Time For School

The first time you take your first born into school is a very emotional time for obvious reasons. Before they were in your life, you were a completely different person. But for the last 4 years, you have wiped snotty noses, salty tears, food-covered cheeks and indescribable bums. You have watched every episode of Peppa Pig - more than once - and you can't remember the last time you had a full day of not retrieving Lego from under the sofa/ behind the units/ from being embedded in your foot. You identify less with the celebs of the day and instead model your life on that of Nanny Plum. You haven't read a book without pictures of bears on the cover since maternity leave, and silence only means that something, somewhere, is getting Crayola'd.

And then they start school. You hand them over for 6 hours of the day, and your life is your own again. You drop them off, get home and see that CBeebies is still playing. You can turn it off if you want, but you don't. The house is silent, bar the ticking clock and the occasional boiled kettle. You can do whatever you want for 6 hours. But you generally don't.

That is, however, if you only have one child. If, like me, you have a younger human in your household, your day didn't stop. You carry on watching CBeebies and pulling Lego from between your toes. You still have apples to cut up, and tears to wipe. It is almost business as usual, with a school run thrown in for good measure.

But then, it's time for the smaller human to go to school. "It's fine" you tell yourself. "I'm a school run veteran."

Until you get home, and the clock is ticking loudly. There really is no reason for CBeebies to be still playing, and you are completely and totally alone. You initially relish the freedom, with your plans ranging from dancing around the house to having a nap by yourself (and not with a child, Mr Spike, White Cat, Black Cat, Little Lion and Snurgles). Again, you do not. Instead you catch up on the correspondence you were ignoring. You vacuum the stairs. You stare through the window at Mr-Next-Door for a bit. You constantly check your watch for fear of missing the school run. You never understood people when they told you that an empty house is an unhappy house, but you finally believe.

It is somehow worse to drop your youngest off at school. They are the family baby. They are the ones who kept you busy when you dropped off the older ones on their first days. You couldn't miss them, you were busy with the baby. But now who is left to look after you when someone else is looking after them?

So Ava went in for her first taster session at school today. She bounded around the yard, confident as always, a full head and shoulders taller than most of the others. She scooped up a child she recognised from nursery, and played tig for a while. I watched as the other children hung to their parents, some sobbing, and the look of worry and fear in their parents eyes. I was lucky that my eldest was also quite confident, as he was not a hanger-on or a crier. He was nothing compared to his sister, however, who was now telling some of the terrified parents that she "likes butter because the buttercup said so".

"At least you know she'll be ok." One of the mothers-with-child-attached said to me.

"Oh yes, she's very independent. She's been looking forward to this since her brother started."

Mindless chatter. Small talk. Very conscious that Ava is making herself very known, and silently proud of her confidence and personality.

She is getting giddy now, running to the point of falling. She got straight up, declared herself "fine" and carried on. I called her over, grabbing her attention for a moment.

"Look sweetheart, it's almost half past." I show her my watch in a bid to distract her from her run. She is 4. She has no concept of the things on my watch beside the numbers. I could have very easily said "Look, banana fish underpants" and meant more to her. I only showed her my watch to make her stop running, even for a moment, so she would be still and calm. She shouted "OKAY!" as she ran off, having glanced at my watch for a quarter of a second.

The mother beside me must have noticed this, because she immediately peeled her child off her and made him recite the letters of his name. She corrected him as he said "eye" instead of "i", and probably felt pretty good about herself for showing me that her kid has basic alphabet skills.

I thought nothing of it until later. Then it hit me. She thought my child could tell the time. The child who was running around the yard shouting "BUTTERCUPS!". She thought that I was showing her my watch and reinforcing what she already knew.

How much of an arsehole must I have looked?! To her, it was "my daughter knows complex Key Stage 2 skills. What can yours do?!". To me it was "Please stay still" whilst hoping the slow moving second hand would have caught her attention enough to make my wish come true.

Ava went in just fine, without so much as a goodbye hug. Not though my choice, you understand. I would have loved nothing more than a little squeeze from my baby girl. She ambled off, leaving us parents standing around clueless about our lives from that moment. I had made myself look like a show-off, it was all downhill from here.

Fast forward 2 hours of coffee and solemnly feeling useless, it was time to go back to school. We reassembled ourselves by the reception door, eager to hear about their morning. We hear the tiny footsteps that can only belong to our little cherubs, and the voice of their new teacher.

"This is our headteacher."

"Hello children," he calls, booming but warm.

A lone, childish voice - "Hello!"

The mum who believes my daughter to be a MENSA candidate turns to me.

"That'll be yours."

There was no decipherable way to tell which child it was from behind the door. Only context clues. The fact that Ava stood confidently and independently for the drop off has obviously spoken volumes. She is the loud kid. The confident kid. The more than likely to be a bit bossy kid.

So to conclude, I brag about my genius child who only needs glance at a clock for a nanosecond before deciphering the time, and don't hug her as she enters the classroom for the first time. I am already, more than likely, the Mum To Avoid.

And she doesn't even start until September.

School Yard Politics. Welcome to Awkwardsville - Population: Me

Just when I think I'm safe, something happens to drag me back and remind me that I am, in fact, a socially awkward nightmare. So the last few posts have been about the joys of finding friends in the yard, and how much fun we have once we're out of the school gates. This is the norm, a typical school run in which we use our new fangled  glossary to talk gibberish and make the daily chore of dragging our children in and out of school more bearable. But that was not this day.

Fans of my awkward encounters and reoccurring foot-in-mouth disease should hold on tight - this one is up there with Arsene the cat and telling my male doctor that my husband's chances of procreation rest entirely on his ability to not annoy me. Top up your glass... I know I have.

Backstory. Every good tale needs backstory. So, Dylan. My boy. My pride and joy. I would do anything for him, even if it means knocking a few heads together if I get the slightest hint that he's being hurt or upset in some way. However, the knocking together of heads of 6 year olds doesn't sit well on a resume of someone who wants to teach said 6 year olds at some point in the future. So I didn't knock heads together. I did the proper mum thing. I spoke to Dylan. Not as an adult. "She did what? Fuck her off mate. Don't need that in your life. Move on, and flick her the Vs on your way." But also, not as baby. "Awww Boo-Boo, just play nicely for mummy, OK?" No, I spoke to him as I assumed it was safe to speak to a 6 year old. With honesty.

So, he was having trouble with a girl in school. They were best friends one minute, mortal enemies the next. A fair amount of tears were shed - daily - about what new name she had called him, or how she had squeezed him too tightly, or how she tells him who he can and can't play with, or threatening to cry if he goes to Friendship Club during lunch break, or... You get the idea. We all know girls and indeed adults like this. "My way or the highway". Nothing wrong with it, if that's your way, but there's the highway, and that's my exit. Keep your drama, I'm outta town. You get the picture. So I pretty much told Dylan this. Keep your distance if she gets a bit too much. Don't let her dictate your happiness.

Sound advice, I thought. Well done me, for not knocking any heads together. I didn't lose my temper about her - even though I was often close because of how upset she was making my first born. His biggest bugbear was that she wouldn't let him play his choice of game, or with his friends from his class. So I just said, and I quote, "If someone upsets you, don't play with them."

Time passes, weeks maybe? I notice this girl, who would often be the first subject from his lips after a school day was making less and less of an appearance. Dylan seemed a lot happier about the prospect of going to school in the morning, and lots of new names were mentioned at the question "who did you play with today?". Alls well that ends well.

Right?

But I also noticed something else. The girl, whose mum would park by our house and walk with us to school sometimes, stopped doing so. In fact, I noticed that she was parking much further away, even though she knew she could save herself a bit of distance by parking near us. She stopped talking to me in the yard - even though we barely did, just pleasantries really. I thought nothing of it, really, and just went back to being glad that Dylan was happy again.

Until today. I'm in the yard, minding my own, when suddenly, I see her. I smile and say "Hello", as you do. She didn't seem like she was happy about it, but she couldn't stop herself. She started talking.

"So, my child tells me that she doesn't play with Dylan anymore."

"Really?"

I was trying to think fast. Bad idea. I knew full well that she wasn't being mentioned, but I hadn't asked Dylan why.

"Yes, she says that when she asked Dylan why she can't be friends anymore, he said that he's not allowed, because his mummy told him so."

And there it is. The moment that every Yard Parent dreads. A confrontation from a fellow parent about, not just your child, but you. Specifically you, and what you allegedly said. I was aghast. I felt a hot wash of shame as my cheeks blushed the colour reserved for London buses, and I stammered to get my words out.

"He... Wha..?.. Ha ha... When did...? Wow, that's the first I've known, or you know, heard, and stuff... But.... You know, wow. Yeah, so I know they weren't, you know, hanging around much, actually, anymore.... But yeah, no... Yeah I don't know what's happened here."

I know exactly whats happened here. He got it from me. I said ditch the spare. I told my child to leave anyone who makes you feel like a shit version of yourself behind, move on and make your own happiness, even if that means being alone. He did, and now, as any 6 year old would, he was honest about it. When someone asks "why don't we play together anymore?" we adults bullshit. We lie and scheme and make ourselves out to be less of an arsehole than we actually are. It's called "diplomacy". We give them positives about themselves and say "hey, it just isn't working out, but you're cool though." For the most part, obviously. But a 6 year old? Ah, the beauty and innocence of childhood. You ask a 6 year old why you don't hang out anymore, and they'll bloody well tell you. "You upset me. And my mum says she doesn't like me being upset, so I shouldn't play with people who upset me."

Fair enough. Long may his honesty reign. But to a fellow 6 year old, that sounds an awful lot like "My mum doesn't like you", and when relayed to that 6 year olds mother, it can cause quite a few ruffled feathers.

Her child, from another class to Dylan, came out of her classroom and signalled it was time for her mother to leave. I garbled something about "having a word" with Dylan, but that could have meant anything to her. I gathered up my own child and waited until we got home to have that word.

"Did you tell your friend in the other class that you aren't allowed to be her friend anymore because I said so?"

"Yes. You did though, didn't you?"

"Now now, Dylan, let's be careful here... I didn't actually say not to be HER friend, specifically, I said 'people that upset you', didn't I?"

"But she does upset me! So I told her to leave me alone because my mummy says I'm not allowed to play with people who upset me."

So, what have we learnt, class? That honesty is the best policy? Even if it leads to crossed-wires and "he-said-she-said" that could put you in a humiliating spot? Should I have stood my ground, said "that's almost right. I told him not to play with bullies, so if that's what he thinks she is, that's his decision." Whilst pulling my sunglasses down over my eyes and internally screaming "YEEEEAAAAH!!"? Or should I have downright bullshitted my way out and landed Dylan in it? "He said what?! You wait until he gets home, the lying little bleeder. I love your kid, she's ever so lovely to everyone around her, why wouldn't he want to be her friend?"

Or option 3. Stumble over my words in an embarrassing way, whilst neither confirming nor denying that any such conversation took place, therefore guaranteeing that I'm never invited to that particular kids party ever again?

It wasn't sunny enough for sunglasses today. And I would never drop Dylan in it like that. Option 3 it had to be.

I knew I should have just knocked some heads together.

How to make friends and influence people

I started this blog mainly for my own sanity. I spend a lot of time talking to people under 10, so a lot of what I want to say goes unsaid. My own internal monologue involves a lot of swearing, with jokes that would go over the average preschoolers head (I say "average" because I heard a youth on the bus say "That's what she said!" recently. He was not average.)
I digress. Basically, I had nobody to talk to. I would recount my day to the husband, but only after a lot of thought went into which bits would be filtered (he didn't need to know that today his daughter slid pant-less down the stairs singing Row Row Row The Boat after a particularly eventful toilet trip). The point is, nobody really knew what it was like to be me, and that is just the way it was. However, after a few months of bumping into the same few people on the 5-days-a-week school run, small talk turned to general chatter-chatter. General chatter-chatter, which is not the name of a character in a kids TV show, was a welcome break from the usual silence of the school yard. We talked less about "Oh, that was your kid that did that! Yes I read about it in the school newsletter!" And "Ah yes, that was a particularly tricky homework." And more of "How are you?"

And so, against what I initially thought would happen before Dylan started school, I started to make friends. It was through no great social brilliance on my own part, to be honest. It was down to pure luck. Another mum happened to have gone to my old school and been best friends with my sister for a few years, and she knew someone else and we become a trio. We scooped another off the yard because she tittered at our loudly idiotic comments, and became quite the foursome (a word that would have us all giggling like immature kids, even now). We have a few sideliners too, who occasionally make up the group, but all-in-all, we get along quite well.

We suggested a coffee morning one week, just for giggles. That's what mothers do, right? Have coffee and discuss the homework schedule. And that's what we did. For the first few weeks.

By the time Christmas in the kids second year rolled around, we decided to get a cheeky tipple in for the coffee morning. It's Christmas after all, and Jolly Old St Nick wouldn't begrudge us. So a bottle of Prossecco was aquired and we enjoyed it immensely. In fact, we enjoyed it so immensely that Prossecco Mornings completely eclipsed Coffee Mornings, and have ever since. I say "Prossecco", but it should more accurately be called "Sparkling Wine Mornings", because the Prossecco quickly became Cava, which in turn devolved into Lambrini. For those unfamiliar with Lambrini, imagine drinking sugary urine from a boot that was found at the bottom of an old box. You get the picture.

And so, my outlook of "stand silently and collect your child with as little drama as possible" has completely changed. I now get to the school yard with a new (hushed) story to tell or hear, and people to listen along with. We all agree that we practically live for our Friday Mornings, and have promised not to judge each other's abodes. We're all in it together, for the next few years at least, and it's such a relief to have someone along with me for the ride.

As for why I have suddenly decided to update this blog after a massive gulf in content? Well, I may have mentioned to the girls today that I have a blog. We may have been having a Friday Coffee Morning/ Lambrini Afternoon and I may have agreed to post a new page.

I might even come back again soon and tell you how best to get scooped by a Stepford Wife (hint: don't be me!) and why on Sunday's.. We wear capes!

First Impressions - A Lesson In Being Awkward

I'm an awkward person. Once people get to know me, they say I'm quite a nice gal. I make silly comments. Sometimes they're witty, but more often than not, I wholeheartedly regret ever opening my mouth. I curse my parents for teaching me to talk, and wonder how anyone ever stuck around long enough to actually get to know me.
I've always talked fast. My sister and I can have a full conversation in seconds, and grown humans stand agog at how we can understand each other at such pace. It can come in handy, for getting your word into an argument, or sounding like you're in a rush and need to get away from someone. But the problem with talking fast is that you need to be able to think fast too. Or else, what comes out of your mouth is usually unfiltered rhubarb that makes you cringe with every fibre of your being.

Too many times have I been on the verge of falling asleep, when my brain suddenly gives me a swift kick. "Remember that time when that lady asked if you'd like to buy her huge ceramic Buddah? And you said "God no! That kind of thing isn't my taste at all!" Remember her hurt look? Remember your red face? You absolute moron. Goodnight."

It happens to everyone, I know. But most use them as anecdotes, proudly telling people of the time they had a lapse in their usual great conversation technique. I, however, seem to have these moments on a semi daily basis. Sometimes, I can limit them to bi-weekly, but only if I stay inside for a lot of the week.

Quite recently, I went to the doctors (not for chronic awkwardness, although I really should) and rather made a fool of myself. I usually have a female doctor, and we have a little small talk and chit chat. I say my usual stupid things, but women seem more forgiving of this, either that or they're not fully listening, and I seem to get away with it. This time, however, it was a male doctor. And he had no time for my inane ramblings, and made no bones about it. Firstly, when I had a telephone consultation with him about my deaf ear, I made faux pas number one.
"I'll fit you in at 10 for a look."
I didn't hear him fully, and asked him to repeat what he'd said.
"I'll fit you in at 10."
"Thank you. See, that's how bad my ears are."
There was a slight pause, as we both tried to comprehend what I'd just said.
"10. Goodbye."

And that was the end of that. I'd known the guy for 1 minute and 25 seconds and already he knew that I was not cut out for interacting with other humans. I knew he thought I'd set the joke up by asking him to repeat it, but I honestly hadn't. I just tried to lighten the mood and it backfired.
So 10am came, and he called me in to his office. He had a look at my ears and I tried everything I could to avoid sentences with more than 3 syllables. Then, I had to talk to him about something else - renewing my contraceptive pill.
"I'll need to weigh you."
"Oh, ok. But just know that these boots are really heavy, like a stone each, and my phone is in my pocket. It has a really big screen so that'll add up..."
Why did I say more than three syllables?! Why did I open my mouth? Why did I ever leave the house? My brain banked the exchange for bedtime, as I cringed internally. It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd have just done a polite laugh, but he didn't. He stared at me blankly, also wondering why I ever left the house.
"So, the contraceptive pill. You do know there are side-effects? Have you ever considered getting your partner sterilised?"
"Only when he's really annoying me."
It had happened. All awkward exchanges that had gone before were forgotten. This was now in top spot as Stupidest Thing I've Ever Said. He looked at me blankly, for a second, wondering if I was joking. He was caught off guard, expecting a simple "yes" or "no". They hadn't trained him for this at medical school. He probably also wondered how any man could put up with me for so long for me to ever need the contraceptive pill. Luckily, that was the end of the appointment, and I could drag myself home to wallow in embarrassment.

Some people might be reading this and wondering what all of the fuss is about. So I said some stupid things occasionally. Big deal. It wasn't even that bad. But that's the problem, it isn't an occasional thing. It's every time I meet someone new. I try to make jokes and fail completely, making myself look like an absolute imbecile. I avoid all social interaction if I can. I refuse to call companies out of fear I'll say something stupid enough to have my service cancelled. I try not to make eye contact with fellow parents in the school yard, in case I accidentally call their kid ugly or something. When I really must speak to another member of the human race, I over analyse every last detail of the conversation to find fault and judge myself. And this just happened.

I got home from being out for an hour or so to find my parcel had ended up next door. Having lived here only a month, I didn't know the neighbours. I hadn't even seen them before, so I had nothing to go on in terms of small talk. All I knew is they had a cat. And I know this because it sits outside their house. That's it.
So I muster up every bit of courage I have, and take Ava, to go and knock next door. It's OK when I have a kid with me. I can talk through them. Or get them to do the talking. Either way, it feels safer. Anyway, I knocked. No answer. Praise be. I breathed a sigh of relief and scuttled off home.
7pm rolls around. I've just taken my make-up off, and gotten into the most baggy, and most unsightly, pyjamas I own. I've pinned my fringe up because it gets in the way of my eyes when I'm reading the kids' bedtime story. There is a hole in my sock. Basically, I look like a hobo that's broken in. There is a knock at the door. I remember instantly about the parcel. It must be the neighbour. I haven't met them yet, and first impressions count. I don't want them to think me uncouth, or else they might think I'm ok with things like afternoon bonfires and leaving the shared gate open. I can't not answer, I'm standing near the window. He's seen me. Fuck. I answer the door and immediately start talking. Bad idea.
"Hiya. Is that my parcel?"
It's obviously my parcel. He didn't bring his own parcel round to show me.
"Er, yes. Here you go."
And that, dear reader, is where the conversation should have ended. A "thank you" and closing the door would have meant I could go inside with my head held high that I finally managed a relatively normal first impression. But it didn't end there. I noticed his cat had followed him to my front door, and was mewing loudly.
"Can I ask...?" I started, already wishing I hadn't. "What his, err, it's, name is? Is it a girl or boy? Only I love cats."
Well done Jenn. Not only do you look like a bad Bridget Jones cosplay, you have now confirmed that you are in fact a crazy cat lady too.
"Oh, it's Arsene."
"Arsene? As in Wenger."
Stop talking. Stop talking now.
"No, Orson. As in Orson Welles."
"Oh that's good, I can't stand Arsenal."
He looked confused. He was either an Arsenal fan, and was insulted, or he had never heard of Arsene Wenger.
"Oh. Erm. Ok. The other black and white one that hangs around is Dylan, as in Thomas."
And that's when something else happened. I spoke again. I wanted to sound as sophisticated and in-the-know on literature as this guy, and wanted to say "Aha, a good choice of name. My son is called Dylan Thomas. Big fan." Or something similar, that didn't make me sound like a gimboid. But what happened instead was awful. An unnaturally Yorkshire accent came out of my face.
"That's me lads' name an'all!"
Dying inside, I tried to explain my interest in his cats that didn't make me sound crazy.
"It's just that my daughter, she loves cats, and she always likes to say hello to this one when we see him around the path."
Cheap shot, ok, I blamed the child. But it's true, she does say hello to him every time we see him, and I was interested to learn his name. The neighbour seemed to go home happy that he'd done a nice thing by bringing our parcel round. I'm still not sure whether I'm overanalysing the horridness of the exchange, or if he thought nothing of it and went about his evening without ever considering that I blushed the colour of sunset as soon as I had closed the door.

So today I have learned many things.
1. Do not overanalyse. You will send yourself mad.
2. Don't try to be funny, unless you have proof that you actually are.
3. Stop talking. Stop talking.
4. If you can't manage the first 3, stay inside forever and unplug the phone.

Throwback Thursday - Past Parties

As promised, here are some of the ideas from my past themed childrens parties, just in case anybody wants any ideas for themselves (or ideas on what not to do, too). When Dylan turned two, Ava was just 2 months old. I had been very bored on my maternity leave, so decided to throw all of my time and effort into a big themed party for Dylan, to remind him that he was still special. He was very into cars at that point, so the theme choice was obvious. I went with a Disney Cars/ retro gas station type vibe. I made traffic light jelly shots (sadly without the vodka. I learnt later that it would have been handy to have a nip of something close by) and other bits and pieces. Having just had a baby, I was in no fit state to bake the cake (well, that's the excuse I used) so I bought a Lighting McQueen one from the supermarket. Perfect, until the birthday boy sobbed hysterically because he thought we were butchering his favourite fictional character with a knife when everyone wanted a slice. I made all of the signs and flags with my trusty Berol pens and craft paper, and I like to think I pulled it off. We played "Guess How Many Cars In The Jar" (29, in case anyone wondered) and people won "Piston Cups" for various games. For my first attempt into the world of themed parties, it went rather well.

Car themed 2nd birthday Party

Spare tyre Swiss rolls, traffic light biscuits and chocolate finger dipsticks

Guess How Many Cars In The Jar

Finish line checkered flags

The following year, it was Ava's turn. When she turned one, she didn't have many interests besides dribbling and the occasional tantrum. Not much to go on for a theme, so I used my imagination. I came up with a vintage tea party theme, because I love all that jazz. She even wore an old bridesmaid dress that my mum had since my sister wore it, aged 18 months (so 20 odd years ago). So I bought doilies and cake stands, and served tea and cakes to her close family in their Sunday best. It was a lovely day, and a lot less tiring because the theme wasn't so constricting. My mum had a friend who baked cakes, so she splashed out on a teddy bears tea party cake for her. So yet again, I avoided baking the cake. One year I will, I promise!

The Birthday Girl in a 20 year old dress

The Teddy Bears Tea Party birthday cake

Another year passed and Dylan was turning 4. Both of the kids were going through a mad Ben and Holly phase, so it was clear what he wanted as a theme. We had quite a few of the toys already, so that was the decor sorted. This was one of my lazy years, actually. I relied on using the toys and things we already had as themed stuff, and got lazy with the food. We had "Nanny Plum's Magic Mix" and "Fairy cakes" (obviously), but it went down a treat with the birthday boy. I still didn't feel capable to bake the cake, so we went with a plain one with toys stuck on. I did say this was my laziest year.

The Birthday Elf

Nanny Plum's Magic Mix

Fairy Cakes

Laziest cake ever

A sparse spread, but Dylan loved it

And this year was the turn of The Gruffalo for Ava's 3rd. Next year, it's Dylan's turn again, and he's already got his eye on a Stampy Cat Minecraft theme. Thing is, you still can't buy Minecraft cakes yet. Could 2016 be the year that I attempt to tackle the baking tray? Or will I pay someone to do it for me. Only time will tell...

How Does One Scramble A Snake? - The Gruffalo Party

If you think your life is lacking a bit of chaos, or you just generally like the idea of having your house trashed, throw your child a party. That's my advice this week.

Our youngest turned 3 on Friday, quite unbelievably. She's seemed like a 3 year old already for quite some time, as she follows her older brother and cousin around, learning their tricks and teaching them new ones. She's a very independent girl, the sort who will probably break a few glass ceilings in a few years. She knows what she wants, and she knows how to get it.

The Birthday Girl in the Deep, Dark Wood.

And she wanted a Gruffalo party. Now, I love planning. I love Pinterest boards and lists and making notes about the best and most creative way to mess, I mean, make things. I'm not the best at crafts - many an attempt has turned into disaster. As their birthdays are within 2 months of each other, we alternate the parties every year, with Dylan having his even ages, and Ava having the odd ages. That gives me a good year between parties to recuperate and re-plan. My next post will be about past parties, so I won't go into detail here.

So, Gruffalo party. I scoured the supermarkets for Gruffalo produce, and failed miserably. Frozen stuff, everywhere. Peppa Pig stuff, tripping over it. Minions? Annoyingly in your face. But The Gruffalo? Nowhere to be seen. This was a job for the craft box.

So I made a poster, drawing a picture using an image from Google. I made the little signs for the food, and the autumn leaves for the general decorations. I then realised I hate myself, and therefore needed to make my life even more complicated by introducing the idea of a treasure hunt for the kids. I made the sheets, included a magnifying glass and hid three (one each for my two, one for my nephew) of each treasure around the garden. We had fox paw prints (or pebbled with Sharpie scribbled on them), owl eggs (or bouncy balls, which should really be called "Satan's Own Balls" for the amount of chaos they create) and a toy snake. When they found all three, they were rewarded with some bubble mixture. Sounds easy, and the kids loved it, but the ballache when it came to the planning means I probably wouldn't do it again (actually, I would. I'm a glutton for punishment, it seems).



But then, the next problem arose in my planning. How does one actually scramble a snake?

My nephew is vegetarian, and I know he's a fan of the Gruffalo too. It would have broken my heart to turn him away from the buffet, when this was his chance to sample some of the foods from the book. I aimed for as much of a veggie friendly feast as possible, and did alright (minus the odd sausage roll and Jaffa cake). I came up with French Fries for scrambled snake, after turning down the idea of actually doing any real baking. Pinterest was filled with "bake your own sausage rolls and dye them green, so simple, you gotta try this!". How's about no. In Yorkshire, when all else fails, we use crisps. Owl ice cream? Well, using Ava's Lego ice cream cones, I plonked a few marshmallow/ coconut snowballs in them, with owl face toppers. I was as surprised as you that marshmallow are vegetarian, but they were. Now, roasted fox? I had the brilliant idea of using those cat face shaped bread cakes, but they had sold out. Normal breadcakes it was. Ham was out of the question, so cheese would have to do. Thinking back, I could have gone to more effort with this, but as you can imagine, I'd stopped caring by now.

Monster Munch make good Gruffalo claws, and a few raspberries (and grapes, because they're Ava's favourite) made for Forest Fruits. And what of the Gruffalo Crumble? Why, muffins with orange icing eyes, of course! Unless, you come to ice the eyes the night before the party and find you've bought a tube of icing colouring, not icing. Cue frantic Googling, resulting in a hastily bought packet of Skittles and Jelly Tots. Jelly Tots are vegan, apparently. Who knew?! So muffins with Orange Skittle eyes would have to do. Just a note, by the way, never bite into a muffin with Skittles in. They don't go together very well. But they looked ok, and that's what matters.


And, the most important thing, the cake. I googled and googled. I considered baking, which is a sure sign I've started to lose it. I don't bake. It's a guaranteed fail whenever I even try. So I knew I had to buy one. As it turned out, Tesco do a Gruffalo cake! Yes! No baking for me! Ava's day would not be ruined.

So we went to the biggest Tesco in the city, the day before the party. Frozen cakes, Peppa Pig cakes. The annoying Minion. But no Gruffalo. Back in the car. A screaming Ava who wants her Gruffalo cake. A tired husband spending his first day off in two weeks cake shopping. A stressed out me worrying about the idea of actually baking a cake. The next Tesco was even more useless. A value range sponge and jam thing, and just one other. That sodding Minion again! After a lot of internal swearing, I decided to give it up as a bad job. To Asda, where anything would have to do.

We briefly considered the owl shaped cake we'd seen a week before, but that was sold out. Then Ava decided that The Gruffalo wasn't what she wanted after all, and instead picked the cat shaped one. Like hell, Ava Mae. You're having a bloody Gruffalo party if it kills me. A caterpillar cake? Too scary. Disney Princess? Too irrelevant. The Minion? Not in a thousand years will that thing ever grace my home. Last chance saloon. The "Draw Your Own" cake. It was pre-baked, so I wouldn't even have to turn the oven on. It was just a plain, white cake with three edible ink pens. "You could draw The Gruffalo on it." Tom said. I can't. Not with the pressure of making it perfect. "Or, I noticed they do a chocolate egg in the shape of a Gruffalo a few aisles back. Get that and stick it on."

And so, that is the tale of how I completely avoided baking for my daughters birthday. It was for her own good. Buying supermarket cake doesn't make me a bad person. It makes me a better person for not subjecting everyone to a burnt, over-iced mess covered in sickly sprinkles. I had to stay up late, making cake toppers in the shape of Gruffalo characters, and I did have to do a bit of artwork using the edible pens, but over all, I think it was slightly better than the Tesco one. And certainly better than that bloody Minion.

The finished cake

My advice with kids parties?
Plan, plan and plan.
Plan for if the first plan goes wrong.
Always assume you need more time that you anticipated for setting it up.
Don't let the kids see the party food until the last minute, or you have a very difficult battle on your hands.
Unless you are trained, buy the cake.
And, most importantly, get some wine in for after the party, and everyone has gone home. This information could save a life. Pass it on.

The Gruffalo Feast

Scrambled Snake & Gruffalo Claws

Owl Ice Cream

Spot The Snakes...

Ava and her Great Nanan, doing The Gruffalo Treasure Hunt

Back To School

Another morning, another school run. Plans for the day on virtually zero, apart from having a breather at my parents' house with the youngest. Dylan is playing nicely, so I slip away with Ava to set about my day of loitering.
"Oh, before you go..." The teacher pipes up "You will be at the phonics class this evening, won't you?"

The what now? Phonics class? Dear, I have a GCSE in English language, and an A Level in English  Literature. I think I can manage a few letters of the alphabet!

But I didn't say that. I said "Of course! 3.30? I'll be there!"

Great. So my day of gossip with mum and having endless coffees with my dad was on hold. I still went and did those things, but spent a lot of it nervous about the meeting. I didn't really enjoy school. I was clever, but a bit weird. I had blue streaks in my hair and a lip ring. I wore black a lot on own clothes day, and had a small but important group of friends out of which I never strayed. Every day caused anxiety that the one friend I had per class wouldn't show, and I would sit alone. Now I was going back to school, and starting again. I'm sure some of the parents still hadn't looked kindly on me since the meltdown Dylan had last week, and the others were already in their groups. I was to be the weirdo at the back again. But I'm an adult now, this shouldn't bother me. And I guess it doesn't.

So I got to class with a few other parents - many didn't show. Rude. We put our kids in the Y6 classroom to watch a film whilst we went back to school

It literally was back to school for me. This is my own primary school. I sat in Mr Kitts' classroom, managing to pull up a chair beside another lonely mother who I hoped had felt the same way. The room felt much smaller, but then again, it would. It was 20 years since I was last in that room, and a lot had changed. Without getting chance to take it in, a lady stood in front of the old blackboard - now an interactive white screen - and introduced herself as one of the school teachers. A young lady, probably my own age or younger. Ok love, you tell yourself that I, holder of English GCSEs and A Levels, need telling how to help a four year old with homework by a kid herself.

"So, everything you learnt is rubbish." She started, more or less. "Turns out, the way we learned to read and write as children is not the right way, and we have new methods now."

Oh. Ok?

"We all know the alphabet is A, B, C. But this is useless to children."

Pah, I knew that, I thought, feeling like a bit of a class swot.

"And so is ah, bu, cu."

What. Er, what?

"Now we teach 'Pure Sounds', so it's a, b, c. And there are ffffff and vvvvv. For example, M is not "em", or "um". It is "mmmm". We look at how our mouths are shaped and we spell words based on the sounds they make..."

Fuck I wish I'd brought a pen to write this down. I felt a total plank. What is this witchcraft? She continued on with common sense stuff I'd never considered, and I nodded accordingly. But then it got weird. She pulled a toy frog from a box and said "This is Fred. Say hello Fred."


Great, a nut job who talks to stuffed frogs is teaching my kid to read. She seemed so competent up to now.

"Fred Talk is the way we get children to learn their letter sounds. So "cat" is not "C-A-T", nor "cu-ah-tu", but "c-a-t".

It's difficult to write it and actually putting across what I mean, but she started making sense. She told us how our children did Fred Talking at school, and it is a proven method of getting them interested and engaged with learning to read. An hour later, my head was filled with good intentions and a new lease of parenting. I will sit my children and read every night. I will get them to care about language, and storybooks, and education in general.

When Dylan did his homework that night, I felt a lot more able to help him. I did before, but now I was Fred Talking. I was confident that he would understand better. That is, until, he asked "Why are you talking like that? Fred does that. I don't like him."

So the tried and trusted method may just be the answer to a better education for this generation of children. But not necessarily mine.