No sympathy here: the Nazi-parenting approach to illness

My son has chicken pox.  When the nanny rang to tell me (yes, I do know how that makes me sound.  To make it worse, I wasn't even at work - I was gallivanting about in London at a lingerie press preview) I let out a silent whoop of delight.  You see, I'd been rather concerned that the children appeared to have escaped the pox over the last four years, despite numerous false alarms and pox parties.  Secretly - and please don't tell anyone - I thought there was only one explanation.  They'd already had it and I just hadn't noticed.


Now before you dismiss my concern in a snort of derisive laughter, it really isn't that ridiculous.  I'm not terribly sympathetic.  My particular brand of Nazi-parenting favours the stiff upper lip approach to sickness and injury.  Is it broken?  Is it bleeding?  Has it fallen off?  No?  Then get up and stop crying.

In relation to non-life-threatening illnesses I pretty much ignore them.  Oh, I'll dole out doses of Calpol fairly willingly, but to be honest that's more to ensure I get a good night's sleep than to alleviate any infant cold symptoms.  With three children it is almost inevitable that one of them is going to be ill most of the time, so I do tend to ignore a whole raft of maladies, telling the children to man up and get over it.

This blase approach to mothering is balanced out by my extreme paranoia about one of them dying.  I blame this mostly on the pretty ghastly experience of holding my son as he passed away, but suspect there is an element of paranoia among us all.  I live in perpetual fear of losing another child and superstitiously cannot go to bed without physically checking their breathing.  The fact that they could stop at any time during the night is irrelevant - I just can't sleep unless I've felt the damp breath of three sleeping children on my cheek.  Occasionally I'm compelled to actually wake them up just to check, which is irritating for us all.  I'm hopeful that this fear will dissipate over the years, otherwise my teenage children are liable to find me crouching by their beds, holding mirrors over their faces.

But the pox?  Well, that's no big deal, is it?  On my sympathy scale it ranks somewhere between the common cold and leprosy; worthy of a little TLC but nothing to panic over.  So it had occurred to me that perhaps it had gone totally unnoticed in my household of stiff upper lip pygmies. That I'd been far too neglectful to notice any spots and too unsympathetic to listen to complaints of general ill health.

I am utterly relieved to discover that in fact I am not as terrible a mother as I thought, and am revelling in nursing my poor son through this Proper Illness.  The girls haven't yet succumbed, although they are eagerly scanning for spots each morning.  It seems they have cottoned onto the fact that whereas a grazed knee will earn barely a cuddle, the pox will bring them hours of lounging in bed, Disney films and chocolate buttons.

Now that I put it like that, it does seem like a pretty good deal.  When is it my turn?

How much is too much?

I picked up a text at work the other day which made me laugh out loud.  I explained to my curious colleague that apparently my four year old son had just informed his teacher that he and his sisters came out of my vagina.

"Oh my God!"  She exclaimed.  "Who on earth told him that?"

I was slightly taken aback.  That wasn't really the issue.  "Well... er... I did."

A couple of weeks ago J asked how babies came out.  What was I supposed to say?  It would never occur to me to tell my children anything but the truth when they ask (except in relation to Father Christmas, where blatant lies are de rigueur) so of course I explained the process.

"But wouldn't vaginas have to be very big for that to happen?"

"They stretch."

"So is yours very big now?"

"It doesn't stay stretched.  It sort of shrinks back."  At least I hope it does.


If you asked me to choose the ideal age to receive detailed information about where babies come from, I couldn't tell you.  I wouldn't exactly choose to tell a four year old, totally unprompted, about expanding birth canals, but when I'm asked a direct question I feel it's only fair to tell the truth.  In consequence my children are somewhat worldly-wise about birth, death and the bits in between.

Surely there are only three options in these circumstances?

1) tell the truth
2) lie
3) refuse to answer

Which one do you go for?

Starting over

You may recall that not long ago I started writing my second novel.  I launched into it with great gusto, but have had to put it to one side as there is something more pressing to do.  The rewriting of book one.  Anyone who believes that when they write ‘The End’ (metaphorically at least, we’re not seven years old, after all) their work is done, is sadly deluded. 

It would seem that whilst book one has very many great elements, it has just as many which simply don’t work. And so I have started the exciting task of unpicking the stitches of the story and laying them all out in front of me to see how they might better knit together.  I say exciting, because it’s like writing an entirely new novel, but with all the best bits from my practice run.

Just think how many times you’ve wondered what your life would be like if you’d taken a different path.  If you’d married later, had children earlier, done that degree, taken that job, gone inter-railing round Europe.  In real life we never get to find out, but I can play God with my characters and it’s enormously fun.  By altering one small element early in the book, an entire course of events will change.  Imagine the effect that might have on someone’s life – their personality, even. 

I’m still letting the ideas fly around at the moment, dashing off notes to myself every now and again; “What made him leave?” “How did it change her?” “What on earth would happen if...?”  I’m gradually starting to fill in the structure of my new story, and realising how much better it will be than the first.  I’m excited all over again about this novel.  Book two will just have to wait. 

Top tips for hiring a nanny

It's not easy finding suitable childcare for one's offspring.  Should you choose to hire a nanny, you might find it useful to read some of the top tips I've gleaned over the last few years.

When hiring a nanny it's essential to consider the following points;

1. How attractive is she? 
You don't want one so plain she's an eyesore to have around the house, but neither should you select a girl so pretty you're concerned about her proximity to your pyjama'd husband.  The perfect nanny is somewhere in the middle.

2. Could she ever be mistaken for your lover?

Occasionally I finish work early to join the children and the nanny at soft play.  Last week the man at reception told me my 'partner' was in the inflatable tunnel.  This is a tricky one to avoid, but try talking loudly about your husband and prefixing the nanny's name with 'Nanny'.  Unless of course the nanny really is your lover, in which case carry on.  

3. How much does she eat?
Where possible, try to hire a nanny with an obsessive dieting history.  This will bring down your food bills and make the bread last longer.  But on no account should you choose a nanny who is slimmer than you (see above).

4. Do you have somewhere to hide your personal effects?
Remember when you used to babysit for the people next door, and you'd rummage through their drawers?  The nanny can do that all day.  If you don't want photos of your Rampant Rabbit on Flickr, lock it up.

5. Is she on Facebook?
The youth of today are shockingly lax about their privacy settings.    Find her account and stalk her mercilessly.  You'll be glad you did when she brags about the duvet day she's planning for next Tuesday.  Do not under any circumstances be tempted to befriend her.

6. Is her name similar to yours?
Our current nanny has the same name as me.  This means that when my children call me by the wrong name, I can pretend they're actually asking for me, and be consumed by guilt because they see the nanny more than they see me.  Consider asking your nanny to change her name by deed poll, if it's very different to yours.  Or you could change yours.

7. Have you given Calpol to the children?
Prior to any interview with prospective nannies I would strongly advise administering a 'just in case' dose to the children.  Their glazed expressions will be mistaken for docility.

If you keep the above tips in mind while you search for a nanny, you will enjoy a long and happy relationship.

Red Rubber Bands

The other day I walked into the postal sorting office and waited politely at the counter for the man behind the glass to put down his reading matter.  I craned my neck to see if perhaps he was mugging up on the latest postal delivery systems, but I think the articles had rather too many cars and semi-clad girls to be a corporate newsletter.  No matter, he was sure to be helpful – after all, a sign above his head read ‘how can we help you?’

“Yes?”  He said.  

As openings go, it’s not terribly welcoming, but I figured I’d give him the benefit of the doubt.  I held out my clenched fist and gently dropped a pile of rubber bands.  They gratefully sprang out of my grasp and scattered across the counter. 

“Could you possibly ask the postman to stop dropping these outside my house?” 

He looked at me as though I’d demanded he demonstrate his knowledge of quantum physics. 

“How do you know it’s the postman?”

“They’re red.”  I said. 

“Doesn’t mean anything.”  He said.  “Lots of people use red rubber bands.”

I look pointedly at the racks of letters to his left, bundled neatly into streets with red bands, then transfer my gaze to the mess of red rubber spaghetti escaping from a plastic container on his desk.

“It’s the postman.” I said.  “Look, it’s not a massive problem, but I don’t want to have to keep picking them off my path.  And it’s probably dangerous for small animals.” I threw that in at the last minute - I didn’t want to appear too selfish about the whole business.  

“Can you prove it?” My belligerent assistant asked.

“Oh for heaven’s sake!”  I exploded.  “This isn’t CSI!  I haven’t carried out forensic tests on them.  I haven’t hidden in a bush with camouflage gear and a zoom lens, so that I can come in here and slap down on the counter a series of sordid black and white images of my Postie shedding elastic bands.   I would just like him to stop.  Please.”    

“Sorry.”  He said, not looking in the slightest bit apologetic.  “Company policy.”

“What on earth do you mean, it’s company policy?  What’s company policy?”

“Company policy to require proof of a complaint against a member of staff.”  He picks up his magazine and I sense our tete a tete is coming to an end.

“What about ‘the customer is always right’?”  I proffer.

“Oh we have that one too.” He concedes, and I open my mouth to reinforce my point.  “Except when they’re wrong.”  He concludes, turning over a page to reveal a bevy of beauties adorning a Citroen Saxo. 

I must have some camouflage gear somewhere...

Looking forward

2010 was a good year for More than Just a Mother.  The blog was shortlisted for The MADs awards in the funniest blog category, mentioned in The Times Online, on several radio stations and in countless places across the web.  More than Just a Mother now has over six hundred subscribers, with around ten thousand visitors each month.  I still find it astonishing to look at where my traffic come from and see the tiny dots in far flung corners of the map.  Thank you all for reading and for commenting.  The easiest way to keep up to date with new posts is to subscribe - just enter your e-mail address in the box over in the right hand sidebar and you'll receive each post directly to your inbox.  If you're a Kindle user you can also find More than Just a Mother on Amazon.

Somewhere last year, in amongst the full time job, the chickens, the children, the husband and the blog, I wrote a book.  I loved every second of writing it, and have already started my second.  This year will be filled with writing, writing and still more writing.

Last month I took up my new position as columnist for Cotswold Life magazine.  Editor Mike Lowe suggested I might like to push the boundaries a little.  "I'm pretty sure they still have sex in The Cotswolds", he said.  I have just heard back from him in relation to February's column.  "Love the piece, Emily, but I've had to change a word; I don't think our readers are quite ready for 'ejaculation'".  I'm sure I'll get the balance right for March's column.

As if 2011 wasn't looking sufficiently promising, my Twitter stream was flooded yesterday with the wonderful news that I had won not just one but two categories in the 2010 Brilliance in Blogging awards.  I'm delighted to be sharing the award of 'Outstanding in Field' with two extremely talented writers, Tara and Jay.  If I'm honest though, what really bowled me over was winning the accolade for the funniest post of 2010.  Knowing my writing makes people laugh is pretty much the best thing about doing this blog, and I'm grateful to all those who either put forward the post or voted for me to win.  If you haven't already worked out what to do with a broken vibrator, now's your chance.

You can catch up with me in between blog posts on Facebook or Twitter.