Giving voice to the "Inner child"

Earlier this year I published a novel - "The Inner Child Journal of a Neurotic Parent" - a hilarious antidote to self-help overload and a seminal work for women everywhere who struggle to keep up with the domestic goddesses at the school gate and the perfect parents at the princess parties. Thankfully, some objective readers have read and enjoyed the book now, so pushing it again seems to be a reasonable thing to do - loathe as I am to hide my light under a bushel. 

The Inner Child Journal is an ideal holiday read. It will entertain and amuse, enthral and delight. And live long in your memory afterwards. Here is an extract to whet your apetite:  

This week my inner child has been feeling rather despondent.  It’s my week to staff the Montessori Tuck Shop and I’m dreading having to go there tomorrow. The nutritional content of the foodstuffs sold is appalling. I decided last year after a bitter argument with the then president of the Parents’ Association – Jeff - to stop upsetting the applecart – pie cart in this case – and simply ban Gracie from buying anything apart from fruit at Tuck Shop. I then went silly and volunteered to work there every few weeks hoping to influence the children to buy the healthier offerings. I was overcompensating for being so critical and convinced myself it was in Gracie’s interests for me to meet new people, curry favour with the movers and shakers in the upper classes and get to know her playmates. It’s been disappointing in every respect.

First, I’m rostered to work by myself – a frightful bore that leaves me run off my feet – and a punishment for speaking out, I suspect. Second, none of Gracie’s classmates have Tuck Shop, so just exactly who I think I’m cultivating is still unclear – fat kids with parents who can’t make sandwiches? Finally, try as I do, I can’t ignore the saturated fat, salt, preservatives and emulsifiers, not to mention E numbers and carcinogenic additive values in the meat pies, baked goods and hash-browns. The only almost health giving option is artificially coloured and flavoured pink milk. What sort of parent sends their children to school with money to buy this toxic rubbish? It’s worse than feeding them supermarket own brand pet food.

Freddie calls it Duck Shop and George has a less kind work for it.  I want out! George’s sister, Sophie, was actually the person who got me thinking about the ethics of school canteens. Living in the UK where school dinners have been “revolutionised” in the interests of improving the health of school children and reducing the incidence of childhood obesity, Sophie is an expert on school dinners. She’s an expert, per se, actually. Her children are anything but obese and she’s a health nut and a know-it-all, so I can take some of her remarks with a grain of salt, but even so, a salad sandwich or a tub of yoghurt wouldn’t go astray.

I offered to swap my Tuesdays at Tuck Shop for Helen’s Thursdays in the library. Helen’s an earth mother. She gardens, grows her own fruit, herbs and veggies and embraces moderation in all things.  Accordingly, she sees the merits of a little junk food from time to time. She’s expecting her fifth child and has an insatiable appetite for carbs at the moment. Since she can’t eat while on library duty, she’s very amenable to a swap with me.  I love seeing at her at school and hearing her views. Time spent with Helen is a wonderfully refreshing experience. She’s outspoken, yet loveable. She’s brave and warm and emotional and getting to know her has been one of the highlights of Montessori.

Helen was single-handedly responsible for affecting the anti car-bullying campaign last term. Three Year 2 girls (daughters of dentists) were making life hard for some children who had joined the school mid-term. One family relocated from California and the mother rode to school on a scooter – a large green one. The girls teased the son of this woman venomously about his mother who “only had a scooter”. This was the tip of the iceberg. After all, Scooter Mom was leaving her children open to some comment with that sort of behaviour. The bigger problem was that a number of girls were picking on children whose parents drove small, older model cars from Japan or Korea.  The mean girls didn’t actually know the brands of the cars, they just knew they were old and small and not very prestigious (no doubt hearing their mothers comment from the luxurious leather seats of their air-conditioned behemoths).  The taunting and ridiculing transcended the car prejudices of course, with taunts directed also at girls with healthy appetites and shy boys, but it was the car taunting that opened the huge can of worms – far more serious than mere teasing about size and smell ever could - as it seemed to constitute an attack on the parents, as well as the child.

In response, Helen initiated a campaign to get more children walking, scooting or cycling to school. The opportunities to compare cars became few and far between as many parents jumped on the bandwagon in the hopes of being environmentally friendly – or being seen as such. Hey, I drive an SUV too, but I’m not a hypocrite. It’s a hybrid. I personally don’t think I need to green up my school run, even though I applaud Helen’s ingenuity in overcoming the bullying by driving forward an eco-friendly agenda. My own approach is to park a long way from school and walk in to collect Gracie, rather than drive up to the gate and wait there ostentatiously with my engine running and carbon emissions mounting up in my notional balance sheet of carbon crime.  A number of parents now follow my example rather than face the car-bully backlash. I’m not sure what I think of all of this. I got swept up in the momentum, at the time, and supported Helen, but I think the girls in question are a product of their homes and it’s their parents and their attitudes that really ought to be chastised not the rest of us who drive German or Italian cars. There endeth the lesson.

Rivetted?

Go on - buy the book. Find out what happens! And have a great holiday.

Piggy in the middle

The past few weeks have been very full. And yet compared to this time last year I feel as though I have been doing very little apart from chasing my tail and turning in circles. Last year I was engaged in enthralling conversations with myself about "voom" and motivation.

This year - my PTA chairmanship has me contemplating lucky dips or face painting at the school fair.

It's just not the same somehow.

Mindful of these altered preoccupations and ambitions, and the attendant alteration in my energy levels and sense of personal "voom", it is with a mixture of pride and resigned regret that I announce my stepping off the line and over it. 

What line? You ask.

Oh - just a notional line really, not a real line. More a metaphorical construct. The line dividing the young people from the middle aged.

As those of you who stop by and read my musings would recall, I entered a new decade last year. Late last year. At that time I lamented the passing of youth. One feels one ought to doesn't one, even though one feels in most respects much as one did at 23 or 28, anyway, or maybe 34. One looks back over the years - the blur of time - and wonders where it all went and why the trip to Antarctica got overlooked, where that nice fellow from Law School is now and whether those girls from school who post their pictures on Facebook realise they look 40. But all the time, for several years in fact as the thirties trickled, or perhaps gushed, too quickly past, one was filled with incredulity. How can one be 40? In cosmic terms it is barely the blink of an eye - and yet in real terms one feels so young and vital. One feels as if one's whole life is before one. One wonders what on earth one has been doing with one's time.

And then gradually the inner deeper recesses of the soul begin to make peace with and accept the reality - not that there is anything new to accept. There is just a slow and steady dawning of awareness. The denial subsides. One is no longer really young.

Despite a little too much conscious thought on the matter (most of which I attribute to a morbid preoccupation with mortality that has afflicted me for many years), the actual acceptance phase has come along quite quickly and calmly.

Indeed if this is like the stages of grief we hear about, then I am not sure that I really went through the anger or bargaining...

Nevertheless, the acceptance phase has been a walk in the park - so far.

Shall I tell you what happened?

Nothing cataclysmic mind you - this was a slow dawning - remember.

1. I cut off a lot of hair and looked and felt younger even though I suspect I looked less attractive. The youthful carefree nature of the "do" trumped the need to look attractive.

2. The youngest "Off-Spring" turned five and finally gave up his pushchair. He now scoots to school leaving me gasping and panting in his wake as I try valiantly to keep up with him and his brothers.

3. In interviewing for jobs I found myself apologising for my age.

4. The glossy weekly and monthly magazines one scans in the queue at the supermarket - and the online versions thereof have never been so appealing - everyone worth photographing is my age (apart from Wills and Kate).

5. My knees hurt.

6. The charming and gregarious caretaker at the Off-Spring's school told me he that he guessed he and I were the same age. (I guessed, wrongly, that he was older than me!)

6. The idea of camping is no longer anathema to me.

7. Yet, I love nothing more than being at home.

8. I worry more about avoiding dementia than wrinkles.

9. The mere mention of the word "club" (of the night variety, not the fitness or health sorts) gives me palpitations.

10. I bought a wheel along shopping trolley thing to carry my stuff around in (a chic one!) despite the remonstrations of the Off-Spring before I bought it that I was never to buy one on the grounds that only old ladies use them.

The truth is that even though middle age is the new "second youth" and 40 is the new 30, it is called middle for a reason - and not the obvious and depressing one about the actual middle of one's life. 

No the middle I refer to is more about how one feels. Caught in the middle of friends and relationships. Interrupted in the middle of a conversation (all the bloody time). Between a rock and a hard place far too often. Too far along to turn back. Not far enough along to cruise. Far enough in to know what's going on. But also stopping, treading water and gasping for air now and then...

And according to at least one US newpaper full of photos of happy, botoxed, silver foxes, middle age lasts until well into the 60s. By the time we reach that milestone the names will have changed though.

So in order to be ready for all of that, I am preplanning my knee and hip replacements, signing up for bridge and bowls now and spending a lot of my gym time on balance exercises. I am doing all I can to keep the synapses firing and the system working efficiently.

Don't worry - most of the time I still feel 23. Just a grumpy, tired, wise and a little haggard, 23.

Moreover, I don't mean to suggest that interesting conversations with oneself are not the domain of the mature. Quite the contrary. Rather, it is with the wisdom that comes with middle age that I realise that lucky dips are wasted on the young, and the enthralling conversations are only going to get better.

Or - to be blunt - chairing the PTA ages one terribly!

Of maelstroms, tides and harvests

Here in the UK, volcanic ash once again disrupts air travel as the Grimsvotn volcano in Iceland erupts for the first time since 2004. The notion of an ash cloud slowly billowing across the planet at an invisibly high altitude wreaking havoc on air travel so far below and so far away is quite surreal; poetic almost. One does not wish to make light of natural disasters - of floods, tsunamis, landslides or tornadoes. Nor would volcanic eruptions seem poetic in Iceland now. But from a distance or from the perspective given from an arm chair in a safe, dry, sunny place far away, the workings of nature are breathtaking. Like the best music, art, or literature.

Perhaps it's the metaphor that resonates most with me. Words describing nature at work best describe states of mind, emotional and interpersonal interactions; best conjure the image of what we mean or feel.

Floods of tears
Depths of despair
Heights of emotion

We stand on precipices and brinks, fall into abysses and jump off cliffs, we scale pinnacles, weather storms, overcome maelstroms, fight the tide, go with the flow, paddle upstream, tread water, have the wind at our back - all without leaving our offices or homes.

Some days seem like uphill battles. Or the quiet before the storm. Some days we feel as if we are caught in a rip and no one can hear our cries for help over the sound of the waves pounding on the shores of our lives.

And some days there is a life preserver right there if only we could see it through the salt and sand, the spray and even the volcanic ash in our eyes. On those days we feel our way to safe harbours, trust our instincts and somehow know where we can turn for the buoys we seek.

And on those days, despite the exhaustion and the heartache, when we sense or find the solace we need, the relief and the gratitude that follows is so deep, so palpable, so real, that it makes so much that we concern ourselves with seem small and trivial.

By and large, in its simplest terms, the road we hoe is essentially a solitary one. We surround ourselves with others, with noise and distraction, clutter, stuff, experiences. But basically, we're all just hoeing a bit of dirt, more or less alone. Sure, we're all out there seemingly together, tending our crops in one way or another, hopefully reaping what we have sown, or not, in some cases. Some of us have our noses down, some have our ear to the ground to hear what is coming. For some it is the zephyr that will herald the news we seek. For others the clouds. For we are all tending different crops. For some it's wheat, potatoes or rice - nourishment for many, for others sweet fruit and pretty flowers will bring joy and beauty. Still others will give their life to rare cacti or allow noxious weeds to take over their patch. And others will cultivate great forests and provide shelter and protection. And some will seem to reap it all.

And yet others will throw down their tools and wander off to some other man's field to steal some manure perhaps, to break a shovel or perhaps to help out after a drought.

There may be tough times out in those fields, but ultimately if we know what we are sowing, can the harvest be a surprise?

.....

The youngest Off-Spring once said  - "Some days (walking) feels like just pushing the world back."

At three, he was describing a physical sensation (I hope).

But his simple metaphor was profound and memorable, for some days that is exactly how it feels.

The Impossibility of Failure

We all have a recurring dream - or two or three - which no doubt represents a fear, a state of mind or a phase in our journeys. One of mine is that I am due to sit a final year law exam in something tricky like Restitution or Conflicts of Law. In the dream I am unprepared; chronically and desperately unprepared. The remarkable thing is that even with the semi-conscious awareness that the sleeping brain always has that this is a dire situation, my dreaming persona is never as panicked as my awake mind would expect. In my dreams I never feel the desperation that seems to be almost a necessity in cases of not being ready to go on, to step, to speak. It's as though a part of my sleeping mind knows it's only a dream and that in the end I will wake up and all will be alright. Perhaps my sleeping brain remembers that I passed that exam 18 years ago. And even rudimentary dream analysis would tell me that the dream is a way of processing a fear or anxiety about being unprepared for something important.

What is fascinating too, is the degree to which the unconscious mind believes it can overcome the hardship or the challenge in each case. In the dream I am committed to getting to that exam, to working, rushing, pushing on, striving to overcome the obstacles, never so deeply perturbed or worried that I give up.  The dream usually ends before the exam is sat or the results handed out, but in those moments when one can cram, choose whether to attend the exam, consult the campus map or not (so as to find the right room), pack the pens, one does all of those things. Is this a reflection of a persevering personality or something else? Is it true of all of us - that we dream of possibilities, even if our conscious self would drop out of the race, give up, cry off? The dreaming self is so optimistic and confident, unsullied by all those gremlins and limiting self-beliefs that the awake self has to deal with.

Or is it that a some level we know it isn' real - that it is only a dream and no matter what happens we cannot fail?

Imagine living that way? Imagine believing you could never fail?

There are fleeting glimpses of this fearlessness in conscious life. Last night was the Off-Spring's school Dinner Dance and Auction fundraising event. Together with a wonderful committee of mothers, I and my co-chair arranged the event. Safe in the knowledge born from experience that the night could not be an unmitigated disaster but rather, some version of a success, I was quietly confident that it would all go well. I hoped we could match previous years' funds raised. If we could just create a nice atmosphere and a convivial evening of socialising and merriment, then we would have something to be proud of.

Well we did all of that. And we raised a lot of money - almost three times more than I hoped we might raise (pitching expectations low being a great source of gleeful surprise and smiling in so many things one does). The school now has an even lovelier fund on which to draw for various initiatives for the children as well as much needed building restoration work. We were blessed to have received 30 donated items that were both sought after and valuable. Strong interest, good ticket sales, delicious food, generous and supportive parents and an inspiring and dedicated staff and headteacher contributed to the rest. It was a great event. Every person who contributed to it in any way should feel proud to have been part of it's success.

Running a PTA is voluntary work, charitable giving, community work, if you like. Many of us do it or something like it at some point in our lives. But why? Some say that acts of giving make us happy. Some say that we do such things for recognition, or out of guilt or a sense of obligation. For some it is a way of giving back. For others it is to use skills that we might otherwise not have a chance to use during years of parenting or retirement or when we are not engaged in paid work. It may be to please someone, to impress or to persuade, to gain leverage or to buy good will, to learn something, or to teach something.

Whatever the reason, and there are a probably several in combination on any given day, we do it. Perhaps the why is not so important, in the final analysis, but it weighs on my mind, for there is the question as to whether to stay on for another year as Chair person. In order to decide, understanding my rationale or purpose is important - at least to me.

Part of that means one has to work out why failure on the part of some to acknowledge a success holds a sting. One has to know one's limits, one's priorities, one's values. One has to be candid and authentic about how best one can play a role and the potential conflicts that the roles one plays can create in one'e wider life and circle. One has to understand that whether one is motivated intrinsically or extrinsically, or perhaps both, one would not do it if one thought in terms of merely success and failure.

Which leads one to value perhaps the best part of any challenge; the overcoming of an obstacele and the learning that goes hand in hand - particularly about oneself, but also about others. And the knowledge that there really is no such thing as failure, just opportunities to learn, to grow, to give (and to take) and above all, to wear a pretty dress now and then!

Ordinary People

I promised that my next post would cover the Royal Wedding. Rather than disappoint you, I will deliver on my promise.

Here in London the magic was palpable that day. For the first time in several days the air was clear and cool. There was a cloudy sky, the first in weeks that morning, and the high pollen count had abated somewhat. Consequently for the thousands who descended on central London to catch a glimpse of the wedding party the atmosphere was very British - very Wimbledon - very amenable.

For me, a hayfever sufferer, the day could not have been more pleasant. Watching the wedding from home and then the gym, enjoying the company of my neighbours at the Royal Wedding garden party, feeling united with my English brethren in a proud and historic celebration of love, community, majesty and family.

But in hindsight I think the truly amazing thing about the event - and indeed - perhaps the reason for my malaise over the next three days - was the almost story book quality of perfection around the occasion (not unlike my own wedding day...). Everything was just lovely.

For me, the fact that someone really quite ordinary snared the future king of England is though, one of the most profound aspects of this happy tale. And by "ordinary" I do not mean "common" as the British press and establishment love to call her. Nor do I mean to be disparaging - for ordinary is truly what most of us are.

No - the really wonderful thing is that unlike so many elements of monarchy, this wedding seemed charmingly democratic and accessible. Kate, by all accounts, is a sensible and poised woman. Unlike some pundits and posters who have comments to make about make-up and social climbing, her weight and her hair, I really can find nothing to criticise her for. Isn't she the sort of girl one would have been friends with? The sort of girl one would like one's daughter to be? A nice, ordinary, straight forward, committed, dedicated, sweet person?

Ok, so those qualities may not be entirely "ordinary", after all, but I can't help wishing and hoping that they were or could be.

But the magic lies in the fact that this young couple are so discreet and polite and measured. Unlike the B and C grade celebrities (and A as well, let's be honest) that festoon the headlines most weeks, there is no controversy, no tawdry gossip, no drugs or indiscretions.

While they may be royalty the very fact that she shops on the high streets and does her own make-up and that he plays a little bit of football in the public park on the eve of his wedding, makes this couple, this very famous  duo, breathtakingly regular and indeed - ordinary. She has worn the same thing more than once for the cameras!

This is not to say that their lives are ordinary, by any means. Nor is it to suggest that any ordinary Joe or Jane could or would swap places with them and assume their roles with even an iota of the dignity and aplomb with which they seem to carry off every public appearance.

All I mean is that it is refreshing and a little bit magical to witness a commitment and love outside one's circle of ordinary people that is just so nice and normal (despite the guest list and the budget for the wedding, the helicopter pickup the next day and the titles...).

The other thing that is so lovely and fresh, in this age where everyone has a website, a blog, a point of view, and in which so many mediocre and extraordinarily damaged and strange people harbour a yearning for fame and fortune, notoriety or celebrity, is that this couple to date has really said very little.

So yes, less is more. Silence is golden.

Easter's majesty

In case you were curious as to the sort of company you keep, my blog has 17 official followers. An average number of 15 "friends" on facebook read the facebook links to my blog each time I post one. My blog visitor counter stats say that between 35 and 45 people visit my blog most weeks - an average of 5-7 each day. That would lead me to think that around 30 people (in the world) read each of my posts. These people may differ, from post to post, of course.

Meanwhile about 78 people/organisations follow me on Twitter. I cannot seem to break through the 80 people milestone and stay there. I pass it every few days, only to find that a day later 2 or 3 followers have de-followed me. I wonder if this is a reflection on the quality of my tweets, my politics as reflected thereby or my failing to follow them back.

It's a fickle old world.

And if those amazing stats were not enough, did you know that an estimated1 billion people around the world will watch the coverage of the Royal Wedding next Friday (superbly timed as a morning event to allow for all the Anglophiles in the far flung reaches of the Commonwealth to tune in).

Of course, if I start tweeting about the Royal Wedding things may begin to look up for me...

.....

Instead, given today is Good Friday, I will post a few thoughts about this day.

Today is my favourite day of the year. Good Friday is a holiday here in England - from work anyway - if not shopping. The great thing about Good Friday - in most places I should think, is that the weather is good. None of the forced jollity under grey skies that is the English Christmas. Nor the stinking hot humidity of summer Christmases. April (or March) is generally mild and pleasant. But that is not why I love this holiday.

No the clincher is the reason for which we have this nice quiet long weekend - the weekend that never ends (especially when followed by the once in a generation treat of a Royal Wedding so soon after). Aside from the fact that I enjoy a holiday bereft of commercial pressure, I revel in the reminder of my humanity, the reminder that this weekend we remember that we are united in the pain and suffering of all people across the world and through the ages. Like Jesus, dying on the cross to complete his life on earth as a man, we all suffer. Today we remember the indignity, the shame, the humiliation, the self-sacrifice and the isolation that Jesus was subjected to, as a man. Most of us will face less than this, hopefully, in our lives. And yet, the fortitude and love with which Jesus faced this event, his passion and death, gives us all pause for thought - whether we believe in Him or not.

So I love this day. It is quiet, sombre, imbued with meaning. It helps me to be grateful for my good fortune. It helps me to pause and give thanks, to reflect on the suffering and hardship in the world around me. To contemplate those who suffer. To contemplate my own challenges and hardships with renewed courage and perspective.

And to look forward to a brighter day too and the triumph it will bring over evil, over pain and affliction.

.....

That was Easter Sunday by the way - not the Royal Wedding day...

However, on a brighter note, the Royal Wedding is certainly exciting us all here in London. Union Jacks adorn the pubs walls and windows of many proprietors. The news reports tragic events abroad, smog levels that are dangerously high in the city, and great April weather that is breaking all records. Best of all is the wedding news though.

I think my next post will analyse the event, if not from a pole position on the Mall or Whitehall (where I once worked) then from a community of pleasant Londoners sharing a Kensington garden square and throwing their own Royal Wedding Garden party next Friday.

Call me an opportunist if you like. I bet my blog's popularity surges!

Holiday entertainment? It's child's play.

Now that the holidays are upon us it is with joy and excitement that I read all the postings for parents about how to entertain the kids on vacation (since a book, a bike or the odd colouring session will not be enough).

This reminded me of a chapter in Spring to Mind in which I mused over the diversity and extent of kid-oriented activities and classes on offer these days. Rather than recast those thoughts here, I thought I would just extract them for you – whet your appetite as it were (mindful that sooner or later the whole book will be republished here for the 17 of you who bother to read this...).

“...I guess the current generation of under 10s is more driven and scheduled than we ever were. I remember pestering Mrs Off-Spring until I was blue in the face to be allowed to do ballet. Every time she said “next year”, knowing I would outgrow the interest. No doubt also knowing it would not be one of my gifts.  All those fat little girls in their tutus and slippers feeling so princessy and demure...

And I wound up with three sons...

Speaking of children’s activities, I had occasion to wonder again whether I am raising backward neophytes, heralding form the 1970s rather than the 2000’s. I overheard some mothers at the gym last week discussing their children’s schedules.  I mean, who under 25, who is not at least a management consultant, even has a schedule.  These children have judo and swimming, French and art, ballet and chess, Spanish and music and cycling proficiency, drama and gymnastics. One child of our acquaintance has such a full week on school days that he has to do his Italian, pilates, rugby, mandarin and science on the weekend, between mass, swimming, lunch and 23.5 minutes free play. Something will have to give when the homework really starts, not to mention the boy scouts, altar serving and volunteerism.

I was really fascinated by the cycle proficiency class.  I think I borrowed a bike from a kid up the road and rode around the cul-de-sac over two Sundays and became proficient that way in those heady, sepia days in the seventies. I was 8 and clearly under achieving since I was not at Cantonese or Pottery at the time, but actually had Sundays available...

Having said all of that, I am not scoffing at the desire to enrich and broaden and expose one’s offspring. Goodness, no. There are clearly a few holes in the market though, which is where I need to step in. Just imagine if we could enhance skills in negotiation, face-to-face communications, street smarts, rapping, tidying up, pocket money budgeting and for the younger ones, bottom wiping.  There is no doubt demand for maximising the effectiveness of the tantrum  - a session on style, another on timing and another where we really hone in on more sophisticated manipulation.

Maybe I could offer sibling packages and cover all the age groups as well as the nitty gritty of sibling rivalry. I could really make a difference in the holiday camp market place.

And for the mums? And dads! Well I need to be pretty strategic about catching the interest in that discerning sector, but couples classes could work, or coffee mornings with a twist, where we workshop some issues of concern. Maybe a series of classes, free latte included in the fees. Topics could include:

How to say “no” and mean it.

I know my child is average and that’s ok.

How to dress you child for their body shape.

Restaurant voices.

Boundaries are cool.

Play doesn’t have to be hard work.

I could have fridge magnets made with little thoughts printed on them, so that whenever the parents glance at the activities schedule for the term or the good behaviour star chart upon which they would magnetically reside, they would be reminded of something useful, such as “if it walks and talks like a child, it must be a child”.

My one-time nanny, Helga, was a big fan of the star chart. She was struggling to get the boys to do as she wanted so we decided the chart might incentivise better behaviour.  It really needed to go in a spreadsheet – there was so much detail. There were at least 10 categories for each child, based on their age (then just 2, 4 and 6) and abilities. And it was a bugger to administer. For example, walking home from nursery, rather than riding on the buggy board, warranted a star. Eating with implements was rewarded with a star. And "please" and "thank you"? Yes - a star. Half the hoped for actions were already mastered and long since acquired habits; the other half were not desirable from any one’s point of view; for example, chopping with Mummy’s scissors.

One day Helga took me aside to say that she was very concerned about Off-Spring Number 1’s maths skills?  He was apparently unable – at age 5 - to do subtraction sums such as 15 takeaway 23 or 9 minus 17.  I had to explain that the negative integers were possibly a little beyond the year ones just yet, maybe in second term.  Fearful that we in the UK were backward and all of the ex-soviet Eastern European children are racing ahead (explains things like arms wars, if they can master the old trigonometry and trajectories early), I did explain that there are numbers less than zero and that they are useful for measuring things like temperatures.  Also handy if you go under the sea and you want to work out your depth in relation to the surface of the water.  He was able to then extrapolate the concept and suggest – “or like if someone is really naughty, they get a negative star on the chart”. 

Maybe Helga is on to something after all.

The learning for me, is that the real world context really aids with knowledge retention and learning.  To that end, I was telling the Off-Spring about a time when I was about 9 and a strip of purple flowered wall paper was ripped off the toilet wall and Mrs Off-Spring had to employ strong arm tactics to break us down and force a confession out of us; culminating in my brother confessing in order to get our TV privileges restored.  

This was by way of explaining the meaning of criminal investigation to the Off-Spring.

Anyway, the star chart was a little unwieldy. There were so many stars on that chart by the end of the first day that I started to fear that local stationery shops would be unable to keep up with demand. While well-intended, the chart was not capable of operating as an incentivisation programme at all.  Maybe in communist regimes star charts operated differently. Certainly, the purpose behind Helga’s was never clear.  It did excite them as they begged for more and more multicoloured stars though, every evening.  I still find one or two in the washing machine every now and then. And I think Helga probably enjoyed ruling all the lines and writing in all the boxes and sitting as judge and jury all afternoon. Star charts are generally baffling I find.  The year one class chart a few years ago may have confused me.  Miss Finucane explained it well though – Off-Spring Number 1 had very few stars because he was a quiet student who was no trouble and got on with his work beautifully.  It seems then that I have had it all wrong. Maybe I need one myself.”

.....

Now it was a couple of years ago, that I wrote that..

Things have changed in many ways since. For a start all of the Off-Spring developed cycle proficiency without lessons - in the old fashioned way - spurred on by each other and the neighbourhood children. I run classes for adults and children now. Communication and negotiation being just two skills we work on (listening and resilience and tolerance prove to be more urgent needs, actually). We have also abandoned star charts some time in the past two years in favour of a points system that allows for demerits as well as merits and which allows for the accumulation of points for behaviour going above and beyond the expected. It works very well. I am currently top of the leader board....

Should anyone like further particulars do drop me a line. 

Best of all, developing, designing and implementing points systems and having the kids describe and present arguments in favour of their preferred one, is a great source of holiday amusement and entertainment. So too is Scrabble, my own favourite, "Writeathon" (to raise money for your school. favourite charity or cause or mother), or just taking it easy for the first time since New Year (the joys of which we will explore in the next post).