A Humdrum Mum

I should've known right from the start that he'd be huge. Created by a short- (me) and average-sized (his dad) parents, luckily the boy turns after my dad and not me. During his last three month stay in the womb-hotel, he outgrew his accommodation, forcing a referral to a specialist for his talapese. Thankfully, the specialist confirmed that it was indeed a "packaging problem rather than a manufacturing problem" in that my small stature bunched his feet up, causing him to kick me incessantly in the ribs as well as slightly deforming his feet on entry to the world. However all is well now in that department. But here are some of the issues with having a pre-teen son taller than you: 1. Sorting socks - "Are these yours or dads?" I ask multiple times. I'm sure we bought different socks for you and your dad so we'd work this out, but for the life of me I can't remember. You can do it yourself. 2. Sitting at the table is becoming impossib...

A new school term brings not only a new start for Master Humdrum in year 8, but a new start in year 5 for me. Thankfully, I know the staff very well, so it's been an easy first week back (or rather three days). This week also heralded a new beginning at the junior premier league team for us all. New kits for him, new crowd of parents for us to get to know. First game of the season. First win. I tried to start the term with a new attitude of exercising every day - a walk around the shore, biking to school, sea swim ... The sea swim afforded me two catch-ups too with friends. And you can't start the school year without new hair.

(This is only a fun take on my experience as mum to a chatty but bright, sporty boy. And we haven't actually got to the end of year 7 yet; anything could happen.) 1. Ask your child if they want long- or short-sleeved shirts to wear under their blazer. I didn't for one moment think that short-sleeved shirts could even be worn under a blazer, but they can. In fact, no one (NO ONE EVER) wears long-sleeved shirts under a blazer. Well silly me for not asking, then having to buy another set of shirts a few weeks in. At least I've got some "spare" now though. 2. Buy more than two PE t shirts. How, as a mum to a sporty boy, did I think that (a) two would be enough considering he has over two lessons a week plus after-school clubs and does "perspire" lots, or (b) I'd be able to wash them quickly enough? Four is enough. 3. Only embarrass them in front of their existing friends, because they know you; don't embarrass them in front of their new friends becau...

(I'm not in any way making light of the stresses these SATS do cause our children, their parents and - don't forget - their teachers. This is just my lighthearted look at how things are for us. Keep strong; like most things we worry about, this too will pass.) We're in the final term of Year 7. The year of blazers and ties. Of getting to school on time or facing a detention. Of packed lunches that are not nutritionally controlled, but include Greggs sausage rolls on a Tuesday (I'm just jealous I admit). Of meeting new friends and therefore us not knowing the parents, making sleepovers risky in my opinion but how can I say no? Of being around Scary Older Kids - and the influences they may have on our little cherubs. Of being unable to go into school to explain away misdemeanours or misunderstandings with the teachers or the office. Of looking every day on the school app on my phone, waiting to see if he's earned some achievement points in a lesson or perhaps a d...

Usually once a year, we like to pop up to town with the boy, taking in a few touristy things and educational visits. Natural History Museum, check; Science Museum, check (boring); Eye, check; Buck Palace, check etc etc. This year, we've taken a tween. Someone who didn't want to go to the Star Wars virtual reality gaming experience in Stratford, much to his dad's disappointment I fear. Someone who is hard to please at home, never mind on holiday if we don't have wifi or an X Box. Day 1 - Good Friday - Shopping. Messrs Humdrum both love shopping. Master H has a new found obsession with shoes, which would be fine if he wasn't still growing. Our favourite mall is Westfield  at Stratford and we spent the most time/money in Foot Asylum, checking out clothing from a new brand, not called WKD as we teased, by KWD. To be fair, he did spend his birthday money from January in there! Our hotel was the Hilton Double Tree by the ExCel, where we've stayed before on ou...

Six year ago, I  wrote about love bombing  and this week, I read about it again in Psychologies magazine. A quick Google search showed up quite a few worrying article involving love bombing and adults; The Sun called it " a controversial tactic that often starts off with a predator showering their victim with affection" (but that is The Sun...). I'm sure for children it's still OK? Psychologies magazine obviously does. Its "inventor", Oliver James (author of They F*** You Up ), calls it a way of resetting your child's emotional thermostat, with a night/weekend of time alone with them, where they dictate what is (or isn't) done. This unlimited love and control is then replicated afterwards with shorter, more frequent bombs. That mini love bombing is what I referred to when I wrote about it, when Master Humdrum was six (he's now 12).  I'd quite like to revisit this for a tweenager. I do realise that he might well say I have to play Fortn...

My 12 year old son has been playing this free online game for a month or so now. As with all other fads, we assume it's self-limiting - just like collecting Match Attax or Pokemon cards, playing Pokemon, playing Fifa, buying Fifa points, playing Futdraft on his phone... the list goes on and each fad is replaced by a new one. What will replace Fortnite? Lighter evenings and playing out I hope! I alternately feel guilty and not so guilty letting him play. Here's my list of pros and cons. Pros Winter evenings . I'm holding out for lighter evenings so he can get back out on his bike again. In the meantime, this stops the "I'm bored" routine - nothing wrong with that from time to time! Only child . I can't arrange "play dates" all the time, and the way he plays in a party with three of his mates is almost like having them round to play, but without the waiting on them with snacks and drinks. I do laugh when I hear him giggling, or shriekin...

Please stop telling me I look tired. I’m actually a lot less tired than last week. This week, I’m aiming to go to bed way earlier than last week. I mean 11pm rather than midnight. Now that I’ve finished Twin Peaks The Reboot (and I was nearly as peed off as I was when Pamela Ewing popped out of the shower to find her Atlantis hubby still alive in bed), there isn’t as much to keep me up.  Please stop telling me I look tired. I’m drinking nearly enough, and I mean water not prosecco. I’ve realised that drinking prosecco (or just alcohol in general) does give me bags in the mornings, but I haven’t drunk much since that fondue party. (That was only two weeks ago. I am trying.)  Please stop telling me I look tired. I’ve always been a late turner-in-er. I burned my duvet when I was young, reading Agatha Christie books after lights-out. I come alive at around 10pm. Well, this isn’t so true now I’m getting older, but once I’ve gone upstairs, I wake up again even if I was comatos...

Ben and I have always had a tough time in the mornings. At 8am, he used to ask me if he could take a ball in to school. We then had to search in the garden (as we were already in the car at this point) or in the garage. Or he'd forget something. I did threaten that if he forgot his lunch again, he would be having to pay for a school dinner. Funnily enough, that worked. I didn't realise for a long time that I was also stressed in the mornings, so when we clashed, boy, we clashed. I know we could do that thing that all smug mums do - Get Ready The Night Before. Yes, I do in principle but there's always something you can't do until the morning. Like getting your packed lunch out of the fridge and putting it in your bag. Or realising you need money for a trip. Etc. I could also get up earlier. I have an aversion to getting up earlier than 7am. I know some mums who don't work, but get up at 6 something just to make sure they're ready before the kids. I am not ...

Building Boys , my favourite new Facebook page, posted an article about how being mums to middle-schoolers (that's 10 year olds to me) is hard. The piece spoke directly to me. I am mum to an 11 year old boy, who is about to start secondary school tomorrow and whilst I am no longer facing issues such as nappy-explosions, feeding stand-offs or other problems a new parent has no choice over, I have done my time there and paid all my dues (I think). Here's why I think being mum to a tween is so hard: (1) Where are the tween mum blogs? To extrapolate the Building Boys' article , there is a plethora of help and aid for new parents, including hilarious mummy blogs and Facebook pages, but scant few for tween mums. I love those mum blogs, but it puts me off to read titles such as "The ten things you wish you were told as a new mum". I want to read "The ten things you wish you were told as a new mum to a tween". There are a few mummy blogs who cope with th...

Everyone knows I'm a koumpounophobe so I don't actually possess any buttons to push, but even my 11 year old boy can find them. Find them with such pinpoint accuracy as would befit a sniper, then deploy them, waiting around for the blow-up. The more I read about this, the more I realise how much I'm complicit in this - not totally to blame, but I can certainly help to avoid it. It all started - well when he was born, no seriously, about two years ago when I identified that I was getting really stressed out in the mornings with our school routine. Five minutes before he was due to walk or I was due to drive him, he'd come out with lines like "Oh I need to take in my football today" - cue hunt in the garden or garage. Or "I would like to scoot today please". I know I sound unreasonable, but these things organised the night before are fine. More than fine. But hell, when we're both trying to get out of the door but only one of us understands th...

Ten things we know about Big School, before Transition Week: Transition week is yes, a week! Most other get two days. We get a week! That's a week of him coming home earlier than me... They advise taking a packed lunch for the first day, but afterwards, it's £3.50 on average per day for a hot lunch. This is going to cost me a fortune! They have two lunch "hours" of 25 minutes, he can eat at either. Both more like, if he realises he can do it. He's going to get homework this week. (Ha ha ha ha ha ha.) They already know the details of the detentions and bookings. We have been told (by him) to not expect him NOT to get any detentions. But he doesn't want isolation, that sounds awful. (Good.) He can wear any shoes this week, but in September, he has to wear all black shoes. Yes he's already asked me for a certain pair. No I can't remember the name. He's outraged he can't wear shorts to secondary, but he is able to this week. (Good cos his ...

Today, I accompanied Year 5 on a school trip to a wartime farm for their WW2 topic. How I love my job. We got to be bossed around by a strict teacher in an authentic school room, writing with chalk; participate in rag-rugging (I want to do some at home!); weigh out how much cheese and butter you were allowed for our rations and walk around the farm visiting the animals. We had some free time in the afternoon before our coach took us home, so the children voted to go back to the park so they could - wait for it - play on the little tractors! Yes, there was a racetrack there with some toddlers pedalling around in tiny John Deeres. Nine- and ten-year olds playing in the toddler park. It was so lovely to see them just being children again! As I lead them across the farmyard and past the barns to the park, I felt a sudden pang in my heart. I realised it was the effect the farm was having on me. How long ago it was that we used to take Ben out to these types of places, where you'd be...

My son's end of Year 6 trip was to see The Lion King in London's West End. Going up to London is always a treat from our south coast city. However, we agreed for him to go before the recent terror attacks in Manchester and London! Over half-term, indeed after last Saturday's London Bridge attacks, our school Facebook group flooded with posts entitled "What do people think about the school trip to London?" and "Should I let my child go?" I read that a school that my friend's children attend in Cornwall had posted a Facebook update saying they were having emergency meetings about their own school trip this week with the Local Authority and governors. We heard nothing from our school. I had a text from the mum of Ben's school bestie. She wasn't keen on him going, I don't think, but wanted to know if Ben was going. I replied that he was. We'd talked about it, he wanted to go. However when I mentioned his bestie possibly wasn't, he c...

I thought Ben was finally feeling motivated to clean his boots. No. He's cleaning his old ones so he can sell them. 

His shoes lay strewn near the front door. ACDC riffs belt out from the amp in the front room. My head throbs. Peace reigned for five days. Five long, lazy days. Now that peace is shattered. The boy is back. But - prepare yourself for the shock - I didn't miss him! The school parents' Facebook chat page buzzed while they were away at their Year 5 residential. I started a thread asking if any other parents had received their postcard. We were asked to pack a stamped addressed card. I had but some other parents didn't, making them feel totally rejected! One mum forgot and felt awful. It was on this thread that it appeared I was the only parent who didn't miss their little bundle of joy! Other mums described tears at bedtime the night before. Tears when they were pulling away on the coach. And this was boys, actually, not girls. I jokingly said I was certainly going to win the Worst Parent Award for this half-term. One mum replied that I'd raised an independent boy ra...

At nursery drop-off this morning, I was handed part of Elf's transfer to school pack, you know, the bit that the pre-school teacher had completed and also that Elf had drawn in (looking worryingly like a blaze that Fireman Sam ought to be putting out instead of rescuing Norman's head from a saucepan with the "jaws of life"). Reading it, I had a sense of "That's not my child" in the way that the above tractor book is written. Surely, the little angel you've so kindly described here doesn't really exist, and certainly doesn't pretend to be my little Elf? So here is "This is not my child" book, by A Humdrum Mum. That's not my child He's too rude and noisy That's not my child He's uncaring and unkind (to me sometimes) That's not my child He wants to sit in front of the TV not run around in the garden That's not my child He won't help me take in the washing This is my child ...

Daddy is Novelty Parent. With Mummy, moan whinge whine. Door goes, in walks Daddy and the mood lifts immediately. (Elf's not mine!) My OH usually works late-ish 7.30pm I consider to be reasonable so he can do bath'n'bed (I hate bathtime, something to do with my straightened hair being splashed and going curly I think). I won't do a Poor Me here, I have friends whose OHs are out all night (working I might add!) and others whose OHs finish at 4pm to cook the family dinner, but then work bank holidays. I'm probably middle-of-the-road Poor Me. (And don't let's revisit the arguments that start "So how come you can finish early to go out with your mates, but you can't finish early for a family dinner?".) OH's work (and stress level) is building up and home times this week have been around 9pm. I have also had a case of mummyflu this week (that's where you are ill but you still have to get up to take your child to nursery so you may as w...

Last week, I felt like a real mum. OK so I've got a 4 year old boy, of course I'm a mum. But sometimes I catch sight of myself in a shop window holding his hand, and I think How did I get here? Now I sound like a Talking Heads song, but you get the drift. Do any of you feel like that ever? The first time Elf called me Mummy was a defining moment in my new mummy status. When I went back to work after my year's maternity leave, I was seen differently by new and old colleagues, as I was now a mum. But last week, my mum-o-meter hit new heights - I have finally made it. And why? I sewed Elf's first badge on his hoodie! No it wasn't his first ASBO; I dealt two of those out at the tender age of two, and there was no corresponding badge. Elf achieved Badge 1 for Trampolining. Woody and Jessie achieved theirs too. I sewed it on a bit wonky and half way through, I asked my Other Half if the badge was in fact and iron on one! It wasn't. The proof was in the pudding...