Wondrously Other: September 2012

Day of the Sling

Right as the clock struck midnight on Alfie's second birthday a couple of things happened: He gave up napping, and second, he decided he was too grown up to be pushed in a buggy.

That'll have parents everywhere sucking their teeth because if there is a bad combination, it is a two year old who is over tired and unwilling to sit down.

We struggled with an answer for a few months until one day I took Keith's never-ending complaints about buggies in London and my love of baby wearing and found an unexpected answer.

It's not usual to sling your toddler, mainly because most toddlers would cause their parent's lower backs to file an official complaint with its union, but luckily our boy weighs only a shade more than his sister.

Not knowing whether this new venture would be a success we first used a mei tai I made and the weirdest thing happened: when the grumpy little toad was shoehorned into it, he instantly calmed down. Sometimes he even slept. I know!

Not one to overlook an opportunity, Keith jumped on the idea that he could now go out without a buggy, and I jumped on the idea of getting the lovely Helen to make us a dream sling.

I know, I've told you all this before but I want to build some tension here because I am about to break out the trumpets for a well deserved fanfare.

Keith chose the scheme and the fabric, I did the designing, and Helen did the making.

These are the teaser shots she posted on Facebook.

The sling has a whole Day of the Dead theme to it, and I'm not lying here, it is just everything we hoped a sling could be.

It is super comfy, big enough for the kids (with some growing room), great hood, stunning looks, and it even has a little pouch that slips onto the straps if Keith wants to run out with just a few nappies.

Ready for the self indulgent action shots? Happy to oblige!

Sunday, 30 September 2012 Comments: 0

Adventures Around Castles

Yesterday I found myself in Southsea with a morning to kill and two small children to do it with.

I make it sound like I opened my eyes, stretched, rolled over in bed and came face to face with the seaside.

My life is not that mystical, I did know we were on the way to Southsea, not least because I was forced to deal with some spectacular car sickness from the boy and that doesn’t generally feature in my dreamscape.

So, after a detour for Breakfast II and also some new clothes, we mooched down the sea front, and found A REAL LIFE CASTLE! Not just that, it was free and just big enough to keep Alfie interested/ running non-stop while I trailed in his wake.

We walked over the drawbridge and I explained to Alfie that the moat used to be filled with water. Alfie may not be saying the word yet, but he knows how to throw me a “Why?” look at the first sign of new information so that one throwaway comment led to a five minute explanation.

And also to me realising my error.

How do you explain castles, Henry VIII, and cannons to a two year old boy without tapping into his barely contained bloodlust?

So we did some talking about how there used to be people who lived in the castle called soldiers and who sometimes had to stop people from taking over the country. Not sure my comparison with his little sister taking over his favourite toy was the best analogy but I was really struggling with this one.

Then we went inside and discovered cannons. And more excitingly for my son, piles and piles of cannon balls for him to climb over.

So then we talked about the fact that the balls went inside the cannons and were like his football, but very heavy and that the cannon was what people used to throw them very far.

A little selective, but he’s two, and he will learn why people throw weapons at each other soon enough.

The we went round the castle and he was desperate to look out of the windows. That meant I had to become “that parent” and allow him to climb onto the windowsill which at least gave me a forum to talk to him about why his windowsill was a few inches, and this one was a few feet. I thought it was appropriate to help him understand that cannon balls would make a helluva mess if they hit the castle wall, but yes, I am a chicken, so we skirted round the edges of why there would be cannon balls hitting the castle wall in the first place.

The most exciting point of Alfie’s visit was the chance to walk up a very long, and very steep spiral staircase to the roof. Is that what you call the top of a castle? I’m not entirely up on my castle parlance. Clearly I pondered this for too long because next thing I heard was “C’on mama!!” as he scampered away from me like a mountain goat.

Have you ever tried to walk up and down a steep spiral staircase with a chubby teething baby strapped to your chest? No, because it’s a stupid idea.

Once we had romped over every last inch of the castle, we ducked into the café for lunch.

Alfie ordered cheese on toast, I ordered courgette soup. Lunch arrived. Alfie ate courgette soup, I ate cheese on toast. Such are the rules of the toddler.

What interested me most though was our trip back to the car.

On the way out of the castle we walked back over the drawbridge and the moat of glossy green grass.

“Waaah mama” said Alfie, pointing enthusiastically.

“That’s right sweetheart, water in the moat!”

“Dere baw BANG! BANG!” said Alfie pointing back at the walls of the castle.

“And the cannon balls go bang when they hit the walls, that’s right”

So why is it, my darling son, that with all these smarts you still can’t get your head round the fact that BOYS DON’T EAT CHICKEN FOOD!!?

Friday, 28 September 2012 Comments: 0

Baby Led Weaning Esme

It looks like a girl, and moves like a girl …

A new and mysterious beast has moved into FTC. It is about 2 foot tall, has lots of squishy bits and causes my son to walk round in a constant state of confusion.

It looks exactly like my baby daughter, except now with added cowbag.

I was warned about little girls and their attempts to pull on the heartstrings from an early age. I refused to believe it: No, I thought, these women are mistaken, my little cherub won’t try such antics, she’s too little and squishy and like her brother will just be interested in dirt and hitting stuff.

Fast forward 10 months to dinner last night with ice cream for dessert.

Esme loves ice cream a LOT. Right now I have no problem with sharing a scoop or two with her after a meal. If nothing else it helps sooth her aching teething gums. The problem with my daughter though is that, like her mother, she doesn’t just love things, she LOVESTHISMORETHANANYTHINGEVER!!

Also in common with her mother, my daughter is a dreadful liar and her face is a very thin mask for her emotions.

So last night the Duchess of Arlesey had finished her scoop of ice cream, and we were all trying to muster the energy to move the party to the shower when Keith and I were interrupted by a curious noise. It sounded a little bit like crying, only not quite.

We both looked towards the source of the noise, to see our daughter looking back at us.

Her eyes moved deliberately between her father and me, her mouth formed into a perfect Ooo and emanating the worst attempt at crying you have ever heard.

“Ehhhhhh-he-he ….. ehhhh-he-he-he …”

We looked at each other, mouths twitching, and then back to our little girl who clearly felt we were selling her short on sympathy.

Brandishing her empty spoon she tried again

“Ehhhhhh-he-he ….. ehhhh-he-he-he … EHHHHHHHH-HE-HE-HE”

Her eyes moving insistently between us.

“She’s pretending to be upset isn’t she?”

“I think she is, what’s wrong with her eyes?”

Esme, clearly underwhelmed at the response she was getting, had decided to step the act up a notch and had started furiously blinking.

“She’s trying to force tears out isn’t she?”

"EHHHHHHHHH-HE-HE-HEHHHHHHHHH ….."

Alfie, completely bewildered by what is happening, tapped Emmie on the shoulder saying “’’iya bebe!!”

Emmie’s head whipped round and she gurgled lovingly at her brother.

That’s was about as much as Keith and I could take and we dissolved into hysterics just in time for Emmie to realise her obvious mistake and begin again with the fake crying.

I believe, dear little Emmie, that is known as being hoist by your own petard.

Tuesday, 25 September 2012 Comments: 0

Activism Inspiration Midwifery Pregnancy

Why One World Birth Is Asking The Right Questions

Last night, along with thousands of other people worldwide, I attended a screening of a new film called Freedom For Birth.

The film surprised me, expecting as I did an impassioned plea from the great and good of the birthing world to reclaim birth. I got some of that, but what I also got was a very logical legal argument about how pregnant women are being disabused of their basic human rights.

I actually think this film is incredibly clever because it is compelling is a new way and appealing on a different level: It changes the basis of the whole discussion on birth rights from moral obligation to a legally upheld human right.

That’s a whole lot harder to ignore.

I wrote in 2010 about Agnes Gereb and the film takes her case as the central theme. More specifically it looks at one of the women she had previously attended and who in 2011 won a case in the European Court of Human Rights to have her right to birth outside a hospital recognised.

Have you seen anything in the press about Ternovszky v. Hungary? No? Me neither. Which is a little surprising when you consider that the ruling has massive implications for every birth within the EU.

The decision in this case defines, in law, the right of a woman not just to choose the place in which she births, but to do so in the context of a legal system that supports her. Ana Ternovszky’s argument was that while homebirth wasn’t illegal in Hungary, the fact that midwives were being prosecuted for attending them essentially did the same job.

Turns out she had a point.

What surprised me about the film was what it didn’t cover, and that is the direct comparison between this ruling, and the current situation regarding homebirth in Australia.

I was really shocked to see the headline on a blog I follow recent. Janet Fraser, homebirth advocate, saying that she wished homebirth was illegal. There was some comedy rubbing of eyes and double taking at that one until I read what she had to say. It made me think then, but even more so last night.

We had a number of midwives at our screening and as soon as the end credits rolled the room was buzzing with conversation.

“It’s terrible” exclaimed one midwife “we would never dream of such abuses of power”

Oh really?

I’m afraid I don’t agree, and I echo Janet Fraser’s sentiments on this one.

Women being strapped to a stretcher and forcibly carried outof their homes and into an operating theatre is wrong, no question. But at least it is overtly wrong. It makes me sick to my stomach but I can challenge something I can see, and quantify.

What I find more insidious is the very thing the midwives last night claimed was morally superior to the issues the film had discussed: They sat and mocked the types of women who come into hospital “with a birth plan that says we don’t want this, and we don’t want that” without the slightest hint of irony.

Whether you undermine women by openly refusing them, or by framing their choices so as to effectively remove that choice, the result is the same; you damage women.

The way we do it in this country just makes it that bit harder to see. It’s not exactly wrong, but it’s nowhere near right. It is caught in the shadows, so subtle that women are left broken but not knowing why.

And I think that is why the ruling of Ternovszky v. Hungary is so important, because it says that it is no longer enough ‘not to be wrong’ when it comes to supporting birth choices.

Maybe it's time to remind the professionals in this country of that fact?

Saturday, 22 September 2012 Comments: 0

Comments

This post is being created as a temporary home for comments from anyone who has received a Breastfeeding Card.

If you want to say hi, or let me know where you were handed the card, please do!

Comments: 5

That's Life Toddler DoOm

Who’s In Charge Here? Being Present and Accountable as a Parent

I love how you can happen across new blogs sometimes that just make you think. My parents must be so proud of their highly educated daughter trying to argue with a machine, but it’s what I do. I found a new blog today called Hands Free Mama who was linked to a thread discussing parents who walk their children to school with their iPods on.

When I first read the blog post I got a little emotional – mainly thanks to Catholic Guilt - and while I agree entirely with the idea of being “present”, I feel like this post takes something of a two dimensional view of what can cause parents to be absent. I know that gadgets today make it easier than ever before to live your life virtually and separately from the people who surround you. The reason people have embraced that technology is, perversely, because it is the these very technologies that re-connect us with the people we most associate with. I know I have bored you before with this notion of social media helping people to find their tribe but it is true, and it is powerful, because like most animals we are designed to be part of a group and suffer when we lack that contact.

I also take issue with the idea that today we are absent where yesterday we were present. I find it as emotive as the idea that “back when I was a child the streets were safe and everyone had lives full of sunshine lollipops and rainbows”. Before we had smart phones and iLives, there were other ways to be absent: mums shushed their children when they were in the kitchen untangling the cord on the phone while talking to Auntie Jean, or flapped them away while they were talking to Iris over the garden fence. Technology hasn’t changed the ability to be absent from our children, it has just changed who we are absent with.

For all of that, I do agree with the basic premise that it is frighteningly easy to miss out on the riches of the life surrounding you. I also buy into the idea that children deserve to have adults in their life who don’t treat them as a permanent inconvenience.

Hands Free Mama appeared in my life with almost serendipitous timing because I've recently been thinking a lot about whether or not I hold myself accountable to my children.

Yeah I know, odd concept.

I saw this posted on Facebook and was quite drawn to the idea. I'm not sure I compare it directly to the reward charts adults have for children – as a friend of mine pointed out they don’t focus on negative behaviour like this one does – but I like the idea of giving my children a simple way to keep me mindful of how I behave towards them.

It’s easy being the kind of parent you want to be when everyone is rested and in a good mood and nobody is running late. It is much harder at the end of a working day when the toddler is overtired and pushing his sister over. If I'm honest, I know what my “triggers” are for shouting, and I expect they are quite similar to a lot of other parents, but I'm not often very mindful of them.

I don’t think I say sorry as often as I should either.

I suppose this is where I agree most with Hands Free Mama, because what I really need to guard against as a parent is laziness. I don’t need to be with my children every moment, I don’t need to subjugate my entire life for their benefit, but what my children do deserve is for me to respect them enough that I care about the kind of mother that I am. I try to be a mindful parent, and I think part of that is to acknowledge that I am a very imperfect parent. My children deserve to have someone who is accountable to them, regardless of whether it is for shouting at them or ignoring them in favour of Angry Birds.

That’s a new concept for me, being accountable, and feels a bit like the lunatics taking over the asylum. I'm a firm believer that action speak louder than words though, so if I want a child who grows up believing that they matter then I have to live every day demonstrating what that means.

Right now, it means mama’s gonna need some stronger coffee.

Friday, 21 September 2012 Comments: 0

Alfie Crafts

Those Damn Secret Squirrels Get Everywhere!

I have started one of Alfie’s Christmas gifts and I thought I would share some sneak peaks.

Any ideas?

Well here’s a clue, he likes to burrow and eat porridge and lives on a park on an island.

Anyone without a working knowledge of Cbeebies probably has a twitching eye right now.

I’m going to spare you the mock coyness* because we all know I am dreadful at keeping my news secret: For Christmas, I am making Alfie his very own Neep!!

I am repurposing an old jumper Keith had accidentally shrunk in the wash and so far he is looking super sweet (and dead easy to do, it only took me a few hours to get this far)

Progress came to a crashing halt due to the fact that I now need to dye Neep’s bottom half a nice shade of my favourite colour. I am reliably informed the best way to do it is with a noxious cheap-as-you-like fizzy pop so today I will mostly be off to the low budget supermarket next door to buy the lowest budget gut rot they stock.

I can just see how that one is going to pan out:

Me: Excuse me, do you have any really purple fizzy drinks?

Employee: Yes we have this one, it’s Cherry, and zero sugar and no artificial colours.

Me: Hmm, do you have any with sugar and some really nasty colourings? And even more purple?

Employee: We try and make our drinks as healthy as possible …

Me: Yes that’s great, but what I want to know is do you have any fizzy drinks that stain really badly?

Employee: Ummm …

Me: Because I want one that will stain really purple.

And that is why you should expect to see another post tomorrow called “How I Got Arrested In Asda”

The hardest part is having to keep Neep hidden until December. What’s the betting I crack and give it to him for his birthday? 4/7 on? Really? As long odds as that?

*Try saying that after a few drinks!!

Thursday, 20 September 2012 Comments: 0

Activism Breastfeeding Feminism Inspiration

One Fierce Mama Bear

This is a mum feeding her baby. At work. Posted on Twitter.

A mum who happens to be famous and fabulous and a pretty damn good role model for young mums.

A mum who, when asked on national TV about whether she is still breastfeeding said:

"It's healthy, and natural and it's a comfort to my baby so I couldn't give a shit what somebody else thinks."

Pink, I hope like hell your career last a while longer because I would love you to still be around when my daughter is old enough to notice the women around her.

Tuesday, 18 September 2012 Comments: 4

Alfie Learning

Autumn Classroom

I was once again home alone with the children on Saturday and because I hate tidying the house, I thought it might be nice to make the best of a sunny day and go somewhere that I don’t have to scoop into boxes at the end of the day.

We headed out to a local woods: Esme chilled out in the sling and I gave Alfie a little jute bag and asked him if he wanted to go and collect things. To his credit he went with the idea, even if he was looking a bit confused by why the crazy lady wanted to pick up bits of scenery. It was a slow start, me giving it large with the “Alfie look! A leaf!” but he got the idea pretty quick.

He chose the route, racing ahead calling “co’on mama, co’on” over his shoulder while I did my best to keep up as he darted off into the bracken. If I fell too far behind he doubled back and took my hand to walk with me and encourage me. I just about died of cutes.

We had the chance to stomp in leaves, and learn that some trees drop their leaves in autumn which is why some were crunchy and some that looked the same shape were still green and on the trees.

I wasn’t sure he’d taken that concept on board until later when he ran over to a silver birch grabbed a leaf from the floor and shouted “dow, dow, dow, BANG” which is Alfie for “mother darling, I believe the leaves tumble from the trees and land on the ground”. Except with his way there are explosions and minor bloodshed.

He discovered how different things feel, and took a special shine to “muzz” which he wanted to bring home. Anyone ever tried to collect a clump of moss from an exposed tree root? Here’s a hint, it’s easier to bring the whole damn tree home than get “muzz” off intact.

It was a hot day and we needed to stop for water a few times. I’m clearly getting better as this mothering malarkey because I actually remembered to get a bottle out of the fridge before we left. I didn’t however remember a baby friendly drinking device so Esme’s lesson for the day was entitled Tip Carefully to Avoid Waterboarding.

After an hour of frantic exploring, Alfie was done and we went home to unpack his spoils.

Originally the idea was that we were going to decorate a home-made shaker with some leaves, but I’m all about maximising the opportunities, especially when there’s still half an afternoon to fill.

So this is Esme’s new musical instrument loving made by me and Alfie. It is an old baking powder canister with a few popcorn kernels inside covered in sparkles and sticky back plastic.

She is a big fan of anything musical, and of beating things up, so an instrument that makes cool noises when shaken AND beaten mercilessly against the dog’s head is just a little bit of heaven to her.

While the baby was sitting on the floor unleashing sparkly hell, Alfie and I spent some time sticking his best finds onto some paper.

There were actually several pages but while I was out of the room for 2 seconds, he unpicked the others.

My plan was to write what each thing was underneath it, but Alfie seems very determined that we will cut the paper. Once I have worked out what he actually wants to do, we’ll mostly be doing that I suspect.

I am really glad we went to the woods and just freestyled the learnings, but it really showed me how much knowledge I am lacking in the woodland department. I think my boy deserves better than “oh look it’s … a …. tree” so I have now hit the Woodland Trust and downloaded a handy tree wheelie thing that means we can work it out together next time.

That, and we have about a thousand ideas of what to do with the leftover leaves we have kicking about at home now.

Comments: 0

That's Life

What is Tragedy?

This year seems to have been filled with tragedy.

Yesterday some long overdue papers were released about Hillsborough and Keith’s was the first post I saw talking about it on Facebook. I started a chat with him asking him why it mattered, surely nothing changes the fact that these people died? Knowing someone was to blame doesn't help heal the hole they have left. If anything surely it reopens all the old wounds?

It certainly did for him, he admitted to me he’s been crying for only the second time in the decade I have known him.

What struck me was the similarity to a tragedy much closer to home: A friend lost a child in a catalogue of errors that has only very recently been admitted.

That event has a similar impact on me that reliving the day of Hillsborough does for Keith. It is a visceral, emotive reaction that can’t be quantified and never quite seems to lose its sting. I go past a cemetery every day on the way home from work and feel a hard ball of unfathomable sadness in my gut that desperately wants to consume me.

It makes me think about the nature of tragedy, about a word that can be used so freely and in such a variety of ways. I used to think that tragedy had to come with a high body count and a heart wrenching back story: Now I feel differently. Now I feel like the only way humans can truly process the enormity of grief and loss is one story at a time. Anything more than that just takes on the numbing quality of a Hollywood blockbuster.

This week was another 9/11 anniversary and I still can’t bring myself to watch a programme about what happened. I was on the other side of the world that day, sitting on a beach in Mauritius. I came into my hotel room to change for lunch and turned the TV on just in time to watch the second plane hit. I remember my eyes flicking from the channel logo, to the burning buildings, over and over, my brain not quite able to work out why CNN were showing a film. I didn't make lunch, I barely made dinner, because I was haunted by images of people jumping out of the windows and falling to their deaths.

Those people were my tragedies. Those and the answerphone messages that were picked up over the hours and days that followed.

I once saw a programme about the relatives of some of the worst culprits of the Third Reich. I was touched by the tragedy of those people, the quiet (and I’m sure to some unworthy) tragedy of lives destroyed by association. Families asked to bear an impossible burden through no fault of their own. I saw a man (the child of a camp commandant) break down in front of a group of Israeli students overwhelmed by the guilt of what his father had done. Broken people all, united by grief.

The 34 year old me sees the subtlety of tragedy in a way the 23 year old me never could; in every death that takes away from what life “should be”. It sees it in a single lonely fatality or the slaying of a thousand. It clamours for life to be fair, and rages that it isn't.

Thursday, 13 September 2012 Comments: 0

Esme

The Beginner's Guide to Emmie Expressions - Henry VIII

My daughter has several things in common with the eponymous tyrant: Strawberry blonde hair, a love of wanton violence and this slitty eyed look.

If you see this look do not approach and do not make eye contact. This is a look that say “I am tired, and I am not happy about it”.

This is a look often accompanied by a low droning growl – if she had a tail she would be swishing it – to further highlight the potential for serious injury for anyone stupid enough not to BACKTHEHELLUP.

There is only one way to deal with this look and that is to walk in the opposite direction. Fast.

Wednesday, 12 September 2012 Comments: 0

Activism Stay At Home Dad

TOO MUCH 'LYMPICS!!

The family have been at the 'lympics again today and I think Emmie is starting to get delusions of having won a medal.

Incidentally, who told athletes to bite their gold medals? I mean I know why they do it but who actually told them it was a good idea? Did nobody think about the fact it is just slightly insulting to look as if you are "checking it's gold"? Jeez I know the economy isn't in great shape but I'm pretty sure the thieves of this country are too busy nicking copper wire from railways to be bothering with your medal.

I digress

Luckily she decided to drop it and scurry away when Keith threatened her with a shower. I think she's still having flashbacks to the gazebo incident.

The good news is she didn't find the rest of the cards so as soon as I distract her for long enough I'll count 'em out, pack 'em up, pack 'em up, count 'em out, count 'em out, pack 'em up RawHIIIIIDE!!

Saturday, 8 September 2012 Comments: 0

Activism Breastfeeding

Free Breastfeeding Cards To Anyone That Asks Nicely

I am so damn excited about this project I can barely speak.

Social media is a controversial development in the sense that it divides people into those who fear that it will steal their soul, and those who embrace it because it has connected them with the rest of their tribe. I fall into the latter category. I know, I so didn’t need to tell you that, but hey, I like to be transparent. Just in case you were worried, I have no need of your soul.

So anyway, there’s this blog post, and I open it and look at these cards and I'm just completely overtaken with how much these cards rock my world. I have to have some, I have to make more of these things to send out into the world.

So I have.

First of all they are another way to give a big fat "YOU GO MAMA" to mums who are doing something that is often fearful difficult. Plus, they're breastfeeding, I know I don't have to bore you all with why that deserves recognition and support. Do I?

Tell me if I do, I have flip charts.

Secondly these cards redress the karma of business cards. I will happily print and distribute one of these cards for every waste of time, money and trees bullshit card I have had pressed into my palm by some overeager salesman only to fester in a pile at home for months before being recycled.

So after the cogs had slowly turned, I realised that I was distantly related to a very talented artist who might be persuaded to draw me a little doodle. This was key to my plan because I'm not bad at vision or design but I lack the fine motor skills to translate that into an actual work of art without stabbing myself in the eye.

Then my brain discovered what I think the Americans call "joined up thinking".

The part of my brain that usually sits there humming tunes and looking at butterflies wondered where these cards might end up.

The technologically savvy side of my brain face palmed and let off an air horn until I made the leap to realising that maybe social media could help me out with that. Like maybe a QR code could lead people somewhere where they could leave a comment or a pin in a map to say where in the world they were.

Oh yeah, in the WORLD, I don't dream small people.

Hidden somewhere on this blog is another page. It is going to stay hidden for now, accessed only by the QR code on the cards. Mostly this is because I may end up with a page covered in cobwebs that nobody ever visits and that is depressing when people have easy access to point and laugh. Eventually I really hope I will be able to post a big TA DA!!! complete with a map covered in a hundred hundred pins.

So I have lovely ladies waiting to take some of these off my hands, and if anyone wants some, you only have to ask. I am printing and sending them for free so in reality you don't have much to lose by taking a few.

A few caveats though.

These cards require you to walk up to a mum who is using their child as a human shield for their modesty. If there is one thing I know it is that after a certain age, children go from "focus on the boob, only on the boob, nothing BUT the BOOB" to "Mmmm boo- well HELLO there!! Good to see you!! Now where was I?" so please don't blame me if walking up to the mum in question means you are accidentally treated to an eyeful.

Also, at the risk of sounding sexist, I had seen this as something for women. I'm not going to deny any man who feels they need to challenge gender perceptions, you fill your boots, but just to let you know a lot of mums might not share your views and if you get slapped, it's your own lookout.

Reading this post, maybe my sales pitch needs a little work.

EDITED TO ADD: In case you are struggling with getting in touch, please email me at

natasha dot garcia at gmail dot com

stick something sensible in the title and let me know how I get cards to you and how many you want (please be conservative, I can always send you more if you run out) and I'll add you to the list!

Thursday, 6 September 2012 Comments: 0

Alfie Learning Stay At Home Dad

School Starts Next Week.

Next week is a scary time for us at FTC. Somehow, without us quite noticing it, the time has come for Alfie to start preschool.

You may remember me banging on about Montessori educations, and how I felt it would be right for Alfie. Well I believe that more firmly now than I ever have, even though it has left me struggling with a decision I still don’t feel we have entirely nailed.

First, we signed Alfie up to an incredible school, only to be told that they had stopped accepting preschool funding.

That night I shook it off, went online and found an even more incredible preschool just down the road who just happened to have one space left. We signed him up and I bored everyone with how excited I was for him until a letter came through our door and shattered my dreams. The preschool had to close because new OFSTED rules on adult/ child ratios meant it was no longer economically viable.

I found myself less able to shake off the disappointment a second time, and there were no more Montessori options in our area. Then the lady who had run the preschool offered parents an evening of Montessori briefing and also suggested another preschool that a lot of her staff had moved to. It wasn’t a Montessori, but it was very close.

A few days later Keith took Alfie to see it and he apparently loved it and so we signed him up. So far no meteor has fallen on it, and if there has been an outbreak of plague, they have kept it quiet.

I kinda wish something would happen though, and I just can’t put my finger on why.

Recently Alfie has matured in huge bounding leaps. The child falls asleep and wakes up with an extra 20 words in his vocabulary: It’s like he inhales them during the night or something. Physically, mentally, logically, behaviourally he rolled over, stretched and got out of bed a not-two-year-old.

So that means he’s ready for preschool, right?

That seems to be the received wisdom on these things, but somehow that just doesn’t sit right with me. If anything, it makes me wonder even more if home schooling is the right way forward for our family. It certainly seems to have done right by him so far.

I read my fellow bloggers talking over their educational choices, and each time I get to the end of a piece my heart tells me not to send Alfie to a state school.

Amy writes about why she has chosen to home school and her sentiments are ones I have heard from other friends who have made the same choice.

Rixa talked about her concerns but has cautiously taken a different route and started Zari at school to balance the needs of her whole family.

Heather broke her heart over the battle she has had to find a safe place for her wonderful son to learn and I know she is still dealing with the fallout of not being able to have done that sooner. I read about her son Xan and I see a lot of parallels with Alfie. Her reality and my fears are one and the same, except I’m a few years behind her and I can learn from her experiences.

So once again I find myself wanting to take the road less travelled and wanting to explain why.

Recently I have been trying really hard to turn away from my natural inclination towards reacting like a Mediterranean fishwife every time Alfie pushes my many and varied buttons. Having read the beginners guide from this place something clicked for me, and while I do still shout, my attitude towards Alfie has done a complete U turn and as a result I’ve really started to feel close to him.

My reservation about school isn’t about him growing independent - I don’t want him to be my little baby any more, he hasn’t been my little baby in a long time and I adore every new step he takes towards adulthood – it is about me feeling that I should protect his need to be, well, himself.

State education is, by its very definition, an exercise in compromise and uniformity. A school can bleat on all day about how it honours the individuality of its student but I have yet to see one that can give each child the freedom to explore and learn in their own way. Did anyone here successfully stand up in class one day and say “actually, I want to study astro physics today, see you later” and not end up in front of the headmaster?

For a lot of children it doesn’t matter, they are happy to mooch along a predefined route and pick up some knowledge along the way. Alfie is not one of those children. Alfie is the kid who is always in detention for setting fire to his exercise book (do they still have those?). Nobody is ever going to care that he was doing it because he was curious about how fire works, they are just going to care about the big black mark on the desk. Frankly if I were a teacher I would feel the same, especially when I had a room full of 29 other Alfie’s all wanting to do their own discovering.

Problem is I feel like it’s my job as a parent to be the one to look out for what is in the best interests of my child, and I just can’t shake the feeling that state education isn’t it.

Wednesday, 5 September 2012 Comments: 2

Social icons