the King (aka hubby) issued the following decree:
Princess Phyllis must go into hiding in the countryside, where she will learn to talk to animals, bake the perfect Victoria sponge cake and call people, "My luvverrr."
For extra measure the King decreed that all stilettos in the kingdom should be BURNED.
But this was not enough to stop the curse of the 'Essex girl' blanket. At the age of 3, Phyllis had already raided Bobby's make-up bag and tried on everything, much to Bobby's annoyance. There wasn't one square millimetre of her face that wasn't covered in 'slap'.
Birthday money was spent on sequined bags. Pocket money was saved to buy 'clippy clop' shoes.
At the age of 4, a friend came to play (a friend who has lovely parents who teach her words like 'consequently') and the two girls went to play upstairs. They came down an hour later covered in 'tattoos' that they had drawn on themselves in pen. The friend, when daddy came to pick her up, instead of thanking me politely for my hospitality, looked at my small daughter and together they recited, "Loser, double loser, whatever GIRLFRIEND," with actions. The horrified father turned to me and accused, "You've made my child... street!!"
We had a mummy/daughter day in the school holidays and I allowed her free choice of what to do. Phyllis chose to go shopping for dresses and get her nails done in a salon.
She has asked Santa for a pink poodle for Christmas- a real one, not a toy. Santa has said, "No."
Phyllis loved every minute of her fake tan experience, commenting, "I don't like my white skin anymore. Can I have these all the time?" Again, no.
We are eagerly awaiting her 'true love' to come riding in on his tractor and give her Love's First Kiss to break the spell.
Actually though, if I'm honest, I love my little Essex girl. She's her own little person who is not influenced by those around her and dances to the beat of her own drum. How wonderful to have a daughter like that. Bet you're well jell!
Today: What Phyllis has learnt from living in the country:
"When you have roast chicken, you can eat all of it except the bum. You have to put the bum in the fridge, else how will you have any eggs?"
We may as well have stayed in Essex.
Mama Jax
Phyllis was born in Essex. The hospital were selling little pink fleece blankets with 'I'm an Essex girl' written on them.
"Ah look, they're so cute," cooed I, placing one gently over baby Phyllis as she slept.
Little did I know that that one action would be akin to Maleficent's curse in Disney's 'Sleeping Beauty':
"Before the Princess reaches her 16th birthday, she will don a pair of stilettos and become...a TOWIE girl! Mwah ha ha!"
Fearing the curse placed upon his small daughter, the King (aka hubby) issued the following decree:
Princess Phyllis must go into hiding in the countryside, where she will learn to talk to animals, bake the perfect Victoria sponge cake and call people, "My luvverrr."
For extra measure the King decreed that all stilettos in the kingdom should be BURNED.
But this was not enough to stop the curse of the 'Essex girl' blanket. At the age of 3, Phyllis had already raided Bobby's make-up bag and tried on everything, much to Bobby's annoyance. There wasn't one square millimetre of her face that wasn't covered in 'slap'.
Birthday money was spent on sequined bags. Pocket money was saved to buy 'clippy clop' shoes.
At the age of 4, a friend came to play (a friend who has lovely parents who teach her words like 'consequently') and the two girls went to play upstairs. They came down an hour later covered in 'tattoos' that they had drawn on themselves in pen. The friend, when daddy came to pick her up, instead of thanking me politely for my hospitality, looked at my small daughter and together they recited, "Loser, double loser, whatever GIRLFRIEND," with actions. The horrified father turned to me and accused, "You've made my child... street!!"
We had a mummy/daughter day in the school holidays and I allowed her free choice of what to do. Phyllis chose to go shopping for dresses and get her nails done in a salon.
She has asked Santa for a pink poodle for Christmas- a real one, not a toy. Santa has said, "No."
Phyllis loved every minute of her fake tan experience, commenting, "I don't like my white skin anymore. Can I have these all the time?" Again, no.
We are eagerly awaiting her 'true love' to come riding in on his tractor and give her Love's First Kiss to break the spell.
Actually though, if I'm honest, I love my little Essex girl. She's her own little person who is not influenced by those around her and dances to the beat of her own drum. How wonderful to have a daughter like that. Bet you're well jell!
Today: What Phyllis has learnt from living in the country:
"When you have roast chicken, you can eat all of it except the bum. You have to put the bum in the fridge, else how will you have any eggs?"
We may as well have stayed in Essex.
Mama Jax
Monday, 21 November 2011
How to survive your gene pool: My grandma
My grandma had a colourful life. One of her 'claims to fame' was that she had been thrown out of one of the very first UK cinemas for snogging in the back row. She'd then turn to my grandad and say, "It wasn't with you dear..."
My grandma was a very accomplished lady; she could sing, sew, play the piano and was fluent in French. Her house was like something from a Jane Austen novel. Everything in it was 'Top Drawer' i.e. worth a small fortune. This suited her breeding, but didn't quite fit with some of the things she got up to.
She used to wear stockings and suspenders, which would regularly 'ping'.
"Oops, woe is me for I am undone!" (Isaiah 6:5) she would giggle, whipping up her skirt and doing herself back up. Isaiah would have been turning in his grave to be quoted in this context.
Every year at Christmas she would buy all the men in our family porn. While this grates on my feminist ideals, you can't help but admire the self confidence of a woman who would give her own husband and the husband of her only daughter a little bit on the side.
My grandma's accomplishments really came into their own when my mum and dad were first married. She was driving my dad somewhere (up the wall probably!) when he commented, "Did you notice that you just drove through a red light?"
Grandma: "No. Oh well."
Dad: "Well the police car behind you did."
Grandma looked in the mirror and lo, there was a police car chasing her, lights flashing.
Grandma:" Don't fret. I'll shake them off."
She then proceeded to speed through the streets of Ireland like Starsky and Hutch, the police car in hot pursuit. Unfortunately she eventually turned down a blind alley and had to stop the car. My dad by this time was hiding under the seat, cringing with embarrassment and wondering how he was going to persuade my mum to raise bail for not only her husband but her mother as well.
The policeman sauntered up to the car. My grandma wound down the window and smiled beatifically, but the policeman was having none of it. It was at this point that my grandma began speaking in French and pretending that she couldn't understand a word he was saying. The poor policeman, a young whippersnapper fresh from school, became so confused that he let her go with a caution, which he believed she didn't understand anyway.
So to recap, if you want to be like my wonderful grandma:
1. Behave inappropriately in cinemas
2. Buy porn
3. Drive like you're in a movie
4. Learn a language to avoid arrest for 1, 2 and 3
Today: There's no-one quite like grandma
Eventually my grandma was unable to look after herself and my mum made the difficult decision of putting her into a home. We visited regularly and tried to keep her cheerful.
Me: "This is nice grandma. You've got your own room, lovely windows..."
Grandma: "Don't be ridiculous, darling, it's full of old people and it smells of urine and cabbage."
There's no flies on grandma!
Mama Jax
My grandma was a very accomplished lady; she could sing, sew, play the piano and was fluent in French. Her house was like something from a Jane Austen novel. Everything in it was 'Top Drawer' i.e. worth a small fortune. This suited her breeding, but didn't quite fit with some of the things she got up to.
She used to wear stockings and suspenders, which would regularly 'ping'.
"Oops, woe is me for I am undone!" (Isaiah 6:5) she would giggle, whipping up her skirt and doing herself back up. Isaiah would have been turning in his grave to be quoted in this context.
Every year at Christmas she would buy all the men in our family porn. While this grates on my feminist ideals, you can't help but admire the self confidence of a woman who would give her own husband and the husband of her only daughter a little bit on the side.
My grandma's accomplishments really came into their own when my mum and dad were first married. She was driving my dad somewhere (up the wall probably!) when he commented, "Did you notice that you just drove through a red light?"
Grandma: "No. Oh well."
Dad: "Well the police car behind you did."
Grandma looked in the mirror and lo, there was a police car chasing her, lights flashing.
Grandma:" Don't fret. I'll shake them off."
She then proceeded to speed through the streets of Ireland like Starsky and Hutch, the police car in hot pursuit. Unfortunately she eventually turned down a blind alley and had to stop the car. My dad by this time was hiding under the seat, cringing with embarrassment and wondering how he was going to persuade my mum to raise bail for not only her husband but her mother as well.
The policeman sauntered up to the car. My grandma wound down the window and smiled beatifically, but the policeman was having none of it. It was at this point that my grandma began speaking in French and pretending that she couldn't understand a word he was saying. The poor policeman, a young whippersnapper fresh from school, became so confused that he let her go with a caution, which he believed she didn't understand anyway.
So to recap, if you want to be like my wonderful grandma:
1. Behave inappropriately in cinemas
2. Buy porn
3. Drive like you're in a movie
4. Learn a language to avoid arrest for 1, 2 and 3
Today: There's no-one quite like grandma
Eventually my grandma was unable to look after herself and my mum made the difficult decision of putting her into a home. We visited regularly and tried to keep her cheerful.
Me: "This is nice grandma. You've got your own room, lovely windows..."
Grandma: "Don't be ridiculous, darling, it's full of old people and it smells of urine and cabbage."
There's no flies on grandma!
Mama Jax
Friday, 18 November 2011
How to talk to kids about sex; A guide for teachers
There is only one thing more cringe-worthy than having to talk to your kids about sex, and that is having to talk to other people's kids about sex. It is a sad fact that teens believe so many myths about sex, STDs, pregnancy and birth that the government should be seriously concerned that the human race could die out.
Teachers now have to talk about sex to children as young as 4, and deal with irate parents who, quite rightly, think this is a tad too young. Here's a news flash for those parents: the teachers agree with you.
There is a set curriculum for teaching kids about sex, but most teachers do the following:
Reception: "Stand up if you are a boy. Stand up if you are a girl. Great, now let's do maths,"
and develop it on from there.
There is some controversy by the time kids reach years 1 and 2 as they learn the scientific names for the less talked about parts of their bodies. Among the penises (penii?) and vaginas is the humble clitoris, which has causes ruffled feathers among the teaching profession who think this is a body part too far. My argument though is that we are training up a future generation who will be so rubbish at dirty talk ("Sexual intercourse my vagina...oooh yeah baby!") that if we don't teach at least the boys about the clitoris, we as a species will definitely die out. And let's face it girls, how many of you wish your partners had been taught where the clitoris is at school? Thought so...
Actually, the 'naming' lesson can cause a few giggles as the teacher has to ask, before teaching the correct names, what names kids have been taught by parents. We usually get things like front bottom, willy, lady garden, flower, pee-pee and other harmless terms. One of my colleagues, however, was totally floored when one 6 year old said daddy called his 'male parts' Verne and the Twins. How she got through the next parents' evening without blushing I'll never know.
The trouble with sex education really starts when kids hit about 14 and they know it all. They take great delight in trying to embarrass the poor teacher by asking personal questions. It takes a brave teacher to face a class of year 9 pupils. Whoever does this deserves a medal and a knighthood from the Queen, at the very least.
By the time kids reach 16, they usually do know it all, or at least more than the teacher. It is at this point that the cunning teacher, whilst giving the impression of teaching, will really be picking up tips to inject some passion into his/her own flailing love life. After all the embarrassment of years 1-10, the humiliating realisation that one's sex life is lame will just about finish one off. Never mind, I hear Tesco are hiring...
Today: The nursery rhymes my dad sent me to school with
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water,
Jill came down with half a crown...and she didn't get that for fetching water.
Little boy blue come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn
Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?
He's under the haystack, 'doing' Bo Peep.
Mama Jax
Teachers now have to talk about sex to children as young as 4, and deal with irate parents who, quite rightly, think this is a tad too young. Here's a news flash for those parents: the teachers agree with you.
There is a set curriculum for teaching kids about sex, but most teachers do the following:
Reception: "Stand up if you are a boy. Stand up if you are a girl. Great, now let's do maths,"
and develop it on from there.
There is some controversy by the time kids reach years 1 and 2 as they learn the scientific names for the less talked about parts of their bodies. Among the penises (penii?) and vaginas is the humble clitoris, which has causes ruffled feathers among the teaching profession who think this is a body part too far. My argument though is that we are training up a future generation who will be so rubbish at dirty talk ("Sexual intercourse my vagina...oooh yeah baby!") that if we don't teach at least the boys about the clitoris, we as a species will definitely die out. And let's face it girls, how many of you wish your partners had been taught where the clitoris is at school? Thought so...
Actually, the 'naming' lesson can cause a few giggles as the teacher has to ask, before teaching the correct names, what names kids have been taught by parents. We usually get things like front bottom, willy, lady garden, flower, pee-pee and other harmless terms. One of my colleagues, however, was totally floored when one 6 year old said daddy called his 'male parts' Verne and the Twins. How she got through the next parents' evening without blushing I'll never know.
The trouble with sex education really starts when kids hit about 14 and they know it all. They take great delight in trying to embarrass the poor teacher by asking personal questions. It takes a brave teacher to face a class of year 9 pupils. Whoever does this deserves a medal and a knighthood from the Queen, at the very least.
By the time kids reach 16, they usually do know it all, or at least more than the teacher. It is at this point that the cunning teacher, whilst giving the impression of teaching, will really be picking up tips to inject some passion into his/her own flailing love life. After all the embarrassment of years 1-10, the humiliating realisation that one's sex life is lame will just about finish one off. Never mind, I hear Tesco are hiring...
Today: The nursery rhymes my dad sent me to school with
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water,
Jill came down with half a crown...and she didn't get that for fetching water.
Little boy blue come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn
Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?
He's under the haystack, 'doing' Bo Peep.
Mama Jax
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