My swimming hero

My 5 year old received a swimming badge at the weekend. And I can't tell you how proud I was of her. Not because she's good at swimming but because she's terrible at it. Or to be more precise, she's terrified of it.

But since we live on an Island and our house backs onto water and because it's just one of those essential life skills, I make her go to the dreaded lessons. Week after week after week. There are tears; there are protests; there are bribes. But she gets in that cold expanse of water and tries to follow her teacher's instructions to the best of her ability. To tell you the truth, it's pitiful to watch. Although she is perfectly capable and kicks her legs obediently enough, her fear and dread is absolutely palpable. I sit there grinning my head off with positivity and good cheer but I often see tears streaming down her face as she diligently kicks and splashes her way through the water, counting down the minutes 'til she can get away.

So when she was awarded her 'Duckling 3' badge after a particularly sorry lesson, I was over the moon for her. I sewed the badge onto her towel as soon as we got home and she proudly gazed at her hard-won certificate - hardly believing herself that she could achieve anything from these hated lessons! Daddy patted her on the back, Granny heard all about it on the phone and Little Brother was in temporary awe.

Then yesterday, Little Brother (aged 3.5 yrs) received his Duckling 4 badge. And yes I'm thrilled for him - he swims like a fish, 5m backstroke or underwater front-crawl, no problem. But I just wished she could have had more than 24 hrs basking in her swimming glory.

Then she told me that she'd happened to mention her swimming badge to her teacher, who suggested she bring it in to assembly on Friday. It's a really sweet thought but I fear it's going to backfire. I imagine most of the kids in her class will be way beyond Duckling badges (one girl recently received a medal for swimming 100 m unaided) and although they wouldn't be so cruel as to laugh at her, they're bound to talk about all the badges they've won and how they got Duckling 3 YEARS ago....

Oh dear, what to do?! My daughter's achievement is a real prize to her (and me!). But in the eyes of her classmates and the world, it's nothing. I just don't want her to know that.

Just keep moving...

So we're on the move again. Yes, yes, I know. It's only been 6 months since our last move. And no, we're not on the run.

It's just that 6 months ago, desperation won over practicality and we moved from our 4 bedroom house 40 minutes away from the childrens' school to a 'cosy' 2 bedroom place much, much nearer. The daily commute is bliss. 6 minutes - I counted. I can be home for a leisurely breakfast and child-free tidy up. Best of all, what I had been spending in petrol each week, now stretches to at least over a fortnight of car use.

But despite some ingenious storage solutions and several major de-cluttering sessions, I eventually had to face up to the fact that you can't actually decant the contents of a 4 bedroom house into something half its size with the same number of residents...and have room to breathe. My poor 6 ft-something husband complained that he couldn't walk in the front door without tripping over something and had to turn sideways to edge down the corridor. The kids could barely find their toys that had been so cleverly stacked away onto shelves. And some of my clothes are still in packing boxes (which at least makes moving them easier!).

So when a friend mentioned that her house across the road was coming up for rent, we jumped. It's not palatial. There's another (single) bedroom. But every room is a couple of feet bigger. More importantly, the layout is much more sensible. There's a proper entrance hall (I can already see the bench-cum-shoe storage in a pretty duck egg blue...) and a discreet little alcove for my home office. The playroom adjoins the living room so we can sit and read the papers (in my dreams) whilst the children frolic happily next door. And best of all, in my husband's eyes, the garden backs onto water. For him, this means unlimited sailing opportunities. For my children, this means feeding the swans their unwanted dinner. For me, it's a bit of a headache to be honest. Lifejackets will have to be de rigeur outdoor uniform.

The thought of packing up all our worldy goods so soon after our previous move is slightly daunting. But I'll tell you something, there's nothing like moving house for a good Spring clean. In my initial sort out, I've found missing jigsaw pieces, vital lego accessories and even some Euros. Which is good because after this next move, I'm definitely going to need a decent holiday. Just don't ask me to pack for it!

Pocket money solves all

I've been struggling with the issue of pocket money for several months now. No, not because there's a recession on and we need every penny we earn. More in a 'should we/shouldn't we and if so when', kind of a way.

Would it turn my 5 and 3 year old into greedy mercenaries, bargaining for ever more coins to drop into their bulging piggy banks? Would they refuse to get out of bed, let alone tidy their toys away, unless I coughed up in an appropriately handsome manner? Would their entire involvement in family life disintegrate into endless financial interactions?

These doubts - and more - kept me putting off the moment to ever more distant milestones. Together with the fact that, like the Queen, I am renowned for never having any cash in my purse. (I'm more of a card person actually and can't wait for the day when we just swipe our purchases onto a barcode embedded into our wrists when we turn 21). The thought of seeing the disappointment on my childrens' faces as I scratched around in my purse for the promised pennies, was too heart-breaking to dwell on.

But, as it turns out, pocket money hasn't been the scary monster I feared. In fact, so far, it's all been good. I've even been pretty reliable about producing the requisite amount every Friday, with only the teensiest amount of scrabbling. And the outcome has been surprisingly positive:

I've watched my daughter choose something to buy with her first clutch of pennies, then be devastated afterwards that her piggy bank is empty and resolve to start saving again (she certainly doesn't get that trait from her mother...). Unlike me, the bank manager would be thrilled to have her custom.

And is there any better way to grasp the nuances of addition, subtraction and multiplication than practical application? Cue impromptu Maths lessons in Tesco's as the kids do their usual routine of picking up a toy and asking if they can have it. Now, instead of having an embarassing showdown in aisle 9, I just say, "Yes, sure darling. That will be 10 weeks of pocket money - or everything that's in your piggy bank now and no more pocket money until the end of term". Silence. Toy goes back on the shelf. We walk on in peace.

I've also found the threat of reduced pocket money to be an amazingly effective behavioural deterrent. If my son hits his sister, that's 10p off his pocket money. If she screams in that glass-shattering, dog-scaring way that does my head in, the same applies to her. Consequently, the first week involved a certain amount of subtraction on the part of Bank of Mum - thereafter, we've not seen any hitting and n'er so much as a raised voice. Winner all round!

So, to recap, for just a few gold coins each week, I have regular maths lessons with my kids, encourage them to save, instil in them a sense of the real value of material objects and have a great discipline tool.

Why didn't I start this pocket money lark years ago??!

(image c/o Cris DeRaud at http://www.rgbstock.com/gallery/crisderaud)

TV or not TV, that is the question.

I've written before of Human Biology lessons on the way to school. Well, this morning, it was geology. Hypothermic vents to be precise. And underwater volcanos. Which of course led on to earthquakes, tidal waves and tsunamis.

Luckily, not so long ago, I embarked on a science degree with the Open University so I wasn't too embarrassingly rusty on these facts. But if I tell you that the person quizzing me on the Earth's marine peculiarities was my 3-year old son, you might understand why I was slightly taken aback by the questions being fired at me from the back seat. Worryingly, his pronunciation of 'hypothermic vents' was spot on, if a little protracted (as in: "Mummy, what's a hi-per-ther-mic-vens?").

His interest comes, I'm afraid, from the cBeebies programme Octonauts. And I guess I should be glad that his television consumption is proving so educational! But it did make me think that perhaps they're watching a little too much at the moment. Not that we even have a telly - I've never been able to find a TV that doesn't offend my aesthetic sensibilities so we watch any programmes on our Apple Mac, via BBC's iPlayer.

Normally, I'd turf them into the garden during any daylight hours that they're not a school and encourage them to run, jump, cycle, dig and generally fill their lungs with fresh air and tire their bodies out with physical exercise. But right now, it's too freakin' cold - for them, for me, for their toys - to be outdoors and cBeebies has become a more familiar friend than I'd like.

But at least they're learning something...and at the moment, I still know the answers to their questions. I dread the day when my kids ask me stuff that I don't know how to answer. Maybe I should start watching more telly myself!

Crumpets or chocolate?

We've just returned home from the Victorian Christmas experience in Portsmouth, where fake foam snow covered the ground and real snowflakes swirled in the air. It was great actually, even with the faux-snow. But we all got chilled to the bone. Warming comfort food was the only way forward.

For me, that spells toasted crumpets, dripping with butter and the merest smudge of marmite. (Although I might settle for my granny's lardy cake). Piping hot Lady Grey or a glass of madeira - or both - would be ideal companions.

For my kids, it's hot chocolate laced with marshmallows. And possibly a home-made hot dog, oozing ketchup.

So it got me thinking... what's the ultimate comfort food of all time, ever?

Chocolate cake?

Sunday roast?

Chicken soup?

Macaroni cheese?

Mashed potato?

Cheese on toast?

Home-made chips, fried egg and ham?

Spaghetti carbonara?

Fish pie?

Curry?

Treacle tart?

Chocolate chip cookie?

A cheese board and crackers? (Hmm, does cheese feature too often in this list?!)

I guess in truth, it's different things at different times. Even a salad can satisfy a craving, given the right conditions.

But I'd love to know your favourite comfort food. It might give me some ideas for our next wintry outing..

Blogging for Sudocrem

I'm painfully aware that my Island Mum blog has been woefully neglected for the last few months but don't worry, I haven't abandoned writing. Oh no. I'm just blogging for Sudocrem now. Which means, less of a personal online diary style and more general posts related to mummies, babies, toddlers, as well as beauty, nutrition and travel tips.

I'm loving the discipline of having to write copy on a daily basis. And reviewing some cool kit has been great fun. Being paid to blog is also nice (however token...). But I miss my own blog and will definitely be back here in due course. Watch this space...

love Mamma Po xxx

Heaven sent?

When the unsolicited e-mail appeared in my In Box, it read like a heaven-sent answer to my desperate plea for help.

"The 19 year old daughter of my good friend's neighbour in Basel, Switzerland is training to be a teacher. She's looking for some English work experience and will provide child-care and domestic help in exchange for board and lodging."

Child care. Domestic help. Trainee teacher!!

It was like my perfect wish list.

I wrote back with barely pause for thought and said we'd be very happy to help with the board and lodging bit in return for some help around the house. I imagined the fun yet educational games this jolly, young, non-sleep-deprived, Julie Andrews look-alike would provide my energetic offspring. Patting the mountain of ironing waiting my attention, I started whistling refrains from the Sound of Music and idly wondered if a month was long enough for my children to become bilingual.

Admittedly, I did get slightly cold feet some weeks later (what was it going to be like having a perfect stranger living with us 24/7??). But before I had time to express my doubts, an e-mail told me that her flight had been booked and could I please mail back directions to our house from the airport.

And so it was that Swiss Lisa came to stay.

Now, I can't say that it's been all bad. As I write this, I can truthfully tell you that the ironing basket is completely empty.

But Mary Poppins she ain't. In fact, for someone who is planning to work with children, she has a very strange manner indeed. She barely addresses my 3 and 5 year old and when asked to entertain them for an hour, she'll sit and watch them rather than interact in any way - let alone instigate the educational 'games' I wistfully imagined.

Not only that but the time that she is even available to us is precious little. Thanks to me, she managed to secure some work experience at the local primary school. But instead of the couple of mornings I had in mind, she decided to work there 5 days a week, full time, in order to fulfill a requirement of her teaching course. She gets home (exhausted) just before 4 pm - 2 hours before my children are ready for bed. She refused fairly early on to do their supper so its a bare hour's child-care (which they beg me not to inflict on them) and if I'm lucky, she'll bathe them - swiftly and joylessly.

All in return for a comfortable room, her own bathroom, 3 square meals a day (including a substantial packed lunch) and all her washing done.

Am I the world's biggest fool?

Thankfully, the month is nearly up as it breaks my heart to see my kids pretty much ignored by someone intended to care for them. But you could argue I was utterly naive in not vetting her in the first place. What was I thinking?? I guess I stupidly thought that someone recommended via the friends network had to be good. And the prospect of having some help was just too tempting. I also imagined my kids would benefit from the social experience of meeting someone from another country. It's a pretty sheltered existence on the Isle of Wight and I thought it would be good for them to see beyond the confines of the Solent.

But from the very first day, when my daughter excitedly spent all afternoon making a Chinese lantern for Lisa to hang in her room, only for me to find it discarded on the kitchen floor that evening, I suppose I've known that once again, my wild optimism and blind trust has made me a sitting target. Another lesson learned.