Posts Tagged ‘The Urchin Rants’

National Bug Busting Day!

Wednesday, February 1st, 2012

The word ‘nit’ is enough to make most of us break out in a rash of head scratching. In my day, those decades ago, head lice affected a tiny percentage of the school age population. Now more than one in three primary school age children can expect to experience an outbreak. Why the rise? Partly the demise of the school nit nurse ‘too intrusive’, apparently; partly parents wising up to the side effects of using nuclear levels of nit- (and everything else busting) chemicals; partly head lice getting resistent to chemicals anyway.

Apparently today is National Bug Busting Day and The Family GP is running a useful guide to eradicating pests – read all about what nits are (brown winged, the size of a sesame seed) and how to eradicate them here.

In my experience (I’m not too ashamed to admit that three of my four children have had nits. The baby I suspect is still immune as he’s as ‘bald as a boiled egg’ according to one of my son’s nursery teachers) nits are boring but can be got rid of. My favourite tool is the Nitty Gritty Comb. Jonathan Ross waxes lyrical about its ‘fantastic twiddly bits’ and it really pulls out all the ghastlies, often leaving them trapped between its teeth wriggling like butterflies on a pin. Which is fascinatingly gross and not behaviour that induces restful sleep. I’m less sure about their repellent spray, only because my sons resist being misted with it and scream like banshees. It’s the ‘cold’ and the ‘girly pong’ and frankly I spend enough time chasing the boys around the house as it is.

If you’re plagued with nits, good luck dealing with them. But do deal with them. I have a friend who refuses to get rid of them, saying it’s ‘nature’s way’ and they’ll ‘drop out eventually’. I now pop my sons in balaclavas whenever they go and play at her house.

The lure of the Xfactor zombie

Sunday, November 13th, 2011

I promised myself I wouldn’t get sucked into Xfactor this year. Being emotionally manipulated by Simon Cowell makes Sunday night blues worse, even though we’ve  never voted for any of the contestants, and therefore don’t need to feel guilty about putting money in Mr Square Top Head’s pocket. Despite the good intentions I’ve just watched Kitty (Amazonian blonde, great voice, emotionally needy and bonkers) leaving the competition.

What happened? How did I get sucked onto the sofa for another year?

I’m afraid I find it all too easy to sit slack jawed and let the brain switch to energy saver mode. The program passes in convenient cup of tea making/dishwasher emptying instalments, occasionally producing bouts of semi creativity, such as the performance from a blonde starlet who made me realise a truth that should have been staring us all in the face: Lady Gaga is a School-Run Mum, don’t you know?

The rest of the time, it’s downtime (something that’s even more important now there’s no Downton). And after another full day troubleshooting the four children aged six and down, my brain probably wouldn’t be able to cope with University challenge. So here’s what I think about this year’s lot.

Mischa B Xfactor

Mischa B. Wow. Great voice and she looks like a star, if being a super confidant diva with (Simon, don’t sue me) bullying tendencies means being a star. But she’s a bit scary, and it seems to be cute contestants who do well at the moment, so I don’t think she’s in for the long haul.

Little Mix XfactorLittle Mix. A band like this makes me feel I’m looking endlessly into mirrors, watching the same people reflected into infinity. Little Mix is a manufactured band created from manufactured contestants. This is confusing and poignant at the same time, revealing how interchangeable and forgettable most Xfactor rejects and winners are destined to be. They might win. They might not. They certainly won’t be remembered in five months time. Sweet girls with bubbly personalities and long legs and eyelashes, one of them has been subject to some nasty comments on Twitter about her looks and weight (she’s all of nine stone to the other girls’ seven). In the absence of any real life stories this has served as the ‘personality’ bit in the girls’ camp.

Janet Devlin XfactorJanet Devlin. My goodness, if this girl could be distilled, bottled and freely distributed, there would no longer be any need for Bambi, Moshi Monsters or kittens. Spray yourself with essence of wide-eyed Irish girl infused with top notes of tumbling brook-washed organic hair, and instantly feel as though you’re sitting next to a peat burning fire eating fresh baked soda bread. Sigh. You just want to give Janet a big hug and a mug of hot chocolate. Will this sell records? Not sure, but what is certain is that Janet is definitely not Lady Gaga.

Craig Colton XfactorCraig Colton. Also known as the Incredible Shrinking Man. Gary, who has revealed himself to be quite the headmaster figure, has him on a strict diet of tofu, and mung bean shakes. This cute as a button Liverpudlian still lives with his parents, has a lovely voice, and never stops smiling. One of the favourites to win. But would you recognise him if you passed him in the street?

Marcus Collins XfactorMarcus Collins. There’s nothing wrong with this guy. He can sing, he can dance, he dresses well and – unlike most of the other contestants – hasn’t let the show’s stylists turn him into a cross between someone forced to wear a cross between a Christmas cracker and an extra from Glee’s leftover outfit. He’s the favourite, and apparently gets the ‘mums’ vote’, whatever that is.

Amelia Lily XfactorAmelia Lily. I didn’t watch Xfactor at the beginning, making it even more annoying that I’ve been sucked in during the latter stages. So I don’t have a clue who Amelia Lily is. She looks like someone from American Xfactor, all polished skin, perfect teeth and tumbling yellow locks that it’s probably safe to assume you shouldn’t get too close to with a naked flame. She’s good. Not sure why she got called back to replace that naughty Frankie, but I could find out on Google in a nanosecond. Which is probably how long Amelia Lily will enjoy being famous.

Royal Brompton Cardiac Unit – update

Tuesday, November 8th, 2011

Sometimes there’s good news. And this particular piece of good news proves that occasionally individuals can make a difference. Way back in March, angels & urchins blog learned that, due to cuts in Government spending, some of which affected the NHS, the Royal Brompton Children’s Cardiac Unit was slated to close. This was despite the fact that the unit had better results than other similar units elsewhere in the UK; it was felt that London also needed to ‘feel the pain’ of austerity Britain. We blogged about it here.

Royal Brompton Hospital in London]

Yesterday, Monday 7th November, a High Court review ruled that the initial consultation process was unlawful. This means that, while a final decision won’t be made until the Spring, signs are that the unit will stay open.

I’m not suggesting that the post kept the unit open. But it is cheering to see what massive public support can achieve. A petition exceeded 45,000 signatures, a Facebook campaign is still going strong, and fundraising events continue apace. The NHS is a bottomless pit in which all tax payers are constantly shovelling cash. But at least occasionally we can help sway decisions that are made on services that affect all of us.

The great school cancel

Monday, October 31st, 2011
Alas, more Just William than William Shakespeare? ©BBC

Alas, more Just William than William Shakespeare? ©BBC

We had one of those glowing parental moments over the weekend. We were in the car and asked our two oldest boys if they wanted to join any extra school clubs. The oldest, aged 6, said that he’d love to join the School Council. We knew this worthy body existed, but didn’t know much about it, so asked a few questions. “How do you get to join?” “Who chooses the candidates?”, that kind of thing.
He didn’t know the answer to either of those questions, but perked up when quizzed about what he’d bring to the council.
“More playtime.”
“Great But you know there you only spend a few hours at school every day. What would you exchange playtime for? You could do less sport, for example, or maybe spend less time at lunch?”
“Not as many lessons. Especially spelling.”
“OK. But have you thought about the environment? I think the school council is supposed to think about saving the planet.
“Yes, less rubbish in school. That would work. I could talk about that.”
Maternal glow in place once more. Until Daddy looked a little thoughtful, and piped up:
“How exactly to you spell ‘council’, by the way?”
“C-A-N-C-E-L. It’s all about stopping things that you don’t like doing. That’s why I want to join.”
Consider maternal glow the before, rather than after, in the Ready Brek ad.
Dunce Hat

Hot, or not?

Tuesday, October 18th, 2011
Cold! In October! What makes you think we need to turn the heating on?

Cold! In October! What makes you think we need to turn the heating on?

Where do you stand when it comes to putting on the central heating? Autumn in our household goes something like this:

Me: ‘Gosh, starting to get a bit nippy, isn’t it?’

Him: ‘Nippy? How can it be ‘nippy’? It’s not even November!’

Me: ‘Well, those funny patterns on the inside of the windows do look a little like snowflakes’

Him: ‘Pretty, aren’t they?’

Me: ‘Well, yes, I suppose they are. But they do make me feel awfully cold. Son #3 put his tongue on one yesterday and it got stuck’

Him: ‘Little tyke! Always up for a joke that one. Exercise. That’s the key. Cycle at least twice a day and you’ll never feel the cold. Oh, you don’t have a bike. Run, then. Five km a day and you’ll be wearing a T-shirt until January!’

Me: ‘I could, you know, just pop the heating on for a bit…’

Him: ‘Heating? Ha. That’s a novel idea. Before December! It’s still almost summer’

Me: ‘Well, yes, it’s the ‘almost’ I’m not keen on. That, and the snowflakes on the windows’

And so it goes on, till eventually I’m swaddled in manner of a woollen Michelin man, visiting friends ask if our boiler has broken, and the children think it’s normal to go to bed wearing a balaclava.

Creepy Crawler Bug Maker Review

Monday, October 10th, 2011

NOT a sponsored post, and NOT a freebie. We were stupid enough to pay for this ourselves.

This is almost a story of two halves. Or lots of little pieces. I’ll explain.

It was recently son number two’s birthday. Among all the fabulous presents he received and is loving playing with was something which was bought for him by his parents. Call it pester power, but said son had seen the Creepy Crawler Bug Maker on a cITV advert (that’ll teach me for letting him watch television. It was at the weekend, m’lud, and, ahem, I needed a lie-in) and thought it looked the business. Against my better judgement (well, I would say that…) it was bought, wrapped, and opened amidst much glee. At this stage I should confess that it cost £38.99. Yes, nearly £40. Enough to buy a scooter or half a night in a budget boutique hotel. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

Could this be the start of something big?

Could this be the start of something big?

The son and his fraternal cohorts had convinced themselves, and therefore me, that the bugs were edible and part of a game. I tried to convince myself that the eventual game would be educational and teach them about mini beasts. No such luck.

Move over Doctor Frankenstein

Move over Doctor Frankenstein

Basically, you pop out a couple of coloured jelly-like pods from some pill-like packaging, place them in the Creepy Crawler Bug Maker machine, wait for it to heat up, then ooze the resulting heated goo into a bug mould. Bug mould is then cooled, before resulting bug is taken out. This bit was given a quasi-scientific bent with the instructions advising to use the enclosed plastic tweezers. No need. Even our one-year-old baby managed to pick out a bug, and he also managed to play with it in the only way possible, by squishing it.

Here's one I made earlier. And wish I hadn't

Here's one I made earlier. And wish I hadn't

Nothing educational about that,  nor about the insect’s anatomical details. The only variant on the play was the ability to create bugs filled with goo, all the better to squish.

As I said, though, this was a story of two halves. Naturally, my four boys aged six to one, were thrilled at being able to create disgusting slightly slimy bugs. Once they realised they were not only allowed to squash them, but that this was the entire point, they were in heaven. So I let them have their fun, and it was about two hours of fun in all. Which isn’t bad for a weekend afternoon in the kitchen. But we’ve only enough jelly pods left to make three or so more bugs. You can recycle existing bugs, according to the instructions, but they didn’t give instructions on scraping the stuff off the walls. Besides, none of the children have mentioned using their bug maker again. So I feel thoroughly ripped off and might just have to sell the TV. Or make it an ad-free CBeebies-only zone.

So, the Scores on the Doors:

What the children like: Making like Frankenstein and creating grim bugs that they’re allowed to squash
What I like: Erm, not much. Guess it kept them quiet for an hour or two. Though for the same price we could have enjoyed a pizza takeaway. Twice.
What the children aren’t sure about: Helping mummy clear up the goo created by squishing the bugs.
What I’m not sure about: The point. What is the point? Why create uselessly expensive bugs that will be ground into the carpet and over the walls, and cost about £6 each to make?
The verdict: Save your money. You’d get as much fun from a vat of Plasticine at a fraction of the cost.

SCORES ON THE DOORS? 4/10, and that’s only because the children enjoyed playing with it and couldn’t understand why I kept saying, ‘Are you actually enjoying this?’

Save the Children petition

Monday, September 19th, 2011

Save the Children – please join this petition – no money required

I’ve just been over to Not a Nottinghill Mum, whose intense account of being treated for malaria while in Ghana makes you realise how lucky we are to have our NHS. It’s not always perfect; indeed, there’s been a lot of concern recently about the current and future shortage of midwives in the UK. It’s a valid worry; every parent blogger has a birth story, and not all of them are happy ones. Fortunately, the majority of times births in the UK happen without mishap to mother or child. It’s a very different story in much of the rest of the world.

Save the Children UK

Not a Notting Hill Mum is spreading the word about Save the Children’s No Child Born to Die campaign. According to the charity, half of the 8 million children who die each year are in Africa, yet Africa has only 3% of the world’s doctors, nurses and midwives. And children are dying from causes we know how to prevent or treat.

Save the Children is campaigning to increase the number of health workers in Third World countries, and so save children’s lives.

When world leaders meet at the UN in New York, this Tuesday, Save the Children will be asking them to commit to filling the massive shortfall in midwives, nurses and doctors in the poorest countries.

And they will be calling on David Cameron to play his full part in solving the health worker crisis which is costing millions of children’s lives.

We have 24 hours to publicise this – please click here to sign the petition, repost this article or just this Save the Children link…

http://bornto.savethechildren.org.uk/get-involved

Link to it on facebook or write your own blog or retweet and do leave your comments here.

Many bloggers are involved in this – please help spread the word

Brangelina move to South West London

Monday, September 5th, 2011

Today saw unparalleled levels of excitement during angels & urchins blog breakfast. Bleary eyed after an all-night name tape sewing session, things weren’t looking good. Then an errant beaker of orange juice disappeared over a pile of freshly washed (and name-taped) games T-shirts. Then Juniors two and four refused to eat the banana porridge. Taking a deep breath I reminded myself that it was just over 24 hours till the start of a new term when two children would be gainfully occupied for five days a week and one child happily fingerprinting five mornings. Then, joy, the sun came out  just as a radio bulletin announced that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were to enrol their children in a south-west London school.

There were no more details, just somewhere in the ‘south-west’. MY children are enrolled in a south-west London school. SOME of them are the same age as some of the Brangelina children. It COULD just be that I’d have amend the guest list for the end of September birthday party already in planning.

The day took on a very different hue. I skipped the baby off to change his nappy. Smiled  my way through wiping porridge off the kitchen wall. Barely glanced at the teetering pile of washing up as I started again on the name tape marathon. Hollywood could be beckoning.

Fame can be a fickle mistress. Just before lunch I discovered that  Brangelina and brood were possibly going to go to school in Richmond, miles away from my slightly less leafy enclave. Sigh. Still, at least I won’t have to suffer from shoe/hair/pouty lip and, above all, husband envy on the school run.

Does your child get five a day?

Monday, August 8th, 2011

I’m a bit nervous about writing this post. And not just because I live in London and distant plumes of smoke in the sky are probably not caused by backyard barbecues. Until the riots started I’d been ignoring the news for a bit. We’d been away a week with no access to UK newspapers or English news, and returning back felt like a mental assault. Amy Winehouse checking out. Horrific atrocities in Syria. Millions threatened with starvation in Somalia and Kenya. The la-la-isn’t-life-peaceful holiday bubble popped, leaving a vague feeling of survivor guilt. So I withdrew from the fray, unconsciously thinking I’d take the world back on board little by little.

London is now a-burning, something even holiday mode me can’t ignore, so the news has been switched back on. In between the footage of running battles on our streets, I caught the tail end of a news item about a government initiative about the ideal ‘five-a-day’ for children. I’ve also caught some of it on Twitter and blog posts.

Are daily computer sessions one of 'five a day'?

Are daily computer sessions one of 'five a day'?

Is there a formula for perfect parenting? Can you break down childhood into modules, ensure your child gets one of them on a daily basis, and 18 years later out pops a model citizen? As I said, I haven’t read the five-a-day plan so have no idea what the government is intending us to do. So I decided to guess what the five modules are. And I’m a bit stumped, because I can only think of four.

  1. Food. Nutritious and varied food, three times a day, washed down with water and the odd glass of fruit juice. Nothing contentious there. I’m no expert, and reckon my children do pretty well, give or take the odd packet of Hula Hoops, Swizzels lolly and possibly too many fish fingers. But you don’t know unless you know. A mother at the nursery my sister’s daughter attended would regularly hand over two packets of crisps for her two-year-old’s lunch. ‘Two of her five a day!’ she’d say happily. As I said, you don’t know unless you know.
  2. Exercise. Running around, jumping, and as much time outside as possible. Climbing stuff. Jumping around. Running. Mine certainly run rings around me, but is that going to be enough?
  3. Mental stimulation. Kung Fu Dino Posse will probably get me all kinds of bad marks, but we have a bedtime book every day. This often ends in fisticuffs as the four-and six-year-olds don’t necessarily enjoy the three-year-old’s choice of In the Night Garden. Agga pang - I can sympathise. But perhaps there has to be 30 minutes of daily storytelling, plus a jigsaw, the occasional maths quiz and lots of Join the Dots. What Iggle Piggle got up to with Upsy Daisy may not tick enough boxes.
  4. Sleep. And boy, wouldn’t all us parents like a little more of it? But I’m guessing the government will be laying down the law on the exact number of hours a child of every age needs for optimum brain rest. At the back of my mind I have a 12 hours a night figure for children aged eight or younger. Some of the time mine get this. That is when they’re not careering round the house after 7pm like turbo-charged piglets, or waking before 6am looking and acting annoyingly sleep sated.

But what the heck is number five? And how close have I got with 1, 2, 3 and 4? You can see why I’m nervous. Perhaps I’m a two packets of crisps for lunch mum after all.

A cautionary tale for Tiger mums

Friday, July 15th, 2011

Oh dear. We all do it to a certain extent. Don’t we? The Tiger/pushy/alpha mum thing. Call it what you will, it’s not often a pretty sight.

Despite trying my best to look nonchalant at this year’s sport’s day, I couldn’t pull it off. As the six-year-olds lined up to take part in the egg and spoon race, I fixed my son’s gaze and mouthed, ‘Look ahead! Stand tall! Concentrate!’. Another mother caught me, laughed and reminded me that we were talking a trundle down a playing field and not the Olympics. This didn’t stop me watching the race with clenched fists and feeling sick, particularly at the bit where he dropped his egg and spent the rest of the race trying to get it on the wooden spoon again. And no, sport’s day didn’t improve for family angels & urchins blog after that.

I hate sports day.

The last day of term arrived, and the children were sent home with a bag bulging with the term’s artworks and books. There was also a certificate for swimming. I glanced at it, saw it was a distance thing, and felt very proud that mine could swim at least one length of a pool. We were in a hurry, so I rounded up my children up to take them to a post-school picnic. When I got there one of the mothers was in despair. “He only swam 25 metres! Everyone else did at least 50!” she explained. Reassuring her that my son had done 25 metres too, she seemed a little mollified. And I was secretly a little smug because her son had extra swimming lessons on a weekly basis, and mine didn’t. The smug smile disappeared when I got home, looked again at the certificate, and saw that it was ‘only’ for 20 metres. “Sob”I texted 25-metre mum, “20 metres”, consoling myself with the fact that her son’s extra five metres would cheer her up.

A text pinged back in seconds: “Waah. No, he did 20 metres too. I just didn’t want to admit it in front of everyone!”

Which was already pretty funny. I spoke to another mother later, on a scratchy line with my four children playing ‘Scream, yell, cry’ in the background (a favourite game, judging by how often and loudly they play it). I couldn’t really hear, but caught the words ‘swimming’ and ‘certificate’. Knowing how well her son had done at sport’s day, and how many private swimming lessons he’d had, I didn’t hesitate to say something along the lines of, “100 metres, eh? Not like the 20-metre brigade!’.

“What did you say?” came back the voice, loud and very slowly.

“Er, you know, the swimming certificates. Mine swam 20 metres, but loads of them got 50 metres. Yours probably got 100!”

Silence.

A little bit more silence.

Eventually came the question: “So not 10 metres then?” followed by, “That child has had swimming lessons EVERY WEEK since he was two. PRIVATE SWIMMING LESSONS. Every week. SINCE HE WAS TWO. And during the HOLIDAYS AS WELL. Even in winter”. I’d started laughing in that nervous and uncontrollable way you sometimes get in church or during school prize givings. And then snorted in a manner not unlike a piglet.

Alpha mums, eh? Piggie mums more like. No wonder our children can’t swim.

Happy child in pool - mummy yelling on the side? Click for a swimming lesson guide atNetMums

Happy child in pool - mummy yelling on the side? Click for a swimming lesson guide atNetMums