The Three Cs - or was it C Sharp?

If we're talking mother-daughter relationships, there is definitely room for improvement when it comes to Bonnie and me. A few minutes of her ‘willful’ approach to life, and I am a screaming purple-faced wretch, clawing at the sky, howling into the moon:

'BONNIE YOU CANNOT SAY THAT! YOU WILL NEVER HAVE ANY FRIENDS!’ Pile it on! ‘YOU WILL DIE ALONE! AAAAAAAAAHHH!!!’

So I've come up with my very own mantra - the kind that has Alan dancing on the ceiling in his management training courses - and here it is: ‘Three Cs in a Crisis: Calm, Control, Consequence.'

Armed with the Three Cs I ‘helped’ Bonnie with her violin practice this morning. She just doesn't understand how fortunate she is that I am a piano teacher, on hand 24/7 to correct her mistakes! If we got through this without a show-down we were really on to something...

‘You expect me to play the violin on a Saturday morning when I’m supposed to be free?’ was her starter for ten. ‘Yes – remember you promised, because you wouldn’t practise in the week? Tell you what - we can do some art together afterwards as a reward!’ ‘OK then’ she groaned, eyes to the ceiling, ‘but I’ll do the art first’ (She likes to make the decisions). ‘In fact, I’ll paint my walls!’ Another unilateral decision.

Now I was hippy dippy when we had scuzzy crumbling walls, but now that we are skimmed polished and painted (due to a series of lucky floods) I couldn’t bare the daubing of hearts, dogs and Mario all over the smooth pink, so there was a sigh. ‘Well, I’ll do your art thing if you want me to,’ she said. ‘It’s not me who wants to do it!’ I snapped (whoops) ‘I thought you would be delighted to have me all to yourself!’ Petulant, and I haven’t finished yet: ‘We can forget it if it’s such a big effort!’ ‘Mmm, actually I’d rather ‘go somewhere’ for my reward’, she said (shopping).

Back to the practice (Keep your focus! You are in Control!). Eventually she started on her piece. ‘Bonnie’ I said, ‘can you just stop a minute, that C-’. She carries on playing. I let her play the whole piece. ‘Now, Bonnie, that C-’. She carries on playing. ‘Bonnie, would you mind just stopping, that C should be C sharp...’ She starts plucking her violin loudly while I talk. Plink! Plonk! ‘Bonnie, can you hear me talking? ‘ she’s pulling a face, mimicking me, which I ignore at the expense of my blood pressure. Plink! Plonk! ‘Bonnie can you stop plucking while I’m talking -’ ‘Are we finished yet, Mummy??’ She’s flopped her head back, groaning, and falls onto the sofa. ‘Bonnie! Stand up please! ’ ‘Hey, Mummy! Have we got any noodles?’ ‘Bonnie!’ I said, in my chokey voice, the one that is suppressing raging fury (that’s the CALM voice). I wrestle the violin off her. ‘Listen. This is C, and this is C sharp.’

‘FOR GOD’S SAKE’ she shouts, ‘I DID DO C SHARP!! And you are not my actual violin teacher. You are just a little piano teacher. YOU JUST WANT TO MAKE ME FEEL BAD AS USUAL!!’

There is a short silence while I consider whether to ram the violin over her head. But I would have a real sense of failure if I did, what with The Three Cs, so I leave the room – CALM!!! CONTROL THE SHOUT!!!! CONTROL IT!!!! - without shouting. ‘Fine! Be like that!’ she calls after me. SOD HER.

I congratulated myself on finally getting things right: no practice, no art, no loving relationship – fantastic! Mind you, no shouting. Now for the Consequence…

She sidled up later: ‘Are we going shopping yet?’ ‘I am waiting for you to apologise for being so rude, Bonnie.’ ‘What for? Oh yeah sorry when are we going shopping? You promised to buy me some pumps! Remember, when you and Daddy were building the table tennis table you said ‘if you bloody well stop batting ping-pong balls at my head I will buy you some pumps’’ This is true, but I was ready with the Consequence! ‘We are not going shopping unless you do your practice. Actions have Consequences, young lady!’ Calm, Control, Consequence! Oh, man!

And then she did practice. (WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!)

So we skipped off to the shops. I got cocky when we passed Clarke’s Shoes and thought maybe I could exert some Calm, Control and Consequences over the shoe situation, so that the warm, waterproof shoes sitting in our hall, could replace the crocks that have kept her feet wet and cold all through the winter...but too much brilliant parenting might have Consequences. ‘Give me a hug, Bonnie’ I said. ‘Straight to Primark..?’

Especially for You, Grandma!

Alfie returned from his week at the Outdoor Education Centre, Pendarren, in Wales last week in fine fettle. ‘It was great!’ he said ‘I achieved my challenge!’ (Aah! He went away a boy, came back a man!) ‘What was the challenge, son?’ ‘I didn’t poo all week!’

‘Was it beautiful? Were there mountains?’ ‘Dunno. Listen, we had sausages twice for breakfast, and bacon once!!’ ‘Woah! And what did you do all week?’ ‘Oh, stuff…I was posted down this like letter-box thing in this like cave thing…’ I waited for a little detail on the geological niceties of the River Adventure Walk, the Coastal Visit (ox-bow lakes, cliff slump…this could trigger a life long passion for geography!) but that was the end of the report: sausages, bacon, being posted through a hole.

At bedtime he suddenly disappeared under his blanket and started heaving with grief over the paltry amount of post I’d sent! (one letter, chocolate enclosed).’Everyone else got a letter every day. I only got one all week!’

'But the purpose of going away is to experience separation, independence..’ I protested. But as he nodded, understanding, but crying still, I pictured the little waif, forgotten, watching clouds of love floating from London to Wales into laps other than his (oh oh oh) and I was all of a choke (Poor him! No – poor me! I didn’t know! I do my best!..sort of). I could barely get the words out for Alan downstairs: ‘Everyone else got a letter every day!’ sniff sniff ‘I only sent one!’ sniff.

Things perked up the next morning when Alfie presented me with a gift of Vanilla Fudge from Pendarren (labelled ‘Especially for You, Grandma!’). After a polite but humorous reference to the labelling, I thanked him profusely, fancying myself his favourite. He then presented it to Alan, which wiped the smile off my face, Alan glancing at me nervously, fancying himself the favourite, until I put him straight (‘he gave it to me too!’). Next he gave the coveted fudge to Maddy (he was really enjoying himself now) but she saw straight through him, as wild horses wouldn’t get him spending his own cash on a sibling, especially since he’s still10g of crisps down from when she got a maxi pack and he a multi-pack in the Summer..

As well as Vanilla Fudge and memories of better breakfasts, Alfie brought home with him a spectacularly bad temper (he was wrecked), one run-of-the-mill altercation over the tomato ketchup resulting in blood curdling psycho-screams, a pillow through the air, a shattered light fitting, and shards of lighted glass raining down on our heads (Lord!). I gathered my thoughts (‘sooner or later, someone is going to die’) but that didn’t help, and there wasn’t time to consult my parenting manual about what to do when your child smashes white hot tungsten because his sister won’t pass the ketchup, so, sobered in the presence of lunacy, I chose understatement: ‘Alfie, that behaviour was unacceptable’. This set the psycho-screams off again, so I changed tack and shut up, and Alan and I dropped to all fours, tipping our heads this way and that, trying in the dark to distinguish glass from general flotsam (Everybody don’t move! Put your shoes on! I can’t reach my shoes if I don’t move!). Alfie’s opponent hid in the loo, denying foul play of course, refusing to come out ‘it’s not safe’, all of which distracted us from bickering over the heating (silver lining!) for ‘tis the season to be boiled alive in our house, it being past 1st November.

By the end of Sunday, a hollow-eyed human shock absorber (formerly a mum) suggested a trip to that Mecca for parents who’ve thrown in the towel - The 99p Shop. They were out of safety helmets, which was evidently what we needed, but they did have just the gold spangled Reindeer ornament we were looking for to guarantee a truly great Christmas, and also Poptastic Corn for munching before the TV, which I couldn’t get on quick enough when we got home, faith in family life restored.

‘What about the disco at Pendarren?’ I asked Alfie (nosey parker), as we snuggled. ‘Well some of the teachers were really dancing a lot!’ he said, demonstrating by throwing his arms about violently (I am hoping there are no regrets in that department). ‘And you, did you ask anyone to dance?’ I coaxed. ‘I danced with the Vanilla Fudge’ he said.

A Change Rather Than A Break

Just had a night away with the children, my sister and her girls! Stratford Upon Avon was our destination – ‘Avon’s the river, Stratford is upon the river – so that makes Stratford Upon Avon!’ ‘OK OK Mum, calm down’. We would not only see the outside of William Shakespeare’s house, but also the town’s beautiful river - they were all ears I can tell you. I’d even borrowed simple versions of Shakespeare’s plays from the library to get us in the mood; Julius Caesar went well, but alas when it came to The Tempest, we were in such a knot with Sycorax, Trinculo, Caliban and the rest, the Shakespeare programme died a dry death and the remainder went back to the library unread.

‘This is a great chance to tick off a few jobs!’ I said to Alan, smiling widely and and placing the drill on top of the Sports page; if I was taking three children and one psychopathic sergeant major out of the vicinity – a change rather than a break – naturally he’d want to grab the opportunity to fix all the hooks and rails I’d assembled for his convenience back onto the walls for a bit until they crumbled off again.

At the service station Bonnie realised with a jolt that she’d behaved for thirty minutes, so demanded I buy her a large soft monkey. When I said 'no', she beat me at length about my person with the monkey she had in mind, shaming me in public. I used my various unsuccessful parenting techniques: ‘You really like this monkey don’t you? Maybe you could ask Father Christmas…’; I had a go at laughing it off (ow!); and finally I drew her to one side (‘You’re a thug!’) and wondered if I could send her home by courier. Alfie suggested she save up but it was fingers in ears ‘I’m not listening I’m not listening’ and there was violence. We all silently thought ‘Good!’ while she howled, waiting for me to tell Alfie off, but I said ‘You need to think about your behaviour Bonnie’. ‘No’ she said ‘you need to think about yours’ !!!!!!, which three junctions later, I found myself doing, damn it. I should have bought her the monkey. No I shouldn’t. Yes I should. It was beginning to feel like a holiday.

We followed my sister off the motorway, noting with wonder her uncanny ability simultaneously to map-read, remember how many right angles she had turned her car, and maintain a non-life-threatening in-car environment without resorting to hydrogenated vegetable oil snacking or walloping. We drew up at the suitable lunch spot she had identified, signalled by the rumble of a cattle grid (wehey!) which put the children on red-alert of a walk, but fear not, it was pouring with rain, so we were allowed to eat lunch inside the steamed up cars. There was a heart-stopping moment when Maddy tried to reveal the allegedly stunning view by wiping the condensation off the windscreen with her hand! – ‘STOP!!’ we all screamed, united in adversity: ‘DADDY WILL HAVE TO USE THE CLEAN-EAZIES!!’ He gets very upset about fingerprints.

Onwards for a pretty but soggy walk along the river in Stratford ('I’m not moaning but how long is this walk? About fifty metres. What??!! How long is fifty metres anyway?') Through the town and into the Shakespeare shop where Bonnie, fingering the Shakespeare Fudge, had the brainwave that she needed something to show and tell at school so how’s about it? I came over all generous and purchased a book of Shakespeare Plays in comic-strip style for poor Bonnie who had therefore to be grateful in a pissed off kind of way. ‘You see I do buy you things’ I said.

Finally we were wet and fed up enough to check in to our Youth Hostel accommodation, described as a mansion in the brochure – white pillars and all! The children knew it couldn’t possibly be luxurious if we were staying there, but when we let slip that breakfast was included (compulsory obviously) they could barely contain their excitement; this was the big time...

We played the usual jolly games all night, levelled after a few rounds to allow for age and ability (let’s just say I wasn’t in the top group..) - and we still had the highlight to come – free breakfast, I mean Warwick Castle! The next morning, replete with double hash browns, sausage and egg, we powered up the castle’s towers, round the turrets, along the battlements, and down to the dungeons - bulging paunches befitting a Tudor monarch in fact - and home again to dear Mr DIY and his Tales of Unforeseen Drilling Challenges Mightily Overcome.

Reboot!

‘Autumn half-term already?.. how wonderful..’ I thought. ‘I can spend even more time with the children. Let’s kick-start the fun times with a family outing, and what better place than the Imperial War Museum, especially as Alfie’s ‘studying’ World War Two at school; we can be good parents and support the learning!

I put the idea to him this morning and he was surprisingly keen: ‘It’s really annoying at school; just because we’re like children we always have to learn like what children did in the war – what they ate, what they wore, it’s so like boring...We never get to learn about the killing and the fighting!’ So proud of him.

It did mean taking Bonnie somewhere she hadn’t chosen of course, but we couldn’t always kowtow to her, just most of the time.

An hour later, I was growling ‘BONNIE!! WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?’ and flying after her, laden with coats, sweating, as she nipped in and out of pillars at the museum. ‘YOU!’ she yelled ’YOU ARE THE PROBLEM! OW! YOU’RE HURTING ME! I DIDN'T WANT TO COME TO THIS BORING MUSEUM IN THE FIRST PLACE!’

So instead of engaging with the exhibits, the torpedo sound-effects, The Battle of Britain footage, and Alan’s erudite commentary of course, we were actually engaged in The Battle of Bonnie, who stationed herself twenty metres away, retreating if we tried to capture her, but shrieking ‘don’t just abandon me!’ as loudly as she could, if we walked off. She’d keep this up until we left, or bought her something from the shop.

Obviously you can handle the antics of an eight-year-old when you have forty-five years of life experience, fifteen of childcare, in the bank…it’s only for variety that I hop daily, hourly, between strategies; there’s Ms Calm (hush now, tell me all about it); Ms Feisty (let’s get this sorted!), Ms Easy Going (whatever..), Ms Boundaries (I’m going to count to 3..’), but mostly there’s Ms F*K!!SH*T!!!!

Oliver Sacks advises counter-intuitive ultra-love in cases of really abominable behaviour. We are to offer the miscreant a weekend of early-life close cuddly love to ‘reboot’ the child back into good behaviour (now booting I could do). Something – intuition perhaps? – told me that counter-intuitively giving my child a big bear hug when I most felt like throttling her was not going to sit easily with my sense of fair play, but although a whole weekend of being fake was more than I could stomach, I was up for strategic spurts of ultra love.

I started the first day with a twinkle in my eye: ‘Hug??’ but was given a wide berth, in fact all my overtures the first day back-fired: ‘If you could have anything you wanted for tea, what would it be, darling?’ ‘McDonalds’ ‘Oh, well I didn’t mean going out..’ ‘We never go out, not like everyone else...’

The second day I planned a love-in on the settee, sitting close while she watched TV and slithering down until I eventually, pathetically, laid my head on her lap, looking up her nose, like a dog wanting its’ tummy tickling. I got a bit of a pat, then she said ‘Mummy, I can’t breath, get off me,’ and went to play next door, leaving me alone with Dennis and Gnasher.

Day three and she asked to make ‘cakes or brownies’ with me! Ultra-love was paying off! We were REBOOTING! It was only five minutes until we had to leave for Brownies, but I counter-intuitively agreed to make cakes in a ridiculous timescale, and skidded around the kitchen gathering butter, cocoa, sugar at break-neck speed. We’d just covered the counter in cocoa powder and flecks of hard butter, when she cried ‘This is rubbish, Mummy - there’s hardly any mixture! There are thirty Brownies and they need one each!’ and started sobbing. At this point I realised I’d mis-heard at the outset: she’d said ‘Cakes for Brownies’. So this was not about wanting to bake with Mom, it was about parading into Brownies, platter in hand - ‘Look at me – aren’t I the Bee’s Knees?!’ ‘Oh forget it!’ I said, hurt and disappointed, and chucked the spoon down with more force than I ought, making her jump, and undoing all the ultra-love with a seriously intuitive ding dong of vitriol and self-pity which was neither Ms Calm, Ms Feisty, Ms Easy-going, or Ms Boundaries, just Ms Shamefully Bad.

No, counter-intuition wasn’t for me. I returned to the world of random parenting some time ago. I think it was Ms Unconditional Love who put in an appearance at the end of that museum trip and bought a small gift for Bonnie from the shop to reward her bad behaviour. Or was it Ms Inconsistent...?

Pow!

I was easing myself gently into the day this morning - speed-buttering sandwiches, shouting 'PRACTICE YOUR DAMN VIOLIN OR I'M STOPPING THOSE LESSONS!', reading out a mental maths test unutterably slowly, usual stuff - when Maddy said 'today’s the day for injections at school but I am not having one’. I could feel that overload was imminent, so I took a break to pour someone’s left-over cereal into my mouth. I waited for a solution to occur; ‘Don’t be silly, Maddy, of course you are having the injection!’ I said - brilliant! Whereupon major fit from my second-born 'Don’t you care about me at all?!’

I’m not great at dilemmas when circling the kitchen like a goldfish just before school, but I do try to be reasonable. Maddy hyperventilated after the last injection(and I nearly did carrying her home), but injected she must be, so what to do?? I rang school while the chldren all talked to me about different things (‘SHUTUP EVERYONE – sorry, not you!!) who said I must come in to support my child through this traumatic situation (sub-text - if you have a heart, you mean old cow).

What they didn't appreciate was that my presence would give her the nerve to say 'No'. Should I schlep up to school to demonstrate to the medical team that I care about my daughter, but can't control her errant behaviour? Or should I not? They might keep a list of nasty mums at school, and I was sure to go on it!

Of course, I did what I was told, trudging into school (quite sulky) at the appointed time. I linked arms with Maddy when I saw her, and by holding her tight enough to stop the circulation, I was able to frog-march her into the torture chamber, teeth bared in a mad smile for the nurses who chatted away casually, Maddy poor love sweating with fear, me silently screaming 'GET ON WITH IT!' And...POW! It was done. ‘You brave, brave girl – you did it!’ I gasped, flooded with relief, hugging and kissing my girl. ‘I got a good nurse that time' she said, 'You owe me some Sensations’