On the right track

So there's a lot of articles and blogs out there giving an opinion on how to raise children. Never punish, never reward, because it teaches them you only love them when they're good. Encourage extensive role play as it's the only way to teach them to control their impulses. Practise benign neglect so that they learn to do things by themselves. Let them be free-range. Be a good enough parent, not a perfect one.

It's hardly surprising then that my parenting is a bit of a hodgepodge, a blending of ideas from different sources that fit into my general take on parenting. A take that, I admit, leans heavily towards what fits with my own personality and experiences, and a whole lot less heavily on sifting through the evidence for or against certain actions. A take that can also sometimes be a little contradictory in the details. Or change depending on my mood. Ahem.

So anyway, mostly I'm OK with this, but sometimes I wonder whether I'm doing the right thing, whether the haphazard path I'm dragging my children down will lead to where I want them to be: responsible, self-sufficient, realistic, thoughtful, able to speak up but also to listen, able to think critically and not just follow the crowd.

And every now and again, when someone describes something parents most definitely should not do in order to have children like this, and it's something I do do, well, I have a moment of worry.

Yesterday I read an article that got me wondering. And perhaps worrying. Do I coddle my kids too much?

You see, I have read several books that say you shouldn't deny what a kid is feeling, which makes sense to me. So, for example, I have always let my boys cry as long and as loudly as they want when they are hurt. I don't encourage the crying, but neither do I shush it. But my parents were more like the this author's parents - not as extreme, but definitely not pandering to minor scrapes, discomforts, or illnesses. And she went the other way with her own kids, and ended up regretting it.

So should I be harder on my kids? Because actually, like this author, I do think that having to tough things out as a kid made me stronger, made me better able to accept discomfort and nuisances as an adult. Made me aware that life is not always fair, or easy, and that I couldn't just expect to always get what I wanted.

And then I started thinking of Téo's reading lessons, which I am letting him do at his own slow pace. Am I giving him too much freedom here? Should I force him a bit more? Because even though I hated it at the time, I am now infinitely grateful that my father was so hard on my writing. He set me up for life. And his praise when I did write well - I don't remember thinking that he only loved me because I had done what he wanted, I remember feeling good about myself. It's not really wrong to praise is it? To expect certain things of our children and acknowledge it when they do them?

Worry worry worry.

Then this morning, Lukan was mucking up over breakfast. The New Regime means a zero-tolerance policy - either he eats when Téo and I eat, or he misses breakfast.

He missed breakfast.

There was much wailing.

As I put on his shoes, I explained (again) that if he didn't eat when we did, he wouldn't eat at all. That I was sorry he missed breakfast ... and then before I could say but tomorrow you can, Téo piped in with:

But that's life.

I guess that at least answers my worries about coddling.

Random whinges

New clients, if I send you an estimate of the time I need for a writing project, based on what you have told me about the project, then I would prefer that the contract you send me based on that estimate doesn't include extra work that you have never before mentioned. Because actually, I am not a charity. And it's RUDE. (This has happened to me twice in the past week. )

Authors, if you are writing a book set in the future, please don't explain what's happening as if the characters know they are writing/being written about for people from the past. Because seriously, do people today say things like I got in the car, a wheeled machine that runs on a new-fangled fuel source called petrol, to go to the supermarket, a large store where you can buy all sorts of things? No, they do not. So be intelligent, and write in a way in which we can imagine the future. We're quite smart, we'll figure it out. Really.

Body, sometimes my brain needs chocolate. Just a little piece, like this afternoon. So it would be nice if you didn't react with itching skin, and even better if you didn't erupt in large, painful cysts. OK?

OK so this is freaky

After I hit publish on that last post, the page I got on Blogger telling me I'd published successfully had an ad... for a death test. Yes, a test to calculate out when I will die.

So, I did it, but then it turned out it would send the answer to my mobile phone and I'd have to pay. So I searched for another test, and this one required my weight in pounds, so I went to a metric converter site, which had an ad for... the death test.

Why is the internet so keen to rub my nose in my mortality?

(I didn't get any ad when I published this post. Cue the Twilight Zone music...)

Nope, sorry, this isn't going to work

So I feel that I'm able, pretty quickly, to judge whether I like something or not. Judge whether it's me or not.

Like, when we were looking for a house to buy, I just knew, the second of walking in the door - and actually probably before we had even finished parking - whether or not I could live in the one we were visiting.

I'm pretty sure you know what I'm talking about, that reaction somewhere deep inside you, not articulated or reasoned out, but nevertheless a very strong for sure in no uncertain terms no doubt about it NO WAY. And the just as strong for sure in no uncertain terms no doubt about it YES! when the thing in question is perfect.

And I'm sure that, like me, even when your body was screaming NO WAY, you have sometimes tried to convince yourself that you could do it, could learn to be happy with whatever the thing in question was. And then either realised what a disaster that would be, or lived to regret thinking you could make this thing fit you.

So. I am very in no uncertain terms no doubt about it sure that I cannot be 40.

I haven't even bothered trying to convince myself that I can make it work. It just won't.

I have this image of a big black boldface 40 in my head, and it's apart from me, and I can't make it fit into me. It's like my mind is baulking at the possibility. Nope, it's saying, not possible. Not 40. No. NO WAY.

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I've been feeling a bit, I dunno, melancholy I guess, about the whole 40 thing for a while now. Realising, but not wanting to accept, that I am middle-aged. Realising that most people I know now, know me as I am now - responsible, sensible, a mother - and will never know my younger self. Understanding what's behind a mid-life crisis. And resenting the walnut tree in our back yard because it will live longer than me.

It's not that I want to go back in time - I definitely like myself a lot better now than the me I remember in her 20s.

I just don't want to get older, to be old. The thing is, I can't help seeing the future mapped out for me, in a way I never did before. At 30, I never thought of being 40, or 50, or 60. I just couldn't imagine it. But now it's like I have anchors in the future, through my children. When I turn 50, Téo will be 15 and Lukan 12... and at 60 Téo will be 25 and Lukan 22... and at 70 Téo will be 35 and Lukan 32 ... and then... will I even be around after that?

It doesn't seem like much time left.

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Can't I just stay in my 30s?

Bing! Time to blog!

So there's more than a few of you out there who at one point or another, probably many times actually, have been mightily pissed off with me for not being on time. All of you, feel free to take a lot of pleasure from the fact that right now, I have to be on time all the time, and I am suffering.

It's the New Regime. Bing! 6.45am, time to get up, showered and dressed. Bing! 7am, time to get the kids up and dressed and fed. Bing! 7.45am, time to leave for the garderie, then race back in order to get Téo to school. Bing! 8.30am, time to work. Bing! 10.45am, time to go get Téo from school. Bing! 11am, time for Téo's reading lesson. Bing! 12am, the babysitter comes, time to work. Bing! 4.45pm, time to stop work, as the babysitter has to leave to catch the train. Bing! 5pm, time to get Lukan. Bing! 5.30pm, time to start dinner. Bing! 6pm, time to eat. Bing! 6.30pm, time to start getting the kids ready for bed. Bing! 7pm, kids in bed.

I've never had to stick to such a strict, regimented schedule before. One where I'm switching from task to task at an appointed time, multiple times a day, and there's No Room For Deviation. Five-minute chat with the neighbours? Yikes, I'm running late! A whole morning to fill out a form for a potential new client, just to get me in their system? Aack, how will I meet my other work deadlines for today! Finding out the babysitter turned the dishwasher off mid-cycle, and now there's no clean dishes for dinner? Oh no, the kids will be late to bed!

It's exhausting - and I know I have it way easier than a lot of working mothers. I have that seeping, overpowering tiredness, the one where you just want to sleep, no matter where you are or what you're doing. Like when you're pregnant. (I'm not.) I'm wondering if I'll eventually get used to it, or if this is how it's going to be from now on?

But then, as C kindly pointed out, I am getting old after all.

Which actually is adding to the tiredness, at least lately, because there's another Bing! in there: Bing! Kids in bed! Time to start preparing food for Saturday's party!

Yes, I have taken on the catering myself.

I rejected most caterers as they are too Swiss. Cheese-and-dried-meat-platters kind of Swiss. Then I found one that looked more to my taste, got a quote, and was alarmed by the price - and also by the chef, who, when I said I worked for WWF and so didn't want certain fish on the menu, actually crossed his arms at me as if I were the vampire sucking the life out of the oceans. I don't think so, you short-sighted, selfish plunderer of nature's bounty! And anyway, whatever happened to "the customer is always right"?? Plus, I have this problem in that I think I'm a reasonably good cook, and it bugs me to pay a lot of money for something I could do myself, and it bugs me even more if I could do it better.

So yes, my stinginess and moral superiority and arrogance all combined into me deciding I would prepare everything. But then, as I rolled the umpteen millionth samosa last night, it did occur to me that it could all be a huge disaster, as I have never attempted any of the menu before. Which would be embarrassing as my neighbour always makes very yummy party food. Come to think of it, I always have food disasters when I cook for the neighbours. And they're invited on Saturday night. OH NO!! THE FOOD IS GOING TO BE AWFUL! NO ONE WILL EVER COME TO ANY OF MY PARTIES AGAIN!

Rolling samosas and other filo-based finger foods late into the night, every night, is not good for your mental health.

So anyway, Bing! 10pm, time for bed!

Because, when everyone arrives on Saturday night, I'd rather not feel like all I want to do is sleep.

Murphy's law of kids and sleep

On school days, you will have to wake the kids up, even though it's after 7.

On non-school days (like today*), the kids will wake you up, even though it's not yet 7.

* You really don't want to get me started on Swiss school hours...