Scooterlassie

My poor poor blog

2010-07-05T17:53:00.004+02:00

...totally abandoned. The lure of the World Cup has proved too much - everything is on pause. I'll be back, eventually - in the meantime do tell me that this guy pictured up here - by the name of Xabi Alonso (Spain)- is the cutest, sexiest guy in the whole of the Football World. SIMPER! SQUEAL!

Engerland! Engerland!

2010-06-08T17:19:00.002+02:00

Weeell, "breaking hearts"... I wouldn't really think so. Um, most do look a tad like china mugs to me (ever looked closely at Mr Rooney?) and the ones who could pass for handsome-ish are rouges in the bedroom dept (think John Terry). Look at Spain, Paraguay, Italy, France or Ivory Coast - now that's talking.

But. I have to honour the family tradition of supporting the boys in white. Not only that but I have to pass on this tradtion to Pip. This is her first World Cup so we're starting our morning school run with a 'God Save the Queen'. Will there ever be another 1966? Ever?

Poet's Corner

2010-06-06T14:18:00.004+02:00

From The Sunday Times of London 30.05.10
by Diasy Goodwin:

"Futurologists have been predicting the death of the office for years, but while you may work harder at home and wear whatever you like, it's not as much fun as flirting with the man from sales and marketing... Office friendships (and flirtations) may not survive the journey home, but they are a good enough reason to get out of bed."

And here's a poem to go with this philosophy:

Office Friendships by Gavin Ewart

Eve is madly in love with Hugh
And Hugh is keen on Jim
Charles is in love with very few
And few are in love with him.

Myra sits typing notes of love
With romantic pianist's fingers
Dick turns his eyes to the heavens above
Where Fran's divine perfume lingers

Nicky is rolling eyes and tits
And flaunting her wiggly walk.
Everybody is thrilled to bits
By Clive's suggestive talk.

Sex suppressed will go berserk,
But it keeps us all alive.
It's a wonderful change from wives and work
And it ends at half past five.

The Lost Hours of Pac-Man

2010-06-06T13:54:00.004+02:00

from the Sunday Times of London 30.05.10

"An interactive Pac-Man logo on the Google homepage cost businesses about £80m in lost production, it has been claimed. Tony Wright, a time management expert, estimated that 5m hours were lost as workers played a mini Pac-Man game - based on the Google logo - to celebrate the little yellow character's 30th birthday."

Thirty years already! Are we ancient or what?!

Under the weather today ...

2010-05-30T18:43:00.009+02:00

... and the weather is certainly not helping. So these pics are just a miserable attempt to cheer meself up.

Stop working for Christ's sake

2010-05-28T12:02:00.004+02:00

I'm sick of people obsessed with work. Work. Work. Work.
And then work some more. Yes fine we all have to earn our daily dosh. But isn't there supposed to be a balance? Aren't we supposed to have a life?

I blame it all fair and square on that American idiot - Benjamin Franklin. He's the one who uttered the stupidest line: Time is money. For fuck's sake it's not. Time is a gift. Time is all we have.

And instead on our deathbed we'll just look back and say: Ah yes I worked hard all my life; I spent the majority of my waking hours with people I really don't care much about and was too tired to enjoy the company of my loved ones. What kind of example are we giving our kids?

Please, I beg of you all. Stop. Today leave work early, call a friend and go for a stroll on the Sliema promenade. Then stop for a pint and go back home. With your mind, body and soul happily refreshed.

Here endeth my sermon on the mount.

How to flirt

2010-05-20T14:32:00.003+02:00

The other night I was having a good old chat with a good old mate over a pint down at the pub.

I was lost in the discussion which mainly touched upon: how I blubbered endlessly at Gordon Brown’s emotional quitting speech; how we thought it grand of him to shoulder all the responsibility for the loss of his party; how Sky News’ Adam Boulton is a bully and how the guy looks like he’s always sleeping on the wrong side of the bed; and how to pronounce ‘Eyjafjallajokull’, the name of the Icelandic volcano, seeing as my friend, stuck on the island, had been swearing at it quite a wee bit. All in all, brilliant topics for these jolly interesting times we’re living in.

Half way through the evening of non-stop chattering, my friend exclaimed: “Christ! Kris, you know you haven’t even looked up one time to scan the room and see if there are any guys to, you know, flirt a bit.”

My flabbergasted response to that was “Uh?!”

Well, reader, I got a ticking off because apparently as a singleton, I’m missing out on the fun if I don’t flirt. Of course, I told said friend to bugger off. It’s not that I am a hard-punch-on-the-shoulder, high-fiving ladette, it’s just that frankly, I like to concentrate on immediate company and not spend the evening looking over my shoulders for potential suitors.

But that was till the friend set a dare: “I dare you to come here one evening and see if you get at least three guys chatting to you and buying you a drink.” At stake was lunch at my favourite and most unaffordable restaurant on the island. Did you hear my sharp intake of breath? Yes, and dammit I shook hands on it.

“But, but,” I stammered, “I can’t flirt”. So I got a quick tutorial on the flirting basics: apparently after the looking/scanning/identifying thing I’d have to keep eye contact and toss my glossy mane about a la shampoo ads, while blinking and winking and smiling seductively at the same time. I tried it. I came across as someone with multiple facial tics.

“Erm, perhaps it’s best if you buy GQ.” You see, he is happily married to my closest girlfriend but admitted that before that he used to read Cosmo just to try and figure out the ‘Venus’ species. But he was confident about the dare, because his theory was that most guys feel threatened by my assertive behaviour.

Again I said: “Uh?!” As you can see, it was the end of conversation as we know it, I was stuck on a loop of grunts. He said I look like one who knows what she wants (Ha! Joke of the year), will take no non-sense and is independent (Err, hello? Should back to the bashful-maiden days?).
Honestly, I muttered, the next day as I reached out for the lad and chic mags on the shelves. Hilarious, I noted, as I jotted down the top ten most priceless flirt actions:
1. Rub your shoulder like you have a painful crick, then gently sigh.

2. Walk past him, then slowly swivel your head halfway toward him, rest your chin on your shoulder and smile.

3. Pull your hair loose from a ponytail holder or clip so he can watch your touchable tresses fall around your face.

4. Grin and hold his gaze for three seconds, then bite the corner of your lip and look down.

5. As a fella brushes by you, stop him in his tracks by saying, "Wow, you smell great."

6. Toy and twirl with your hair so he’ll think you’re nervous and therefore potentially interested.

7. At a grocery store, ask him to help you reach the orange juice on the high shelf.

8. At a restaurant, ask if you can borrow his salt shaker - even if you have to cross the room to get it.

9. Flash both eyebrows: a quick up, down, not a one-sided Roger Moore leer.

10. Find your inner magnificence, imagine you’re a goddess and behave like one.
Gulp. Is this for real? I’m resigned to scoring a minus D in flirting techniques. I think I’d much rather bump into Adam Boulton - on live telly - and blow him a raspberry.
So, if you’re ever out and see a girl who’s lost in deep conversation, (you’ll know me, I’ll be sketching on napkins to illustrate a point) and who at first glance might scare you away, please don’t be. Come over. Get us a drink. I believe in equality, I’ll get you another one back. I just need three of you anyway. I have to win that dare.

The volcano is ‘ay-yah-fyah-plah-yer-kuh-duhl’, by the way. Go on, say it.

Published in The Sunday Times of Malta May 16, 2010

We need a Maltese Nick Clegg

2010-05-08T22:42:00.005+02:00

I'm obsessing over the UK election outcome. It's envy. I keep hoping one day Malta will get to the same political phase: where none of the two main parties win the elections. I am hoping against hoping that by the time my daughter gets her vote (et's see that's in 15 years time, the scenario will be a similar one. I really believe that it's a healthy democratic scene - one which would so augur well for the future generations: power would be back to the people and not to all mighty majority governments. As parents I think we should all be praying for a Maltese Nick Clegg.

What Polly Toynbee wrote in The Guardian, so applies to the Maltese electoral system:

"Radical reform to an electoral system that has fallen apart is at last on offer. The deadly duopoly between two moribund parties has broken.

All depends on the nerve of Nick Clegg. Has he the spine and the iron resolve to stick to the one condition that offers a chance of a progressive future? As he cuts through the thickets of negotiations, his sword has been bent by seats lost, not won. He is weakened by that grand surge that fell back to earth like a dead flare. Why did that happen? Because he was crushed yet again by the boa constrictor first-past-the-post electoral system. Yet again his party won a quarter of the votes but only a 10th of the seats. People minded to vote Lib Dem understood the wicked ways of first past the post, and voted tactically – avoiding a wasted vote where Lib Dems could never win. What else could they do?

This is his once-in-a-generation chance to bring in the better politics that is the only point of his party."

Hear, hear.

Having Sex vs. Making Love

2010-05-08T22:15:00.004+02:00

When I write for the papers, every now and then I love to pepper the piece with the odd foul word. You know, like 'bloody' or 'crap' or 'bullshit'. I've never gone 'fuck' but I did write 'wtf' and acronym now acceptable even in The Times of London. Of course none of these ever see the light of day in print. Fair enough, I say. print rules are print rules.

But it makes me look forward to read the article just to see how creative the subs were. For example: Last week footballers 'who should get coaching lessons in how to keep it in their pants' was turned into footballers 'who should get coaching lessons in how to behave'. Tee hee hee. They're sweet, really.

What I absolutely don't get is why everytime I write 'having sex' it gets turned to 'making love'. Christ Almighty! It's not the same fucking thing. At. All.

Has there been a survey among the readers of the Maltese papers which claims that they only 'make love' and would be horrendously shocked with the word 'having' and the word 'sex' pogguti next to each other?

The mind boggles. Is there perhaps a conservative way of saying 'having sex' without changing its erm, blushing, um, meaning?

You can now leave a comment!

2010-05-08T22:07:00.002+02:00

For all those who've been wanting to leave a comment here but were 'not allowed' - apologies. I have finally (thanks to Mummy Dearest! in fact here's a bit of ad for her: bymummydearest.blogspot.com) grasped the root of the problem ... I had gone for the wrong answer in the dauting multiple-choice options of the blog settings.

Anyways, it's sorted now, so please, please, please, please, do leave a comment!

Find me a butler!

2010-05-08T22:02:00.003+02:00

That’s it. Surely life is too short for me to spend more than half an hour trying to wrestle open a flippin’ jam jar. So I’m putting this jar down and I’m sitting down to write a vacancy advert saying, ‘Wanted: a Butler’.

I won’t be the first in (err, fictional) history to want one. I mean, take Lara Croft. She had her very own old Winston. And didn’t Mrs Addams have Lurch?

Of course I’ll live if I don’t find such an old school butler like that sweet dearie of Stevens in Remains of the Day. Nor need he be a true and proper Jeeves. I’d be happy if he were a cross between Alfred Pennyworth, Batman’s butler, and Geoffrey Butler, the ever-efficient-if-slightly-grumpy butler in Fresh Prince of Bel-air. Yes. Almost like Zazu, the Lion King’s major domo.

And what would his tasks be? Open jars of course. And all the other millions of task in our daily life designed primarily by men for men. Try opening (and closing) a three-wheel stroller for example. Or try changing your flat tyre. I swear I don’t need to work on my biceps thanks to the above couple of chores.

Why isn’t everything lightweight in this day and age? Isn’t that what Michael J. Fox predicted in Back to the Future? I suspect it’s a conspiracy: male designers want to ensure that the stronger sex is always needed around.

Now, I am not whiner. And as much as I am an ardent believer of the women sisterhood, I scowl at girls who won’t as much as go up a stepping stool because they fear they’ll get ladders in their tights.

But I really think it’s time to call it quits. Some things I just can’t do. Case in point: A couple of days ago I was trying to unscrew a light wall, which went something like this: “Grunt, uff, arrgh”, till I hung my head in shame and phoned a cousin. He came over and before I had even explained my tale of woe, the whole thing was done, packed and ready.

Yes I am independent but I still haven’t gotten feminist enough – or perhaps the world not lightweight enough - to claim that women can live without men.

So I want a butler who will carry Pip on his shoulders, when my neck muscles start resembling Hulk’s and also when she’s eating biscuits so the crumbs will fall on his hat (yes he would wear one) and not get enmeshed in my hair turning it into one big dreadlock.

The butler will be there to hand me things in the morning rush before the school run: ‘And here are your sunglasses/shoes/mascara Ma’am’; ‘Here’s some loose change for the parker’; ‘And this is your car key.’ Wait. What am I saying? He could actually drive us around and give me knees a bit of a rest.

Yes and when we’re stuck in traffic he will turn away from the steering wheel and Ambrogio style, will offer me a Ferrero Rocher. Actually, traffic jams will become a thing of the past. The butler will be so mAZe savvy that he’ll zoom home through little side streets and won’t ever end up in dead-end alley.

He’ll lug the gas cylinder. He’ll have a stock of batteries, power leads and all things required to make things function when they suddenly stop. He’ll fix a dvd player when a peanut butter cracker is mysteriously jammed into it.

He’ll do those little things, like booking dentist appointments, and other phone calls where a stern manly voice will get you a better result than an apologetic girly one would. In fact, ideally he’ll have a slight British toff accent - we all know that in Malta it goes a long way in customer service, seeing as we’re still colonialists deep down.

He’ll put up the shelves, fix cupboards that don’t quite close and fill up holes in plasterwork. But he will also be there, discreetly, in the background, when I’m having a heart-to-heart with a girlfriend, so if need be, he can give us a male insight of the situation.

Which brings me to the age factor. Hmm. How old should my butler be? Not to young not to old. I’m thinking, Ewan McGregor would be the perfect candidate. Or maybe that would be a tad too handsome? I wouldn’t want him to run off with any of my girlfriends, because that would mean I have to start recruiting again. You see, no boyfriend/husband/partner would ever do any of the above willingly and ungrudgingly.

There. All that’s needed now is for the application letters to start rolling in.

Published in the Sunday Times of Malta

He is human after all ...

2010-04-29T03:15:00.004+02:00

The Guardian's Election Q&A
Gordon Brown:

What is your favourite word? "Dad."
When were you happiest? At the birth of each of my children.
Property aside, what's the most expensive thing you've bought? The eternity ring I bought Sarah to make up for not proposing with an engagement ring. To be fair to myself, it's because I was trying to keep it a secret and I didn't want a newspaper seeing me walk into a jewellers.
What is your most treasured possession? Some amazing pictures of my mum and dad, which are very special to me, and a book of my father's sermons that means a lot.
What is your guiltiest pleasure? Online shopping, now that we've convinced various sites that orders from Mr or Mrs Brown at Downing Street aren't a hoax.
To whom would you most like to say sorry, and why? Sarah – for the noise, the mess, the long hours, the lack of privacy.
What single thing would improve the quality of your life? Both the boys sleeping through the night – or at the very least if one wasn't a night owl and the other an early riser.

He is human after all. Still, give me Nick Clegg any day.

Thank God

2010-04-29T02:35:00.002+02:00

Bath-time observation:

"Mummy? Do you know, God? His name is like Thankgod.
Is that what his mummy called him?
Why did God's mummy call him God?"

We're all growin' old

2010-04-28T18:26:00.006+02:00

This week, for something of work, I met up with some lads, my age, whom I hadn't seen in a long time - lads which ten years ago where considered 'hot stuff' in the local 'celebrities' circuit: Gianni Zammit and Xandru Grech.

And my God it hit me - we're growing old. True, Gianni is still the hilarious clown who wants to moon his patata at every opportunity; and Xandru is still a cutie-pie flirt with the sexy stubble; and I, err, still look somehow vaguely the same - whatever that maybe. But in fact when I later looked at the footage we had filmed, in my heart of hearts I said: Jesus! We do look grey and wrinkled and weathered.

It's funny how somehow we never see the passing of times till we see its reflection in others.

It’s dangerous to leave them crying ... even science finally agrees!

2010-04-25T16:31:00.002+02:00

By Rosie Millard
Published in the Sunday Times of London April 25, 2010

Penelope Leach is understandably rather pleased with herself. Not just because her new book has generated a flurry of column inches but because, at last, the babycare expert has science on her side. Meaning that she can, and has, delivered a bloody nose to the likes of Gina Ford, whose Contented Little Baby Book, published in 1999, has encouraged mothers to impose a strict routine on even tiny babies, and advocates “controlled crying” as a way of getting newborns to sleep through the night.

Having always said that the Ford way was a nonsense and that if a baby cried, you should pick it up, Leach now has research from boffins to prove that controlled crying is positively dangerous.

“It is fact,” says Leach crisply, hazel eyes twinkling, auburn bob tossing. If you ignore an infant and leave it to cry itself to sleep night after night, the stress involved affects the development of its immature brain.

Her new book, The Essential First Year: What Babies Need Parents to Know, cites research that shows that when a baby “experiences acute and continuing distress”, its adrenal glands are stimulated into releasing cortisol, the “stress hormone”, which floods its body and brain.

“Brains that are growing and developing are very sensitive to an overload of cortisol,” Leach says. And, apparently, high levels of cortisol that build up over time can be toxic to a young baby’s rapidly developing brain.

“One is not saying every time a baby cries it will produce too much cortisol which will damage its brain,” says Leach. “But if there is a policy which allows babies to cry for quite a long time, and over quite a lot of nights . . .”

What? “The growing brain will stop developing expectations. And you will alter the brain stress thresholds,” she says. “So that a child to whom this happens a lot, may become a child who is liable to depression and anxiety. We can now scan living brains and cortisol lends itself very well to research because you can access it easily via saliva swabs.”

Leach says the research for her book ran to more than 150 scientific sources and quotes study after study, including one in which three sets of parents looked after babies in different ways.

The first group fed their children on demand, carried them around with them, slept with them, and responded instantly to their crying. The second group was attentive but strove for the beginnings of some separation. And the third operated on the Fordesque “controlled crying” basis, only picking children up to be fed when the routine allowed.

“And at three months the distribution of crying was as you would predict,” says Leach. “The babies who were picked up most, cried less.” She smiles warmly, but there is no hiding the steely triumph behind the Jaeger summerwear.

Leach, 72, whose husband Gerald died five years ago, lives in an immaculate house in Sussex that revels in a peerless view over the South Downs. She has a beauty, and an energy, that belies her age, and one suspects that a future based around being a grandmother (she has six grandchildren) is not probably an acceptable one. Rather like Joan Bakewell, you can’t even begin to imagine her being called Granny, let alone a diminutive like Penny, or, heaven forfend, Nan. “Why would I even think about retiring?” she asks. “I mean, who would I announce my retirement to?”

Indeed, she has brought something of a fighting spirit into a publishing zone usually associated with celebrity-oriented waffle. Her book tells it like it is. “Babies ruin sex ... at least for a while. They ruin finances, lifestyles and careers — especially women’s careers,” she writes. “In fact, becoming parents clearly puts people at a disadvantage compared with peers who have taken a no-children route.”

It’s certainly a sea change from all the Me and My Bump stuff currently clogging up the Waterstone’s parenting section. “Well, an awful lot of people don’t stop to think about what having a baby means,” she says. “And that they will have to look after it 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for the next 10 years.”

Whereas the Ford camp suggests how babies can be moulded into adult life, Leach advocates that adults must invent a new, parent-baby life for themselves. And that, she warns, is tough.

“An awful lot of partnerships break down in the first five years of a first baby. Parents have got to realise that life will change irrevocably. And that, say, going to Paris with their partner and a one-year-old is not going to be like going to Paris was with their partner last year.

“The post-industrial western world is just out of step,” she sighs. “Many parts of the world, including the whole of China, incidentally, consider it cruel to leave a baby on its own. They wouldn’t dream of leaving it crying alone in its cot.”

A doctor of psychology, she gave up her work as an academic when her son Matthew had meningitis, aged two. “I went back to work and it was one of the most misjudged things I have ever done. Of course I’ve done lots of jobs since, but always from home.”

She considers that as a childhood behavioural expert who is also a parent, she has a foot rather usefully in either camp. (Whereas Gina “let ’em cry” Ford is famously childless). “I actually do know what it’s like to be woken up 14 times a night,” says Leach. “And I have a very strong sense that the way to deal with that is not for the parent to impose adult desires on the baby, but to try and integrate baby and adult.”

She is as trenchant about breastfeeding as she is about picking up your baby when it is yelling. “I decided it was time to talk turkey about this. Bottle-feeding is not as good for your baby and it’s not as good for you as breastfeeding is. Fact.

“Everyone says, ‘Breastfeeding is better for your baby but if you can’t, don’t worry, he’ll be fine on a bottle’. Well, he will, but you need to know what you are giving up! The risk of leukaemia is much less. And breastfed children are more intelligent.”

She never bottle-fed her own two children, and when her daughter Melissa had her first of four children, she encouraged her never to have a bottle in the house. Did she? “No.”

Would she ever tap someone bottle-feeding a baby on the shoulder and advise them that in giving their child formula milk, they are ruining their intellectual growth? “No. I wouldn’t tell anyone off in public about anything but smacking. That is the only thing I think is wrong on every possible level.”

Did she ever smack her two? Leach, who has been campaigning for the illegality of smacking since 1988, looks at me with kindly dismay. “No. It never occurred to me. It never occurred to me to smack my husband, either.”

I’ll bet she feels like giving Gina Ford a wallop sometimes, though.

The Essential First Year:What Babies Need Parents To Know by Penelope Leach is published by DK (dk.com) at £13.99

Bin the Parenting Manuals

2010-04-20T08:05:00.001+02:00

I am a Generation X parent. Which means that I can’t help it – for me for every task in life there is a book which tells you how to go about it.

When pregnant, my brow was knit in a permanent frown of worry, constantly contemplating how to be a good parent. I remember having a coffee with my father asking him what he had read before I was born, to, you know prepare himself for parenthood. He looked at me incredulously with a where-did-I-fail-with-this-one kind of look. What? What’s wrong, I said. He sighed: “Binti. There’s nothing to read. You just get on with it.” He was right of course. What once we did intuitively has become an expert’s arena.

But that still left me clueless. So I turned to my mother, who well aware of my fear, nay, terror of childbirth, pointed me in the direction of a humorous book: ‘Stand and Deliver’. “The trick is to avoid books with the real pictures,” she said. And I cheerfully read my way through a book which declared that ‘at the very least it will provide a useful door wedge to keep unwanted visitors out of the delivery suite”.

That was that. But then, after I actually managed to stand and deliver, in came a flood of parenting manuals, telling me what to expect when the baby is 2 months 3 days 5 seconds old; how wrong it is if baby is not sleeping fourteen hours; how to be strict and regimental about feeding. They all came with pastel covers and a happy cooing toddler on the front. Most implied the hard work that it all entails: a child presents an endless series of problems, which must be corrected or regulated. Each time I opened the books and consulted the oft conflicting advice, the feeling of inadequacy as a mother increased in direct proportion.

Till one day, I came across a little book written a couple of decades ago, entitled simply: ‘How not to be a perfect mother’. Based on Libby Purves' own experience of domestic havoc with two babies, this was witty and wise and oh! so full of down-to-earth tips and hilarious anecdotes. What a refreshing peace of mind, it gave me.

Then came Andrew Clover’s ‘Dad Rules’. Here’s what Clover has to say about parenting books:

“There’s one – two hundred pages long! – called Everything you need to know (in the first months of a child’s life). I’m thinking: Is there that much I should have known? I could boil my experience down to three sentences of advice:
1. Don’t be reading two-hundered-page books. Try to sleep.
2. Don’t let them suck too long or mum’s nips will really hurt
3. Get out of the way when they puke”

Ah. What’s not to love about a book like this? It’s not a manual. It’s for mums. It’s for dads. It’s for parents who ask questions like: “Will I see my friends again? Will I have sex again?” And by the way it’s also for non-parents. I gave it to my sister who said after: “I’m in love. He’s the guy of my dreams.”
And yet brilliant as he is, Clover doesn’t stand an inch next to the author of the best-est parenting manual ever written. ‘The Idle Parent’ by Tom Hodgkinson. I think no new parent should leave Mater Dei without it. Health Secretary Cassar should really make a plea for an extended budget for it. It is helpful, to be sure, but more than that, it’s consoling and encouraging. Hodgkinson argues that kids and adults alike need to play more and work less: “We put far too much effort into parenting. If we leave our kids alone, they will become more self-reliant and we’ll be able to lie in bed for longer.” It is endearing, cheerful, comic but oh-so-sane and liberating.

Here are bits from his manifesto for the Idle Parent:
- We reject the rampant consumerism that invades children from the moment they are born
- We lie in bed for as long as possible
- Time is more important than money
- Happy mess is better than miserable tidiness
- We play in the fields and forests
- More play, less work

These three books actually confirm what I think we all know deep down: Parenting doesn’t require hard work per se. It’s a change in lifestyle, sure, but that doesn’t mean that it still can’t be a laid back one. At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter what you feed kids or how early you start teaching them Mandarin Chinese. What matters is that you, as the parent are actually happy yourself - because kids copy their parents’ outlook on life.

So, go on now: those those parenting manuals!

The only three books parents need to read:

1. The Idle Parent by Tom Hodginkson (ISBN 9780241143735)
The king.

2. Dad Rules by Andrew Clover (ISBN 9781905490301)
It’s all about how kids teach you to be happy

3. How not to be the Perfect Mother by Libby Purves (ISBN 9780007163847)
Hilarious and down-to-earth tips

If you insist on reading more, go for these:

4. Affluenza by Oliver James (ISBN 978-0091900113)
Not really a parenting manual but a good study of today’s consumerist society in which we’re raising kids

5. Summerhill School – A new view of Childhood by A.S. Neill (ISBN 9780312141370)
How free kids perform better at school and in life

6. Impro for Storytellers by Keith Johnstone (ISBN 0571190995)
Handy tips for storytelling

7. The Spoilt Generation by Aric Seigman (ISBN 9870749941482)
How children are not spoilt because parents are failing to offer a supporting structure

8. Under Pressure by Carl Honore (ISBN 9780752879765)
From the guy who founded the ‘Slow food movement’ this is all about ‘slow parenting’

9. What really works for kids by Susan Clark (ISBN 0593049195)
The ultimate alternative health guide

10. Stand and Deliver by Emma Mahony (ISBN 0007153996)
Don’t give birth without this book.

The Play Mobil

2010-04-19T11:51:00.004+02:00

Here's the last Papal update (promise). I was working from dawn till night yesterday so this morning Pip woke me up early this morning to 'have a chat'. "Mummy!! I saw the Bope! But he didn't look at me! Because he had to choose a side. And he chose the other side. Nanna said it doesn't matter. I waved the flag. And mummy! He didn't have a car! He was sitting in a Play Mobil!"

Oohh... I just want to kiss those chubby cheeks when she comes up with things like these!

Is the Pope a singer?

2010-04-14T21:58:00.004+02:00

"Mummy! Look the Bope!"
"Yes, you're right darlin' there he is again."
"Mum, is the Bope a singer?"
"Um. Err. No, not really."
"Why Mum? Ronan is a singer, Josephcal Leja [she thinks he's called Josephcal] is a singer. Why is not the Bope a singer? Why is he in the poster so?"
"Um. Well. Maybe he sings a bit in the church, erm, I dunno. But that's not his proper job."
"What's the Bope's job, ma? Tell us, tell us, mummy!"
"Um.... "

Help! How do you go about explaining the Pope's job describtion to a three year old? Suggestions welcome.

Bloody guilt

2010-04-14T08:20:00.004+02:00

The other day, we were in the car (as usual). I was driving, and Pip was leafing over a sticker book. Suddenly she gave one of those long, giant-mosquito sounding whines, followed by shrieks: she was having problems peeling the stickers off. As I still have to master the art of steering, changing gears and peeling stickers, I explained she'd have to wait till we reached our destination, then I'd help.

Of course that did nothing to stop the wails. By the time we reached St.Julians (from Paola), the shrieks had made my brain shrink to pea-size (does this ever happen to you? Or is it just me?). I got cross: "Pip, I'm gonna take that bloody sticker book and throw it out of the bloody window!"

There ensued an ever so slight pause. Quickly followed by more wails: "No, mama, no! We're not supposed to dirty the streets, waaah waahh".

Gulp. Guilt.

That evening, during a delightful supper, Pip announced she wanted to change 'her bloody plate' to her green one 'the one with the bloody lion print on it'.

Bigger Gulp. Some more Guilt.

Hello, my name is Cleavage

2010-04-12T21:45:00.001+02:00

What would you do if your child came back from school one day and told you that she had a boy in her class called ‘Cleavage’?

Surely, you would think, there’s a mistake somewhere? But no, there isn’t. Cross my heart: it’s a real name given to a real boy in Malta. His mother, bless her, is delirious with pride that her son has a unique name: “I had to register it, as there’s no one called like that,” she told a friend of mine.

Here’s another real one: a father accompanying his toddler to the clinic told a doctor friend that his daughter’s name was ‘Dyslexia’ but, sorry, he wasn’t sure how to spell it.

Another mother gave her daughter a practically unpronounceable nine-letter name. She explained her word-game strategy: “Every month during my pregnancy I chose a letter and then at the end of the nine months, I jumbled them up and came up with this name.”

Another parent was equally haughty about the ‘avant garde’ names she gave her sons. “This one is Skylander,” she said as she pushed them to the front, “And this one is Cleverson. Eh? What do you think?”

What do you think indeed? We’ve all heard of Jurrasic Pace, of Britney Spears Borg, or Celine Dion Darmanin, or Mysharona Brincat. Why, I had even heard of Jack Daniels Falzon. But Dyslexia? Cleavage?

If I’m honest, this is stuff of severe attack of giggles. I mean, Cleverson? Are we resorting to Red Indian nomenclature now? What ever next, Dances-with-the-wolves Vella?

But then, when I wondered if these were just one-offs and was firmly told that these are, in certain areas, quite the norm, it felt like a slap in the face. You would think you know the society you live in. Here I am, week in week out, writing about society issues, when really, half the population is simply concerned about having babies just so they can give them more original names then their neighbours’.

I wouldn’t like to think that parents inflict such torturous names on their children on purpose. So the problem is, of course, sheer, utter ignorance. And I can say this, safe in the knowledge that no one will be hurt reading this article, because parents of these kids cannot know how to read in English. I hope, against hope that at least they do read in Maltese – but I have my doubts.

Because it’s not just the names. It’s in other things too. Here’s another incident, which I know sounds like a ‘have you heard the one about?’: A lady patient was given suppositories to treat a particular ailment. She went back a couple of days later, complaining that she can’t swallow them. The doctor politely explained that she has to insert them in her patata (bum). She returned some days later baffled because try as she might, she just couldn’t get the suppositories to melt in mashed potatoes. My friend, stumped, had no choice but to resort to the vernacular of ‘arse’ in Maltese. “Oh. Why didn’t you say so, immediately?!” went the woman.

Again I can vouch that this is a real story. And so is the one about the woman who was diagnosed with a cardiac murmur, and told the nurse that they had found a ‘mermaid’ in her heart. Or the fact that hundreds of women - teenagers and twenty-somethings - do not know how to say period. They say ‘imperial’(!).

And this is very worrisome. If you don’t know the proper name of something that you get every month of your life, it means that you just repeat the sounds you hear parrot-like; and you don’t bother to improve when corrected; and you are illiterate.

It is simply unacceptable for the new generations to be unable to read basic English. There is simply no excuse for it. My own grandmother, now in her 80s never learnt English at school. She just painstakingly took up reading and kept at it and least week even won the bookworm of the year at our local library.

I’m not claiming to be a clever clogs but, if people do not read how can they actually think? I suddenly have this nagging fear that our society is made up, mostly, of people who do not think. Yet they have a vote. And they get to decide on very important things such as referenda issues. I shudder to think how they can decide on concepts that can’t even be grasped.

Perhaps it’s time we stopped laughing at ignorance and started taking serious action, by for example, insisting on stricter rules at the Department of Public Registry: ‘Cleavage’ is one name that should have been categorically rejected.

Published in The Sunday Times of Malta, April 11, 2010.

Billboard Update

2010-04-10T18:55:00.004+02:00

As you know my daughter is quite the connoisseur when it comes to street billboards. Today she gave me the latest update: "Mama, Ronan's gone, there's the Bope instead now. That's because the Bope is coming now. Ma, quick wave to Bope Bellydick".

This poor Pope. He sure is having a hard time from everyone, even from mere toddlers.

Clash of the Titans

2010-04-06T15:41:00.002+02:00

Honestly, I have no clue what this movie is about. It's supposed to be a classic. But, erm, the important point I really want to make here is: Is there a damsel in distress in this film? If so, I wouldn't mind being her, to be saved by HIM (swoon etc etc).

PS. I am fully aware this is a Parenting Blog. And that this post has nothing to do with parenting, kids, poo, toilets, nappies or anything even remotely related. But man, we do need breaks sometimes don't we?

My daughter, the high flyer

2010-04-06T15:13:00.008+02:00

My blogger friend Mummy Dearest recently wrote about her kids' play: mainly they play the giving birth scene over and over again (complete with midwife, grunts and the works).

Well my daughter's favourite kind of play is the aeroplane scene. I am the captain, the airhostess, the purser, the friends / cousins/ greeting her at the airport, the mother of her friends, her imaginary friend Mollina, occassional pets on board etc etc.

What about her? Well she is a frequent-flyer, highly demanding, business class passanger.

Mum, will you marry Ronan?

2010-04-06T14:33:00.002+02:00

For some reason, if you’re thirty-something and single, all your friends are interested in your love life – which is fine, because sometimes it makes for hilarious story telling over a glass of wine. The problem is that mostly everyone is very keen to be a matchmaker.

“I know who would be good for you,” is a phrase I hear an awful lot from my friends. Even though I have, over and over again, said that I am not, (with the ‘read my lips’ kinda of speech), repeat, not, in search for an all consuming love, they still excitedly list the apparently alluring attributes of ‘the’ guy on their mind.

This often turns to a full-blown marketing campaign, ending with them showing me his photos on Facebook (where he would be posing next to the car – yeah perfect), and with plans for ‘organising’ a dinner.

At which point, I stamp my feet and draw the line: I am called a spoil sport; and they mutter away about them not going to give up. This matchmaking business I find very, for want of a better word, um, wacky.

There you are at a table, like a proper twit, conjuring small talk with someone who has just launched into a detailed analysis of his high society connections/ his last piss-up/ the nice pictures he bought from Tal-Lira. What do you do? Look bemused? Be rude and not suppress the yawn? Or retire to the refuge of the loo?

I don’t mean this in a snobbish manner. It doesn’t make a difference to me whether one is a candyfloss maker or a university degree churner - the important thing is that there is kind of depth to a person. “Oh, don’t worry about passion or intense connection,” say the matchmakers. Pah. I look around me and I see how many acquaintances have settled for pinhead boyfriends or girlfriends just so that they’re not single.

And I say, Jesus, what’s wrong with being on your own? I am amazed how most people are unable to be in their own company for a stretch of time. Some people leave one relationship and plunge straight into a next one. Why, some actually have their foot in another even from before.

What about taking some time to discover who you are and what your baggage is? You know, just so you recognise what works and what can be left behind? And enjoying doing things without having to check or reach a compromise with someone, like, say, leaving a party if you’re damn’ bored, or deciding on a whim to pack off on a holiday. Or simply appreciating good times with your close knit network of friends and family?

Granted, perhaps I’m the other extreme. It’s not that I have an ingrained fear of having my heart broken. Having had, some years ago, my heart ripped out and stomped upon to a bloody pulp, it is now the ultimate plastered-up-but-sounder-and-wiser pumping machine.

But as a single mother you just stop banking on the idea that a toddler-friendly George Clooney would materialise. And even if that were not so, I actually find the thought of jumping from one long-term, space-sharing relationship to another, almost claustrophobic. Perhaps that is why the thought of anything beyond a coffee date makes me want to do a runner.

It doesn’t help that we live in a society which does not embrace singledom (think Bridget Jones and all the romcom movies). It’s pure social conditioning. I blame it fair and square on the fairytales. Go on, think of one fairytale plot line where the pretty-but-placid princess is not saved by a prince?

Ban the fairytales I say. From now on, in our household, all fairytale endings are scrapped and re-written. Princesses are feisty and princes don’t ask for hands in marriage but for friendship. Fine, occasionally they might ask the princess if she’d care to join them on a gap year travelling around the world.

It’s only lately that I realised how early we start being brainwashed by the stereotypical status of coupledom. My daughter, aged three, is the keenest observer of street billboards. On school-run mornings she’s the first to announce any new billboard poster dotting the road and demands a brief on the product being marketed.

(Thanks to that car insurance ad, she still to this day chides, like a mini nagging conscience: “Mum don’t drive fast, or you’ll crash into the poster.”)

So, the other day, as we drove past yet another Ronan Keating billboard (we’ve been waving at him about six times a day for the past months), she called out from her car seat: “Mum, will you marry Ronan one day?”

Aggrh. Now even my very own daughter has turned matchmaker.

Copyright: Sunday Times of Malta

Poet's Corner

2010-03-22T15:34:00.003+01:00

Mrs Icarus by Carol Ann Duffy

I'm not the first or the last
to stand on a hillock,
watching the man she married
prove to the world
he's a total, utter, absolute Grade A pillock

PS. Just to put you in the picture, Icarus is the guy who flew too close to the sun wearing wings made of feathers held together by wax.

tee hee hee

Sunday Morning is Beatles' time

2010-03-14T09:20:00.002+01:00

Wooohoo!!

I'm back ...

2010-03-13T22:12:00.004+01:00

While I've been dilly dreaming it seems that my favourite bloggers have been busy bees... gotta catch up on:

bymummydearest.blogspot.com - for a spot of 'ah so it's not only me!'
taniakindersley.blogspot.com - for a touch of girly talk
idler.co.uk - for a reminder that we live to take it easy
patrickjsammut.blogspot.com - for an insight of a poet at work
jacquesrenezammit.com - for fun politics

Ronan. Swoon.

2010-03-13T22:05:00.004+01:00

I have become a fan of Ronan Keating. You will excuse me for bragging about it, but I interviewed the guy - you know face to fricking-gorgeous face and what can I say? He is the ideal man. I don't really give a toss about his songs - although admittedly he has a brilliant voice. And to be honest it's not his handsomeness or his (swoon) irish accent. But it's his commitment and love to his family. A rare thing nowadays ... anyways more about him in The Sunday Times of Malta of March 21... stay tuned.

It's still a man's world

2010-03-13T22:01:00.003+01:00

My daughter is - as much as is possible - never exposed to gender stereotyping and yet the other day, because a boy at school got a doll with him, she came out the school gate all indignant: “Mama, that’s not right. Boys should play with cars.” I spluttered. Where on earth was she getting these outdated notions from? I explained that boys will one day grow up to be daddies so why can’t they play being a pretend parent? I tell you, she didn’t seem too convinced.

Then my friend’s 4-year old daughter announced that only boys can become doctors; girls could only be nurses. Her mother and I nearly had a heart attack. The funny thing is that our daughters are absorbing these messages from somewhere, and it’s certainly not from home: it’s the ever present social conditioning. Dammit.

Ban Cinderella!

2010-02-22T21:17:00.002+01:00

It's the stupidest fairy tale of them all. And the Disney version is even worse than the real one. God help us... her step sisters bully her and we're led to believe that if you're bullied you'll be rewarded. Well, darlins, it really doesn't work that way in real life.

So I'm telling Pip my own version of Cinders, in which:
- she tells her sisters to 'eff off when they try to rip her dress to pieces
- she tells the Prince he's a wuss and she doesn't want to dance with him
- because he insists she grabs him from the waist and twirls him in the air (like that ice-skating couple from the telly)(she's strong our Cinders due to all the housework she does)
- when the shoe fits, she tells the prince she doesn't want to marry but gets him to sponsor her for a round the world trip

... etcd.

You got it all wrong mate!

2010-02-17T12:49:00.004+01:00

This is John-love-cheat-Terry with his wife Toni, who has been stripped off the England footie captaincy because of his, err, antics, off-pitch. Now I'm not interested into going into that bit of the story this not being a gossip blog etc.

But this photo shows John and his wife reunited on a beach in Dubai, with the tabloid captions, screaming 'All is forgiven'. But let this be a lesson to all of us that body langauge speaks copious volumes.

First of all ... can you see how his hand is dangling by his side. Why isn't he caressing her fingers? And what kind of kiss is that? A nibbler's kiss, that is, if I ever saw one. Pah. You gotta smooch her man, not nibble her upper lip! And look at his feet - all set and ready to scaper. Cleary his mind is anywhere but there. Where's the passion Johnny? Do you want to win her affection or the public's?

Love has no time for posers, me says.

'My Shit Life So Far'

2010-02-16T21:55:00.005+01:00

Do you know Frankie Boyle? I don't. But that's because I probably live on the moon most of the time. Apparently he's one of the top Brit comedians. Anyways I know this because his book is always in the top-seller lists, and it's called 'My Shit Life So Far'. And when I saw the book's jacket it sort of hit me that it's a phrase which these past days I've been mumbling a lot to myself.

Now really I know I'm being foolish - I know I have a lot to be grateful for: but when is it that good old moans will be the 'in' thing again?

Pip is sick, I am sick, the leg of the bed broke (does anyone know of a good carpenter?), the bird's poo-moutain has reached record heights, I'm having terrible hair days, I need a facial, Pip has gotten into the habit of whining which just drives me round the bend (it's a phase I've been told), the horrible insomnia won't ever stop lurking... anyways you get the gist. Writing the stuff down makes it seem so frivolous, but really at the time when for example I would've caught myself in the mirror and saw the terrible state of my hair, it would've felt like the end of the world.

I guess it's just that sometimes you're simply tired ... and you don't want people to give you solutions. No! Rather you just want them to say: "There, there, of course you're tired! There, there!". I suppose I just want, for a few minutes, to be spoilt rotten by someone. Even the dog would do. (But doesn't: she always paws the door to the bathroom - peepee cue - whenever I'm trying to having a relaxing bath).

And here endeth my rant. I hope it made you feel better if you get these 'black cloud days' too. As I write this, Pip is soundly asleep beside me: she's giggling in her dreams ... ah! surely that must be the happiest sound in the whole world!

So I guess this makes it My Not So Shit Life After All.

Pip tells her teacher that I say 'Shit'

2010-02-09T11:30:00.002+01:00

Pip's teacher told me this morning that my dear daughter told them all (kids and teachers) that "My mama says 'shit' and sometimes she says 'shit man'. But that's a grown up's word and toddlers are not supposed to say 'shit'. Only grown-ups say 'shit'."

Aggrrrh. I can have no secrets!

If heaven isn't like this ... I'll die ...

2010-02-05T18:50:00.002+01:00

"I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library." -
Jorge Luis Borges

Lyrics of the Month

2010-02-04T09:50:00.004+01:00

Aren't these the most beautiful lyrics you've ever come across:

"Going where the hills are green
And the cars are few and far
Days are full of splendor
At night you can see the stars
Life's been moving oh-so-fast
I think we should take it slow
Rest our heads upon the grass
And listen to it grow"

- Splendor in the Grass, Pink Martini

Listen to it here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QZyp2j3Jabg

Shock, horror!!

2010-02-02T09:31:00.003+01:00

I just dropped Pippa to school. For the 'Show and Tell' she took a tiny plastic sabre tooth which her friend Andrew had given to her. The minute she got through the door, Pippa announced her choice of toy for the day. Her teacher said: "Ah from Ice Age!" Pippa almost sniggered: "No! Not from Ice Age!! From McDonald's!"

Aaggghhrrrrr!!!! Multiple stab pierce in my heart!!! I swear I never told her the name of that junk food place. Whenever we go there (rarely - but when we're with friends and they go we join as otherwise it becomes forbidden fruit) I sort of vaguely refer to it as the place where they do fries and yogurt (ha ha). How could she be so, what's the word? globalised? already at 3? Wail! Sob!

The Lord and the Mobile

2010-01-31T18:56:00.005+01:00

Pip: Ma, let's play. You'll be the lord, ok?
Me: Lord? What lord (mentally flicking through all stories to see which one features some lord. We've haven't yet done Shreck and his Lord Farquat (or whatever his Fuck-what ryhming name is).
Pip: The Lord. And I'll be Mrs Noah. And you have to tell me to put the animals in the ark because you'll be sending the floods soon, ok? Tell me.
Me: (booming voice) Um, So, Mrs Noah. Are all the animals in place?
Pip: Oh not yet. My husband Noah says that he felt rain on his shoulder. Wait a bit Lord ok. The skunk and the panda are still out.
Lord: (taken aback by bossy tone) Err.. of course, of course. Um, just tell me when you're ready.
Pip: Yes I'll send you a message. I have the mobile in my hand so it won't get wet.
Me: Bless you, Mrs Noah

Moral: Today's kids are impressively biblically and technologically versant.

On Falling in Love

2010-01-27T13:46:00.002+01:00

“Falling in love is one illogical adventure, the one thing of which we are tempted to think as supernatural in our trite and reasonable world.”
- Robert Louis Stevenson ('On Falling in Love')

Beats me why I'm reproducing this stuff,considering that, you know, the the love bit in my life is practically non-existent. But there you go ... I'm sure it's the effect of the cold spell - it's been known to make me go cuckoo.

Brad and Angie ... no more on scooter together!

2010-01-24T14:54:00.004+01:00

So it's official now, according to The Sunday Times of London:

Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie have signed papers paving the way for a legal separation with joint custody of their six children, it was reported last night.

The couple, known as Brangelina, have been together since shooting the thriller Mr and Mrs Smith five years ago. They are said to have agreed that the children will live with Jolie.

Pitt, 46, will have full access to their three biological children, Shiloh and the twins Knox and Vivienne, as well as three adopted children, Maddox, from Cambodia, Zahara, from Ethiopia, and Pax, from Vietnam. All have the surname Jolie-Pitt.

The clinch is, that what goes around, does come around:

Pitt and Jennifer Aniston, 40, his former wife, were seen backstage together at the Haiti telethon in Los Angeles on Friday while Jolie was in New York promoting her next film, Salt.

Why do schools start so early?

2010-01-22T19:45:00.002+01:00

Yeah. Why? Pippa goes to playschool for now. It starts at 9am but as it's a Montessori school they're a bit flexi and as long as every one's in by 9.45 - when they have a 'Circle Singing Time' they're happy. And thank God for that - I think all schools offer flexi timing. I, for one, can't seem to manage the mornings. I hate rushing and Pip simply has no concept of time so I feel like I'm the Sargent Major constantly barking: "EAT UP!", "TIME TO PEE NOW", "NO TRAMPOLINE" etc etc.
By the time we get to school I'm hoarse and frankly, already done for the morning.

I can't imagine what it will be like next year when she'll start proper school, with fixed time. Aaggrrh. Can some schools take into consideration that some parents are, simply, not morning people? Why aren't there schools in the afternoon?

Am I the only one to suffer this syndrome?

A poem

2010-01-18T22:18:00.001+01:00

Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having.

— Ezra Pound, "An immortality"

Our Man in Avatar

2010-01-18T13:59:00.003+01:00

He's the Jake Sully guy from Avatar.
He's an Aussie.
Please bear with me if I am slightly distracted, I am trying to figure out whether I have an Aussie relatives, and planning an urgent trip to kangaroo land, and trying to plot schemes how I could get to bump into this guy...sigh!

Sam ... my kinda man

2010-01-18T13:54:00.003+01:00

All together now.... Phoawaaaarr!!!!
I would galdly become an Avatar for this fella here!
Now, where do men like these go hiding??

One for the parents...

2010-01-16T16:51:00.000+01:00

... on this cold, wintry Maltese day... sip whisky!

On Running Late ...

2010-01-14T21:37:00.002+01:00

Before we go out, Pippa always asks: "Mam, are we running late?" It's standard in our household that we are always late and in a rush. How I envy people who actually manage to time themselves beautifully. Instead I always reach my desitation with hair all over the place, shirt untucked etc etc.

Am dozing while writing this ... am even running late for bedtime. Bonne nuit mesdames, messieurs!

Why we push our children too hard?

2010-01-10T22:44:00.002+01:00

"There was I, bursting with pride because Jessie was practically reading Harry Potter at the age of 4, being told that there was a problem because she couldn’t stand on one leg and maintain balance for any length of time with her eyes closed."

Please read this article by Penny Marshall in today's Sunday Times of London. Here's the link: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/education/article6975610.ece

What I am reading

2010-01-08T09:16:00.004+01:00

Through the eye of the needle
by John-Paul Flintoff

Journalist with the Sunday Times of London who sews his own clothes, darns his wife's bra and creates pretty dresses for his daughter from old babygrows. Incredibly brilliant: makes you want to become self-sufficient too.

Lucius Orbilius Pupillus

2010-01-07T14:02:00.002+01:00

I know, I know. What was his mother thinking with such a fancy name? But our Lucius made a name in history for being the first school teacher, 2000 years ago, who identified pushy parents as an occupational hazard in the classrooms of ancient Rome.

from 'Under Pressure' by Carl Honore

Baby Einstein DVDs are Con!

2010-01-06T11:15:00.003+01:00

Earlier this year, the mighty Walt Disney Company was forced to offer refunds to parents who bought the best-selling Baby Einstein DVDs.

The decision was a triumph for an organisation in the US called the Campaign for a Commercial Free Childhood (CCFC) which filed a complaint for false and deceptive advertising in 2006.

It maintained that, far from being the educational tool Disney claimed them to be, the Baby Einstein DVDs and their spin-offs were actually a hindrance to children’s development. The DVDs are popular in Ireland too.

The CCFC campaign was endorsed by researchers in 2007 at the University of Washington and Seattle Children’s Hospital Research Institute. They found that, for every hour a day that infants spent watching DVDs, they understood six to eight fewer words than infants who do not watch them.

The American Association of Paediatrics reiterated its view that children under the age of two should not, in any circumstances, watch television.

The Walt Disney Company was forced to drop the words “educational” from the DVDs along with egregious claims that they are a “rich and interactive learning experience that fosters the development of your toddler’s speech and language skills”.

Use the 'Off' Switch often!

2010-01-06T11:12:00.004+01:00

Taken from The Irish Times
By Ronan McGreevy

Prof Stuart Shanker of York University in Canada, who was in Dublin earlier this month said there was no substitute for interaction between parent and child.

His central message was that parents do not need to do anything out of the ordinary, or buy any kind of “educational” DVD to further their child’s development.
Shanker’s views will reassure parents who are bombarded with DVDs, CDs such as Baby Mozart and electronic toys all holding out a promise that they will improve their infant’s development.

“Neuroscience proves that playing, touching, paying attention or talking at a level that comforts the baby, for example, are the building blocks for healthy infant brain development,” he explains.

“These brain-to-brain experiences are vital for sensory and motor development as well as helping the child to self-regulate later on so that he can control and understand temper, emotions, stress or attention span.”

He emphasised the importance of interaction between primary caregiver, either a parent or a guardian, and the child especially in the first year. The baby learns through the caregiver’s expressions, tone of voice, gestures and facial expressions. Babies look to their caregivers to understand new situations. These vital brain stimulations cannot be obtained from watching television or a DVD.

Swine Flu Jabs

2010-01-04T19:24:00.003+01:00

In Germany, the swine flu jabs made available to the public have mercury in them but the jabs to be given to the members of the army do not.

Which type of vaccination is the public being given here in Malta? Could anyone please enlighten us about possible side effects of these hastily produced vaccines? Has in fact, enough time passed for these side effects to be accurately tested? (Just read/watch ‘The Constant Gardener’ for more thought provoking aspects on the pharmaceutical world).

The health authorities are doing their very best to get us to inject ourselves but not through a campaign which would include answers to the above queries, but through a bombardment of anxiety.

As parents it's important to have facts in hand - that's the only way we can decide responsibly on what to give or not our kids.

Movie of the week

2010-01-03T20:41:00.004+01:00

Julie and Julia
Starring Meryl Streep and Amy Adams

Ting! This movie struck a chord, somewhere in the deep subconscious. It's the true story of Julie Powell, who 8 years ago, was underemployed and a failed novelist, about to turn 30. She decides to cook her way through "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" by cooking guru Julia Childs and blog about it. It's the story of two women learning to cook and finding success. Lucky them, they both have dedicated loving husbands who support them etc. etc.

Best scene: As Julia starts blogging, she wonders whether there's acutally anybody out there reading what she writes. Hmmm... very, very, very familiar!

To smack or not to smack...

2010-01-03T20:26:00.006+01:00

From the Sunday Times of London today:

"Young children smacked by their parents may grow up to be happier and more successful than those who have never been hit, a study has found. According to the research, children smacked up to the age of six were likely as teenagers to perform better at school and were more likely to carry out volunteer work and to want to go to university than their peers who had never been physically disciplined."

Which of course brings me to the point: I did get the rare, occassional smacking on the thigh when I was a child ... and I am sane (wierdo but sane).

The January Decorations

2010-01-02T21:16:00.002+01:00

Don't you think that the house looks sort of barren and naked after you've taken down all the Christmas decorations? Pip was broken hearted today when we packed away the Christmas Tree - after three weeks its flickering lights still gave her huge delight. SO. As a counter-reaction, we've put up the 'January Decorations'.

There's multicoloured festoons in the living room and lots of balloons tied to any existing hooks around the house. There! It's not so depressing now... it'll help us go through bleak January with a bit of a colourful cheer

Best Parenting Books

2010-01-02T21:05:00.003+01:00

1. The Idle Parent by Tom Hodgkinson
2. Affluenza by Oliver James
3. Summerhill by A.S. Neill

Any other suggestions? Please, please do not even dare mention Gina Ford and her military style regimentation...

2009-12-29T08:50:00.004+01:00

Tania Kindersely's Living Room @Backwards in High Heels

Drool. Drool.
This is the living room of my dreams.
Ah. That sofa, those books, those paintings, those carpets, that dog!
Tooth fairy, if I give you my wisdom tooth would you put this under my pillow?

What to watch this week

2009-12-28T15:48:00.003+01:00

... It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s a far bleaker film than its saccharine title implies, and that is, of course, why it’s brilliant. For many, Christmas isn’t a time of overflowing goodwill and joy; it’s a time of pinched budgets and exhaustion, bordering on despair. James Stewart was always the perfect everyman, and his character George Bailey is just that: an ordinary man whose troubles drive him to the brink of suicide on Christmas Eve, until an angel steps in and shows him what the world would be like without him. The Family Man (starring Nicholas Cage and Tea Leoni), is a modern take on It's a Wonderful Life and is also very pleasant to watch with a glass of mulled wine and with the Christmas tree lights in the background.

Plans for Christmas Eve

2009-12-24T10:21:00.002+01:00

Watch Madagascar, prepare cookies and milk, head to bed.
Oh. Wait, head back down ... Santa doesn't do gift wrapping. Dammit.

Fire and Drama in our street!

2009-12-22T22:32:00.004+01:00

Oh, for all the excitement a fire engine brings with it! The house opposite ours caught fire this evening, and we had the entire fire brigade behind our doors, plus a hefty police escort and the whole of Paola gathered into an impro-mass meeting. Since no one was hurt, it was all immensely enjoyable.

Fine, our firemen are not NYD hunks (ours, according to my cousin are 'well-fed' and have the tyres to show for it), but still we got all the action and drama which goes with men in hoses and ladders.

Pippa of course, was delighted that Fireman Sam and his beloved fire engine dropped by ("Is he going to stablize Jupiter?", "Did Norman Price start the fire?" she asked)... till the novelty wore off. And of course it was right then that I got a call from the Editor for a report on the event:

Mobile: Ring Ring
Me: "Hey Chris. Details? KOKO. I HAVE KOKO. Um. Sorry about that. I HAVE TO TAKE MY TOP OFF NOW!"
The Ed: "Err... Better call later perhaps"

Sigh! Why? Why?!

PS. (For the actual report see http://www.timesofmalta.com.mt/articles/view/20091222/local/fire-in-paola-house)

Summerhill: The Future of Education?

2009-12-21T14:47:00.005+01:00

Summerhill School, Sussex, UK

Summerhill School is an independent British boarding school founded in 1921 by Alexander Neill with the belief that the school should be made to fit the child, rather than the other way around.

It is run as a democratic community; the running of the school is conducted in the school meetings, which anyone, staff or pupil, may attend, and at which everyone has an equal vote. These meetings serve as both a legislative and judicial body.

All lessons are optional, and pupils are free to choose what to do with their time. Neill founded Summerhill with the belief that "the function of a child is to live his own life — not the life that his anxious parents think he should live, not a life according to the purpose of an educator who thinks he knows best

The school is more concerned with the social development of children than their academic development. There is no concept of a "year" or "form" at Summerhill. Instead, children are placed according to their ability in a given subject. It is not uncommon for a single class to have pupils of widely varying ages, or for pupils as young as 13 or 14 to take GCSE examinations. This structure reflects a belief that children should progress at their own pace, rather than having to meet a set standard by a certain age.

"I would rather Summerhill produced a happy street sweeper than a neurotic prime minister." - A.S Neill

And God created man ...

2009-12-19T17:30:00.008+01:00

Isn't this a clever way of exposing kids to art? Imagine having Michaelangelo's God reaching out to your door bell/ communal lift button, and you stepping in the role of Perfect Adam every morning. How absolutely delightful!
(This, by the way, is not a photoshopped image, but it's for real somewhere, oh-the-irony, in a plastic surgeon's office in Japan - where else?!)

The greatest pleasures in life ...

2009-12-19T14:46:00.002+01:00

... according to Samuel Johnson, 18th century British writer

"Fucking and the second, drinking. And therefore I wonder why there are not more drunkards, for all could drink tho' all could not fuck."

Get 'em young

2009-12-18T12:53:00.004+01:00

Suri Cruise, 3, Hollywood

As can be seen here, little Miss Suri, daughter of Katie Holmes and Tom is applying a dab of lip gloss and wearing her trusted kitten heels. She is three years old. Now, her mummy is almost always seen in flats (otherwise she towers over midgety Tom) ... so what's this? transferance?

Music in da House

2009-12-16T00:22:00.004+01:00

Here are the current top favourite tracks in our household:

1. Best of Elvis (the King - and revered by all of us)
2. The Beatles (very conveniently Pip's teacher is called Michelle)
3. Best of Tracy Chapman (Christmas is always time for Tracy)
4. Animal Nursery Rhymes (not that bad, honest)
5. Sounds of the Rainforest (this one is Toby's favourite. At least we assume it is because he goes on a chirping roll whenever we put it on. Unless he's just trying to tell us to switch it off)

Pleasant things to do (for free)

2009-12-16T00:04:00.007+01:00

Look at maps.
So you can’t afford to go abroad. So what. Get out your old atlas or that old tatty world map you had at school. Sit down on the floor (to get you in an explorer's mood) and just look at it. Thanks to all the map-staring I do with Pippa, I am now finally Baltic States savvy: It's Estonia on top, then Latvia and then Lithuania. Before I just had this blur of one big space occupied by people with a terrible, terrible, godawful, sense of fashion.

Book of the Week: Adult Stuff

2009-12-15T21:15:00.007+01:00

BACKWARDS IN HIGH HEELS - The Impossible Art of Being Female, by Tania Kindersley and Sarah Vine (2009), both journos with The Times of London. It covers everything from sex to modern relativism, from feminism to face cream. One chapter, for example is titled: "Philosophy of life, self-esteem and the whole damn thing". Tee hee, yes, it reads just like a cosy chat with your closest girlfriend.

There's NO ROOM at the inn!

2009-12-14T22:23:00.006+01:00

For some reason this is my daughter's favourite part of the Baby Jesus story. Beats me why she's hooked on to this accomodation detail when there are angels, people being counted, soldiers rushing about, a baby being born, all sorts of animals, and luxury presents brought by kings. Prison Break pales next to it.
(Our Kings, by the way, hail from Luxembourg, Rome and Tuscany. The Roman one tells Baby Jesus: 'Che bello!', the Tuscan one: 'Che amore!' and the one from Luxembourg says: 'Vanshclift' (which means 'thank you' - totally out of order in the context - but it's the only Luxembourgish word I know).

Book of the Week: for the Wee Ones

2009-12-12T09:28:00.009+01:00

It's a hilarious Irish Cinderella Story (and not because I have a spof spot for the Irish). It's brilliant even for the boys - lots of Princes get to fight over 'Cinders'. Watch out for the step sisters' chav sense of fashion.

If you can't beat them, join them

2009-12-11T14:05:00.011+01:00

Proper movies with real people are a thing of another era for most parents. But if you can't beat them, join them I say, so I know they’re only drawings but here’s my list of favourite Princesses based on the ones I would most like to meet over a cup of tea. Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella and Snow White, simply DO NOT make the list. I’m pretty sure if I had tea with them I’d have to hold the tea cup with the little finger sticking out. And anyway what do you talk about with these three? The joys of beauty sleep? How to prepare a warm supper for seven? The benefits of a shoe sole?

The Top-Five Princesses

1. Elastigirl in ‘The Incredibles’ (I luurve those thigh-high boots!)
2. Princess Fiona in ‘Shrek’ (the fiestiest of 'em all)
3. Esmeralda in ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’ (surely, she's the sexiest?)
4. Belle in ‘Beauty and the Beast’
5. Ariel in ‘The Little Mermaid’

Coming up ... Top-Five Princes

Fecks and Bugs and all that Jazz

2009-12-11T01:03:00.004+01:00

Please tell me that:

- sometimes you do utter 'Feck!*$' in front of your kids (and then hear it echo back at you after less than five minutes)

- sometimes, when your kids bring bugs from the garden, you make up an excuse not to touch said bugs (and pretend you have to rush upstairs to err, hang the washing/clean the blinds/do a spot of abseiling from the balcony)

- sometimes, mid-being cross your voice gets so ridiculously highpitched that you burst out laughing (and there goes the authoritarian image you've been building up)

- sometimes, in hysterical frustration, you chew your inner cheeks and then (but really only sometimes) (whisper) even chew your knuckles

- sometimes you want to punch those smug mummies (and daddies) who always have everything under control and are constantly blabbing about their perfect life. Bleh, enough already!

In my next life ...

2009-12-10T22:50:00.001+01:00

... I want to be her. She is 'Scooter Girl': the Original. Don't you love that hat? And that red coat? And those shoes? But can such an outfit be worn in two and a half minutes flat? (while eating breakfast and brushing teeth and looking for Leo the Lion and the car keys?) Nah. Those tights, man, those tights...

An Idle Proposal

2009-12-10T22:09:00.000+01:00

Inspired by the author Tom Hodgkinson (would already've caught a plane to Devon and proposed on my knees ... if he wasn't already married) who advocates idle parenting, I spent the whole morning yesterday on the sofa - while Pip entertained herself (jumping on me, more jumping on me and yet some more jumping on me). Eventually she exhausted herself and I could read the papers. Hurrah it works! Bliss!

I had a dream ... which went Lunapop

2009-12-10T21:52:00.001+01:00

The Dream: Me on a pink Vespa Italiana, wearing shorts, scarf and windswept hair, whistling Luna Pop and scooting about the (Roman) streets. Then, me parking, taking off helmet with prolonged and pronounced flicker of my because-I'm-worth-it long straight hair (which would never know a bad hair day).

The Fact: When I tried um, scooting, I could barely see the road with the sweat beads traffic-jamming my eyes. And, had to stop very kind people to help me lift the thing off the ground each time me and the machine rolled off at a tangent. And my hair was (much) more Arsenic Lupin than Margot.

The Bubble: Burst. My dream could never come true.

The Crisis: Why? Why? Why? Was it me? Was it the scooter? Did we get together at the wrong time? Did we just need some space?

The Moral: C'est la vie.

The Dream: One day (some) dreams do come true, one hopes.

What's it?

2009-12-10T21:45:00.000+01:00

Hello. This will be a blog which applauds laid-back parenthood. Heq hem. See you in a bit. When I'm done with this very important lie-in.