It’s bad enough that I’m a middle-aged parent. The wrong side of 45. That I homeschool my kids and so therefore only get to speak to another adult when the farmer needs help shifting the cows.
It’s hard enough that I emigrated from a trendy, city chic lifestyle in the heart of Bath a decision that I have to justify to my kids every time I get the HP sauce out. An hour from the city lights by train. Yes. There were trains. Real ones. With buffet cars and everything. (more…)
You may not be aware of this, but all mothers attended parenting school.
Whether you remember or not is a different matter.
School started when they lifted baby off your chest to cut the umbilical cord. School ended when they placed baby- this time wrapped in a blanket, back onto your tummy or into the bassinet next to you.
There I was, going along my merry little homeschool mum way. Innocently believing that I was doing a quite good job for a Thursday when out of the blue, I get the new and unexpected accusation of being judgmental thrown at me from my soon to be a thirteen-year-old girl. She talks about
I can’t decide whether I love Minecraft Games for giving me the freedom to go for coffee every Saturday morning with Brian, or if indeed I hate the little brick bashing demon for eradicating my children’s memory of what it feels like to play real games. (more…)
It happens overnight. The teenage boy trots off to bed on his fourteenth birthday all kisses, clear skin and lightness, and unbeknown to you, whilst sleeping, a shapeshifter enters the room and replaces your baby with an array of animals guises.
Having been robbed of his boyhood but gifted with this ability to morph into any given animal at his pleasure, the teenage boy grows confused and cocky. But mostly just cocky. (more…)