Why labelling kids is wrong...

We’ve been pretty lucky health-wise with our kids (touch wood!). Two of them have never seen a doctor for anything other than immunisation, and apart from the time when four of them came down with chicken pox, we’ve been troubled by little more than the odd sniffle.

We did, however, go through a scare with the ten-year-old boy several years back, when we thought he might be autistic. I’ve chosen to write about this because only last week yet another friend confided she was having two of her kids tested for autism, and it struck me that this is something I hear all too often from other mothers.

Before I go any further, I want to say two things: firstly, I’m not a medical expert, and am talking purely about my own experiences. Secondly, autism is a very serious condition and my heart goes out to anyone with an autistic child, it is not an easy path.

But I do wonder if these ‘spectrum’ conditions – such as autism, Aspergers, ADD -- are over-diagnosed at times.

When my son first started school his teacher pulled me aside and asked me if he had hearing problems. He didn’t, I told her, but was often ‘on another planet’ and didn’t listen. She raised a sceptical eyebrow.

A couple of weeks later, she told me he was showing signs of dyspraxia – his fine and gross motor skills weren’t very well developed and he was uncoordinated; he might need therapy. These words were unfamiliar to me, and I was fearful. Were things really that bad? I wondered. Sure, he was a bit clumsy, and a little ‘odd’; he tended to fixate on things, and at the time was obsessed with Pinocchio. The obsessions shifted over time from Greek Gods, to Woody from Toy Story (he would  stare at his picture on a piece of paper for ages...just staring). He wouldn’t look you in the eye.

Some months later we moved to the UAE, and having seen his school report, his new school refused to admit him until he was psychologically assessed. I was frantic; what if they wouldn’t take him? What if he if had to go to a special needs school?

Mercifully the school were satisfied by the assessment, and grudgingly admitted him, but his behaviour over the following weeks became increasingly erratic. He would throw tantrums each morning before school, would escape from his classroom and generally cause mayhem. And the swearing! Words like Tourettes, Aspergers and dyslexia were tossed casually around by the teachers.

He couldn’t read. During a school show, while the other six-year-olds read lines from cards, he tumbled around at the back of the stage yelling rude words until he was removed. I clamped my mouth to conceal my hysterical, terrified giggles.

I was advised to have him formally assessed again. This time the psychologist concluded he was on the autistic spectrum, albeit high-functioning.

I was frightened; my shy, gentle, odd little boy was dragging me into new territory; a terrifying world of appointments and therapy, of special needs assistants and labels. What did the future hold for him?

His teacher confided one day that she felt he lacked confidence, partly due to his inability to read.

I mulled this over for a while, and then as with all of life’s quandaries, took to the internet to find a solution. I came across a programme claiming to help children to read (easyreadsystem.com), and I signed up immediately. And reader, it was magic! Fifteen minutes a day for a week is all it took for him to be able to read simple words. In a month he was level with his peers. After two months I cancelled my subscription, his reading level had shot up, and his bad behaviour had stopped entirely.

My son is now ten, and although still a little unusual, I love him all the more for it. He spells better than me, reads voraciously into the small hours, and is a gifted and creative writer who invents his own words. Yes he’s a bit of a loner, but kind and empathetic. He can look me in the eye.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had gone down the route of therapy with him; if I had -- at such a young age -- marked him out as ‘different’. If I had pandered to his so-called ‘special needs’, as so many other frightened and confused parents do these days. Who knows,  I’m just glad I didn’t find out.
(This column appeared in Good Taste Magazine in June 2013).

Up in Smoke....

One of my favourite memories from childhood is of my mother creeping into my bedroom late at night -- following a party or dinner out -- a little tipsy, and reeking from the heady mix of Bacardi and coke, YSL’s ‘Youth Dew’, and a dozen Silk Cut purple cigarettes. 

Full of conviviality and rum, she would whisper promises of treats and trips-out into my sleepy ear, before tiptoeing out of the room to rejoin my father downstairs for a night cap. Snuggling down under the covers, I would drift off into a contented slumber with her loving words still dancing in my head. The world was a safe, good place.

I've always hated cigarettes and cheered for the strong arm of the nanny-state the day the smoking ban was introduced into Ireland; but even today as a non-smoking adult, the mere whiff of cigarette smoke can evoke feelings of warmth and safety, bound up with a million memories of my mother and the close bond I shared with her as I grew up.

My mother was a twenty-a-day woman, and all activity was either prefaced with or followed by a well-earned ‘fag’. Through her I learned a lot about the psyche of an addict; like the regular tea-breaks which punctuated her day – ‘Ooh I’m gasping!’ she would chuckle conspiratorially as she lifted her tea-cup, although it wasn’t the tea she wanted at all but the ciggie which inevitably followed; the tea just made it ‘taste better’, as she once told me. The knowledge that it was soon time for a cigarette put her in a good mood, and it was as if her day existed purely to accommodate her many fag breaks, with all other activity merely a distraction until the next one.

 

I see a lot of her in myself these days, as I impatiently put the children to bed, salivating for a cold glass of white wine. And the knowledge that there is a fresh bottle waiting in the fridge is enough to keep me in good spirits, regardless of how irritating and argumentative the children are.  

‘You’re too cheerful’ DH will say, eyeing me suspiciously, as the kids flood the bathroom and attack each other with sticks, ‘I’m guessing you bought wine today?'

I often think about how my mother viewed her life when she was my age; whether like me she had ambitions and dreams for herself, to be more than just a wife and mother. On reflection, I don’t think she did; at least nothing more ambitious than ‘lose ten pounds’ and meet Des O’Connor in person because her real life goal was limited to the extremely achievable next cigarette. 

‘Oh I’m not like you,' she would say, matter-of-factly, turning her head as she blew out the smoke, 'I can't do anything but be a housewife!'

She tried to quit smoking several times over the years, one of the more notable attempts thwarted when her father, ironically, died of lung cancer. As illogical as that seemed to me at the time, I now completely understand her reaction. How often have I read a damning report on the terrifying effects of alcohol on women, only to close the page and pour myself a glass of wine, reasoning it would be awfully bad luck if that happened, but I was willing to take the risk.

As she grew older, her smoking became increasingly contentious; the scowling refusal to get out of the car whenever we went to a non-smoking bar or restaurant; the mutinous puffing outside the front door of my first home, after I had triumphantly informed her that I wouldn’t allow smoking around my baby daughter; her refusal to curb her smoking around my father, even as he sickened and died.  The cigarette became her weapon of choice which she lit defensively, hands shaking, as the world she inhabited became less and less familiar to her; dragging hard on those little white sticks as if they might save her from the sinking ship of her own decaying mind.

She’s in a nursing home now, ravaged by the cruel horrors of dementia.  At first she remembered her beloved Silk Cut, even when she had forgotten her own name, but now they too have been vanquished by her self-erasing memory, and she spends her days permanently at a loss – as if something has slipped her mind, and she’s trying desperately to remember what it is. Her last fag-break long overdue.

When I look at my mother's life now, I realise it was a life spent in the grip of a very serious addiction, not just physically but also emotionally. With retrospect, I now see that each cigarette she smoked was a thought unspoken, a dream unrealised, a risk untaken. A life unlived really, and literally going up in smoke.

(It was World No Tobacco Day last Saturday, May 31st)

Letter to my 13-year-old...

I’ve been feeling old lately; my grey roots come back quicker than they used to, my face takes at least an hour to look normal in the mornings, and my knickers have become high-rise elasticated torture devices designed to contain the hateful middle age spread.

What’s worse is the fact that the eldest child has just turned 13; a date which loomed ominously on the calendar for months, like a death knell to any lingering belief that I was still a ‘young mum’, rather than the fully paid up veteran I actually am.

Being the mother of a teenager is a big responsibility, and I’ve decided to mark the occasion by offering her some advice which might help her on her way. So here it is:

Dearest Emily,
Thirteen – wow, how did that happen? Is it really that long since we met? The day you were born was the worst and best day of my life. Nothing could have prepared me for the tsunami of pain which tore through my body that day; wave after wave of agonising contractions  which seemed to go on for hours. Actually they did go on for hours; 16 to be precise. 

Sixteen hours of terror, blood and tears, but then suddenly it was over – like the calm following the storm – and there you were, staring up at me with those beautiful blue eyes; this perfect pink girl. It was love at first sight. You changed my life that day.

So, what am I going to tell you? It's not as if I have all the answers yet, we're all learning, all of the time, but here's a few things I jotted down.

1) Don’t follow the crowd. You are so bright and creative and people are naturally drawn to you, so don’t shy away from that, embrace it. It’s better to be your original self than a poor copy of someone else - even if people don't fully appreciate you for it to begin with. Never lose your individuality; it’s what makes you who you are.
2) Next – and I really mean this – never diet. Dieting steals the joy from life. Be kind to your body, think carefully about what you feed it, keep it active, and you will never need to worry about your weight. It took me 28 years to figure this out (and I still struggle with it), so consider this advice a gift.
3) Try not to take yourself too seriously. I mean it – learn to laugh at yourself. We both know this isn’t always easy for you, but trust me it makes all the difference when times get tough. 
4) Be nice to your brothers. Now don’t roll your eyes! Yes, I know they’re annoying, noisy, nit-infested stink-bugs, but they will always stick up for you against enemies, even if they think you’re being an idiot. Because that’s what families do. Trust me on this one. Plus they adore you, even if you don’t always see it.
5) Never perm your hair – I know you like curls, but curling tongs will do exactly the same job without the commitment. This comes from someone who spent a year growing one out – I’ll never get that time, or self-respect, back.
6) The next one is simple but so many people don’t get it; be kind. It costs nothing and can make all the difference to someone. There will always be people who are cruel simply because they can be. Stay away from them and surround yourself with other kind people – it makes for a nicer life. 
7) Say ‘yes’ to as many things as you can – it can bring you to some surprising places.Take risks and don’t be afraid to step out of your comfort zone, because that’s when life gets interesting. It’s a short life and as your grandfather used to say, we’re a long time dead.
8) This next one sounds like a cliché, but dance as often as you can – even if you’re alone – especially if you’re alone. Yes I know your ballet career began and ended before you were four (you really shouldn’t have shoved your dance teacher like that), and yes you have two left feet, but it doesn’t matter! Nobody can be unhappy when they’re pirouetting around the kitchen.

I shall finish now, I know your iPhone is calling. But I’ll just leave you with this last thought. Life is just a series of good and bad decisions, of triumphs and screw-ups. What sets you apart is how you deal with them. But just remember, your mum’s always here to help.
Love you,
Mum. 

Working mum v stay at home mum...it's not that simple...

What is it about motherhood that makes women so nasty to each other? How often do you open a magazine or paper to read yet another article criticising stay-at-home mums for being unambitious and lazy or berating their working counterparts for being cold-hearted career bitches?

The latest woman to weigh in on this ongoing and seemingly endless debate is ex-Apprentice star and controversial TV social commentator Katie Hopkins, who recently tweeted, ‘Full time mummy is not an occupation. It is merely a biological status’.

Why people feel the need to come out and make these sort of incendiary comments aside, you can’t help but wonder what she hoped to gain by saying this at all other than alienating at least half of her female Twitter followers.

Of course she's not new to controversy. This is the woman who said she wouldn't allow her children to play with kids who had what she deemed to be working-class sounding names, such as 'Tyler' or 'Charmaine'. She also accused Lilly Allen of being fat and hideous after giving birth. Yes, this woman is a nice piece of work.

I’ve never fully understood why there is such a divide between ‘working mother’ and ‘stay at home mother’, mainly because as most mothers reading this will know, it isn’t that clear cut.

First off, how do we decide who is a working mother and who isn’t? Clearly someone who puts on a business suit each morning and works a 14 hour day could be classed as a 'working mother'. But what about women who work four hours a day – does that still count? What about two days a week. In a charity shop. For no money. Does that count?

What about women who run a business from home, fitting it around their children? Or the mummy bloggers who manage to make money out of blogging about kids or travel or shoes?

Aside from the myriad jobs a mother does during the day – the washing, the cooking, the homework, the general drudgery – who’s to judge what’s worthy of the term ‘working’ and what isn’t? (And yes, in theory men share these jobs, particularly when a woman works full time, but for now I'll assume the woman carries out the bulk of them.)

In Katy’s world it must be so simple: To work or not to work, that is the question? But I have news for her, it’s more complicated than whether you can be bothered or not; it’s not always easy to find a job that fits around the school run. It doesn’t always make financial sense to work after you’ve factored in childcare costs. Some women have children with special needs. Some women may have worked hard for the last 20 years and are taking a few short years off so they don't miss out on their kids being small.

And some women live in the Australian outback where job opportunities seem to be limited to car washing or truck driving.

When I fell pregnant with the tweenager I fully intended to return to work after she was born. I was working in an office job which I was perfectly happy with, DH and I had bought our first house and were busily trying to pay for it, and so I felt extremely fortunate to find a day care centre around the corner from my office. It was perfect, if I wanted to pop in to see the baby during the day I could. If there were any problems it would take me two minutes to get there. I had it all worked out.

Then I gave birth and realised I really, really wanted to stay at home with her and so, ever resourceful, I figured out a way to do just that by child-minding a neighbour's baby. It helped cover my costs while affording me the time I wanted with my baby.

Thirteen years on and I haven't worked full-time since, instead just dipping in and out of things as they come along. 

I did a stint volunteering for the charity Bodywhys (The Irish Eating Disorders Association) for a few years, work I enjoyed greatly. And I once pretended to teach English to Emirati kids for a summer (they didn't learn anything except that I wasn't very good at controlling them). I loved this job, mainly I suspect because it meant leaving the house alone each morning, something which felt as tantalisingly dangerous as having an affair. 

The columns I occasionally get paid for are less like work and more an exercise in plate-spinning since inevitably the three-year-old will want a drink/DVD on/trip to the toilet the second I start typing. And it's not unusual for him to slap the laptop shut when I'm not looking, often losing hundreds of words at a time. In other words, working from home and resident three-year-olds are pretty much mutually exclusive in my opinion. Not that I regret being with him, he's my last and I'm enjoying our time together before he sets off for kindergarten next year.

BUT, I will admit there are days when I would literally give anything to put on a pair of high heels, a pencil skirt, and drive away to an office to hang around people who don’t cry if they get the wrong coloured cup, or who need to be chased around the house to get their bottom wiped.

And the idea of earning a proper wage is beyond seductive but it's simply not that easy. Childcare in Australia is prohibitively expensive - even if there were any suitable jobs for me here in Paraburdoo - and it simply wouldn't make financial sense for me to go and work at the moment, unfortunately.

So it's not as straightforward as Ms Hopkins would have you believe. We don't all live in Notting Hill with an army of expensive nannies to help us maintain our TV careers. Neither do we spend all day with other yummy mummies, discussing Cath Kidston's latest print over a low-fat cafe latte (although I'm fully confident such creatures exist!).

Most women are just muddling along somewhere in the middle, feeling like we're failing no matter what we choose. Because the truth is, we can't win either way; if we work we're letting our kids down, if we don't work we're letting ourselves down. We can be hard on ourselves like that. Because let's face it, the men aren't saying anything, not a word. Men are good like that. No, our worst enemies are other women. And the last thing we need are stuck up, opinionated harpies from the telly, spouting vitriol at our choices.

Without my daughter...

Life in the outback presents many challenges; you can't get bread on a Tuesday, a broken school shoe isn't replaced easily, you can't hide on a bad-hair day since it's impossible to be anonymous. But one of the biggest challenges facing families up here is the question of education.

For such a small town, there is a pretty high percentage of home-schoolers for example. Many people here are unhappy with the local primary school; the teaching population can be transient, teachers come and go, and I've heard of one principal who simply up and left one day with no prior warning. And so, it's a bit of a lottery whether you're going to get a decent teacher for your child, since finding good teachers who are willing to come up and live here is not an easy task.

High-school presents an equal if not bigger challenge. The 'local' high-school is 80 kms away and has an equally transient teaching population, resulting in many families choosing to send their children to boarding school instead.

And unbelievably, I've just joined their ranks. This past weekend saw myself and the 12-year-old board a flight to Perth to settle her into her new school (a place on a Gifted and Talented program in a state school, a chance we simply couldn't turn down) and accommodation, an event I've known was coming for ten months now, but which was nonetheless as surreal as the days following her birth, as the realisation that life was about to change in ways I couldn't even fathom yet, slowly dawned.

When she was born, I had no idea what to expect. I wasn't even sure I could take care of a child - I couldn't take care of myself. But when she slithered into my life, bright, alert, with large, blue unblinking eyes, my entire existence sort of shifted, my stars realigned a little, a peace I hadn't known since I was a child settled gently over me.

She changed everything. My teens and twenties had been dogged by an eating disorder - predominately bulimia - which had left my ambitions in tatters, shadowing me day and night, never far from sight. But on that bright afternoon on Mothering Sunday in 2001, the bulimia fled out the door never to be seen again. Just like that, all those years of useless psychiatrists, behavioural psychologists and hippy therapists chanting self-loving mantras, were upstaged by a pink girl with a shock of black spiky hair.

And so she's gone. This morning after waking the boys for school, I hovered outside her door for a moment, expecting to peer in to see the familiar sight of her up and dressed, sitting on her bed, eyes fixed on her phone, muttering crossly, "why aren't the boys up yet? They'll be late!".

Oh don't get me wrong, she's always been hard work. Always infuriatingly independent, she's never allowed me to be the doting mother that the boys have. She is strong-willed with a burning agenda, never willing to compromise.

I see so much of myself in her, and so much of my mother, but added into that mix is a hardness and determination neither my mother nor I possess.

The first year of her life she never left my side; I refused to put her in her cot - she slept beside me - I wanted to feel her close in the night, to know she was safe. The daycare place booked for her - right around the corner from my office - was cancelled, as was my job, nothing on earth could persuade me to leave her in someone else's care.

But when her younger brother appeared a year and a half later, I saw a look of betrayal in her eye, and for many years I felt she couldn't forgive me for bringing a third person into our little world. I'm still  not sure she forgives me.

And now I feel like I've betrayed her all over again. We moved to the outback to get away from the hellish fly in fly out existence that nearly destroyed us last year, but the cost is that, rather than DH living a two-hour flight away, she does.

So she is there and we are here and despite the four very lively boys, the house feels strangely empty. Every family has its own rhythm, its own sound, words, catchphrases, jokes or silly songs - things that only its members can understand - and the sound of this family has her voice stamped all over it. She's been instrumental in creating the culture of this family, she's the ringleader, the Pied Piper whom the boys have always eagerly followed, adoring her, hoping to be singled out by her for affection.

And now, for the most part, it is up to the boys to keep the traditions going, to leave their own imprint, to create new rhythms, at least while she's away.

This arrangement is temporary, I'm not willing to have her away from me full time just yet. But even if it's only for a few months I know the child I get back will be forever altered, brimming with new experiences and influences and that's not a bad thing, even if it tugs at my inner control freak a little. She's entered an exciting world that I will know nothing about, apart from what she's willing to share, and I'm glad she has that opportunity. I know she is going to cope just fine.

I just hope I do too.

An unique Christmas gift from DH, courtesy of artist Natalie Briney...

For Christmas DH got me possibly the most special and original gift ever. He commissioned a piece of art by Pilbara-based artist Natalie Briney, whose art I came across when I was covering the local annual art exhibition PACT (Pilbara Artists Coming Together) for a local paper last year. I loved her work on sight and immediately sought her out for a short interview for the paper.

After that I spent several months obsessing about owning one of her wonderful paintings, and Christmas provided the perfect excuse.

Heavily influenced by the Mexican artist Frida Kahlo, Briney nonetheless puts her own wonderfully refreshing, feminine and unique stamp on the work, to create beautiful and extremely individual pieces.

I'm not an art critic - my knowledge of art doesn't extend beyond the Leaving Cert - but I think that the future holds great things for Briney. I hope so, since I own an original!

In times where, let's face it, there's very little we want for, a commissioned piece of art is a brilliant idea for a truly unique gift. When the iPads or glittery shoes are long gone, the artwork will endure to be passed on to the next generation.

The painting is below and really, the photo doesn't even do the original justice - there are layers and texture in this piece that bring it to life, and it brightens up what otherwise would be a very dull, dark living room in our 70s mining bungalow.

The piece is called Gemini Fridas and is loosely based on the tweenager and me (see on the left the girl has 'E' stamped on her dress - that's for Emily, I'm on the right - 'C' for Claire...) and offers up a sort of challenge to us, since we spend most of our relationship arguing. Perhaps it can serve as a sort of Picture of Dorian Grey; as we bicker on in real life, our painting snuggles in for a closer hug.

Being immortalised in your own commissioned piece makes one feel like a latter-day Catherine de Medici - a patron for the arts so to speak - and I for one shall expect DH to reach such dizzy heights in the gift-buying stakes from now on.

Gemini Fridas by Natalie Briney

For more information, check out Natalie's blog http://nats-ramblings.blogspot.com.au/
or like her on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/NatalieRBriney?fref=ts

Homeschooling for idiots...

Eldest son has been worrying me of late. His teacher has been on and off sick practically all year, necessitating his class being shared around the rest of the school - sometimes for days on end. Add in the fact that he changed schools in April, and it's fair to say he hasn't exactly thrived academically this year.

This is a worry.

The idea of homeschooling had come up already this year, when - in his budget - State Premier Colin Barnett decided to charge those on a 457 visa (us) a $4,000 school fee from 2015 (read my take on it here), which would mean I'd have no choice but to home-school all of them (living nightmare). So, by way of preparation for such an eventuality, and to see if it might benefit the eldest boy, I decided to attempt a two day trial with him.

“Oh please no,” groaned DH,“next you’ll be breastfeeding him and knitting him cardigans out of hemp!”

This, I felt was a little unfair; it’s true that until that moment I had considered home-schoolers to be poncho-wearing hippies who ate their own placentas, but faced with concern for my son’s education, I was having to reassess this judgement.

Anyway, what is hemp?

The first morning of the experiment dawned brightly, and I leaped from my bed full of enthusiasm for my new role. I suspected I might turn out to be a pretty amazing teacher, a sort of cross between Robin Williams in ‘Dead Poets Society’ and Michelle Pfieffer in ‘Dangerous Minds’. 

In no time at all I’d have my son reciting Latin phrases and scribbling algorithms on the white board in empty college classrooms at night, after he'd finished cleaning them, (or was that Good Will Hunting?). I was about to create a boy genius! And the fact that I don't know any Latin or what an algorithm actually is did not diminish my enthusiasm one jot!

I hadn't actually organised a lesson plan, or studied his curriculum, instead I figured I'd just teach him things as they occurred to me - you know, let him learn organically - after all, how hard could it be? Besides, I have an impressive collection of books - ancient Greek drama, sociology, Shakespeare, the entire collection of Jodie Picoult novels - there was bound to be something educational in there.

Turning to the bookcase I scanned the shelves; my eye fell on Trinny and Susannah's 'What you wear can change your life' - a book containing what I consider to be vital information for life, and I mean vital; until I had learned that narrow A-line skirts are the only style I should consider, I had actually gone around in skirts cut on the bias *shudder* the memory still haunts me.

Moving along the bookcase, I spotted ex-Spice Girl Gerri Halliwell's autobiography 'My Story', which although an inspirational and ultimately uplifting tale, was unlikely to launch my son onto a path of academic excellence. Pity, a bloody good read.

In fairness this should be on the national curriculum..

Surely there was something worthy of study among all these books? My eye fell on a grammar book - excellent, grammar is a vital component of a comprehensive education, and the fact that I am a qualified teacher of English to speakers of a second language (TESOL) must mean that I know this stuff inside out - right? (This line of thinking of course completely ignored the fact that my entire career as teacher of speakers of a second language entailed making animal-themed masks with my students, or teaching them the song 'head, shoulders, knees and toes' - but that was a minor detail.)

I may need this...

Opening up at a section on restrictive clauses, I quickly read through to the bottom of the page understanding nothing. I tried again, still nothing. Do people actually know this stuff? Surely nobody needs to know this stuff? I returned the book to the shelf, telling myself I can always hire a tutor for the stuff I don't know.

I found a book about Vikings and Celts - aha, perfect! - and got him to read aloud for several minutes. (Actually it was quite interesting; did you know that the Vikings originated from Germany? No, me neither.) After that we drew some Viking ships for several minutes before running out of Viking-themed things to do.

Time for a geography lesson, I decided, pulling out an atlas. I like atlases, I find it endlessly fascinating that imagined borders not only result in differing customs, costumes, cultures and languages, but often physical differences too. Opening to a map of Europe, I prepared to quiz my son on some capital cities:

"Capital of Denmark?" I asked him, eyeing the map for the answer.

"Err...Germany?" he replied.

"Capital of Scotland?"

"Um, Wales?"

It was worse than I thought, the child knows nothing! I instructed him to study the map while I made some coffee and gathered my thoughts. 

Refreshed, I tried again:

“Capital of Denmark?”

"Um, Germany?" he countered.

Closing the atlas I decided to move onto life-skills. If he was to be a useful member of society he needed to be able to cook. Plus a future partner would thank me for creating a well-rounded, modern and thoughtful individual. We were going to make some bread!

Forty minutes later, our loaf emerged from the oven, rock-hard and inedible (I guess yeast was vital after all), and I was beginning to have doubts about the entire experiment.

I phoned DH, "This is hard! We're not really making any progress at all! And besides," I added, hushing my voice, "I really don't think he's trying at all!"

Hanging up, I thought I'd try once more. "Shall we try some Japanese Haiku poetry? That just might be your thing!" I trilled brightly.

“Mum, can I go back to school tomorrow?” my son asked suddenly, eyes pleading with me, and I'll be honest, I was a bit relieved, this teaching lark is harder than it looks. Defeated I agreed – our experiment was at an end, only several hours after starting.

I had failed.

My son may have learned nothing, but I certainly had: teachers do an amazing job, it takes real vocation, skill, planning and most of all, patience to teach a child, and is not something just anyone can do – not even placenta-eating hippies. And any parent who successfully manages this at home, well, I take my proverbial hat off to you!

Of course, come 2015 I may find that I have to home-school - perish the thought - and if so a mere browse of my bookshelf simply won't suffice, more's the pity. For now I’m going to leave the teaching to the teachers and confine my involvement in my children’s education to the safe territories of shape-appropriate clothing advice, and animal-themed mask-making...