I think we've all got our own views on school uniform. When I was at primary/junior school I didn't have to wear a uniform at all. As I was there during the 70s, unfortunately this meant purple trousers, pink tops, hand me downs from neighbours, tank tops and hand knitted jumpers and cardigans courtesy of my mum. If it hadn't been for the late years consisting of gypsy tops and skirts I'd have begged for a school uniform. Just so I didn't look like a complete twit who was always slightly out of step with what the other girls wore, and sometimes adrift by five years or more.
Which is a lot when you're only eight.
When I went to comprehensive school there was a compulsory school uniform which, during my first year, consisted of a dark brown skirt, gold blouse, dark brown v-necked jumper, brown and gold striped tie and a dark brown blazer.
I looked not unlike a Werthers Original.
I've had my colours analysed subsequently - I'm a Winter. Do you know what colours are good for a Winter? Red - crimson and scarlet. Purple. Dark green - emerald and jade. Do you know what colours are bad for a Winter? My entire school uniform.
Still I knew my son wouldn't have this problem when he went to senior school last year. Firstly he doesn't have my colouring, and secondly because his uniform was a very simple black, white and grey. How can anyone possibly go wrong with that I thought? And it seems as though I was partly right - he doesn't have any trouble at all. When I see his friends they all seem to look reasonably OK. Well as OK as boys look - a bit rumpled, with a bit of mud on them, slightly untucked and with the tie all askew or hanging out of their pockets. Fairly standard.
So what is it with girls and school uniforms? When I read in the paper this week about all the kerfuffle at a school in Bristol I was shocked. Apparently this school has found it necessary to ban a certain make of trousers as they're too revealing, too distracting and too figure-hugging. Also the school have found it appropriate to comment that they don't suit all body shapes.
Well no sh*t Sherlock.
I've had a look at these trousers, and I can sort of see what they mean. They're incredibly nice to look at and I can see how girls of a certain age will be all over them. They'll be able to look really fashionable, they'll feel cool and they won't feel like they're wearing a uniform at all which is I suppose the ultimate aim. But the school has decided that these trousers are banned and are giving the children spare trousers when they arrive in them.
Beg pardon?
In my day, if you rocked up to school in trainers instead of shoes, you were sent home and no messing. Nobody stood at the school doors with spare pairs of shoes to hand out. How on earth can they possibly manage to do this? Do they buy the trousers in 8 different sizes? 3 different lengths? 20 pairs in each of those categories? Because unless they do, I can't see how they're improving on what they had before and the whole issue starts to take on the air of the forgotten PE kit debacle when you have mismatched socks, shorts that don't fit you, and a dirty boy's top.
So I really can't get my head round this at all. I've always thought a school uniform would level the playing field, that you ruled out the mickey taking of blouses that looked like they were made out of sofa covers. Instead it just seems to create a whole new load of problems - or is that only for girls?
So where do you stand on school uniform? Prefer the standard issue, or long for the striped trousers and flowery top freedom?
Showing posts with label mum. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mum. Show all posts
Saturday, 6 November 2010
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Adoption - my story
You know I wouldn't normally write a post on a Wednesday, it doesn't fit in with my timetable. This could throw me out for a week, and I lay the blame firmly at Sally Whittle's door. I'm pootling round Twitter, innocent as you please, and I come across this post about adoption.
I was adopted in 1968, so slightly before the clearly youthful Sally, when I was about 8 weeks old. The first I knew about it was when my mum told me she's chosen me out of all the other babies and I was very special because of that because not many people could choose which baby they wanted. That was on my 5th birthday. Mine was an adoption through the local church society and because we lived in quite a small town, people tended to know about it. I remember quite vividly coming home from primary school in tears because one of the bigger girl's had told me my "old" mum was coming to get me back because my mum didn't want me any more.
Apart from that, I guess it wasn't so much of a big deal. I didn't spend a huge amount of time thinking about it but I always knew that my birth mum had written me a letter which my mum looked after for me. I didn't ask about it, or for it, until I was in my twenties. I had many fantasies of what my adoptive mum was like - I suspect lots of other adopted people do too. At first, I imagined she was a sort of princess who'd been forced to give up her baby and was desperately sad, living her royal life without me. Then I imagined she was a celebrity who hadn't been able to keep a much loved baby as she was too much in the public eye. Following that, I imagined she was some beautiful young artist type who hadn't been able to support me while she lived in a tiny little studio painting masterpieces and finally I guessed she was probably a young mum frightened out of her wits.
Not right with a single one of them.
I won't go into the details of just how far wrong I was as I believe it's important to preserve privacy for both of us. I left it until relatively recently to try and trace her, and with the help of an agency, found her in about 24 hours. We struck up a brief conversation over the phone, talked for a little time after that, but it quickly became clear I wasn't what she'd expected and she had no intention of trying to build a relationship with me. For Sally and myself, it was never about being chosen, it was about the not being chosen in the first place. And for me, it was about not being chosen twice. For a while that was hard to deal with.
But you know what? It's a little bit of a cliche, but you don't choose your family, you choose your friends. I have a partner and son who adore me, I have friends who love me, and acquaintances who like me because sometimes I make them laugh so much they cry. There are people here, on the internet, who read what I say because they like it. I'm a good person, and a happy person. Being adopted was neither the beginning or end of my story, it was a little tiny part of it that's had as much influence on me as the schools I attended, the people I've known and the work I've done.
We all have a story, but it's up to us to make the ending of it what we choose it to be.
I was adopted in 1968, so slightly before the clearly youthful Sally, when I was about 8 weeks old. The first I knew about it was when my mum told me she's chosen me out of all the other babies and I was very special because of that because not many people could choose which baby they wanted. That was on my 5th birthday. Mine was an adoption through the local church society and because we lived in quite a small town, people tended to know about it. I remember quite vividly coming home from primary school in tears because one of the bigger girl's had told me my "old" mum was coming to get me back because my mum didn't want me any more.
Apart from that, I guess it wasn't so much of a big deal. I didn't spend a huge amount of time thinking about it but I always knew that my birth mum had written me a letter which my mum looked after for me. I didn't ask about it, or for it, until I was in my twenties. I had many fantasies of what my adoptive mum was like - I suspect lots of other adopted people do too. At first, I imagined she was a sort of princess who'd been forced to give up her baby and was desperately sad, living her royal life without me. Then I imagined she was a celebrity who hadn't been able to keep a much loved baby as she was too much in the public eye. Following that, I imagined she was some beautiful young artist type who hadn't been able to support me while she lived in a tiny little studio painting masterpieces and finally I guessed she was probably a young mum frightened out of her wits.
Not right with a single one of them.
I won't go into the details of just how far wrong I was as I believe it's important to preserve privacy for both of us. I left it until relatively recently to try and trace her, and with the help of an agency, found her in about 24 hours. We struck up a brief conversation over the phone, talked for a little time after that, but it quickly became clear I wasn't what she'd expected and she had no intention of trying to build a relationship with me. For Sally and myself, it was never about being chosen, it was about the not being chosen in the first place. And for me, it was about not being chosen twice. For a while that was hard to deal with.
But you know what? It's a little bit of a cliche, but you don't choose your family, you choose your friends. I have a partner and son who adore me, I have friends who love me, and acquaintances who like me because sometimes I make them laugh so much they cry. There are people here, on the internet, who read what I say because they like it. I'm a good person, and a happy person. Being adopted was neither the beginning or end of my story, it was a little tiny part of it that's had as much influence on me as the schools I attended, the people I've known and the work I've done.
We all have a story, but it's up to us to make the ending of it what we choose it to be.
Saturday, 30 October 2010
The One Where I'm a Mum
I think we can all agree that being a parent can be very rewarding. I think we can also agree that parenting is sometimes very difficult. All with me so far? Fantastic. And I think that a lot of people will say that the first couple of years are incredibly taxing, if this is your first baby, you alternate between terrified and horrified and if it's your second or more, you probably alternate between being tired and more tired. I can't comment on that, the whole prospect was scary beyond belief.
Now I'm a mum of a 12 year old, so I can tell you how much easier it is now, how we've got through the worst, and it's all plain sailing from here on in.
I can tell you that, but I think mummy bloggers are supposed to do it with integrity, and there's as much integrity in those statements as there is in the X-Factor.
In the last week before half term, son had a bit of a disagreement with his best friend at senior school. They've been stuck together like glue for the entire first year, although they're both part of a larger group of friends. They socialised out of school, evenings and weekends, phoning each other about homework and suddenly it's all stopped. As the mum of a 12 year old boy, I can tell you it's pretty difficult to get to the bottom of a story, I'll be entirely honest, it's sometimes difficult to get a "hello" if they're playing on a computer game.
This time though son was unusally forthcoming, which gives a little pause for thought. You wonder to yourself if they're telling you a very elaborate story to cover something else up, like detentions, or drug smuggling charges. And of course I only have one half of the story, which I won't bore you with or risk libel charges, save to say it had something to do with a lunchtime football game and goalkeeper gloves.
And my first instinct was to think how could the other boy possibly fall out with my son? He's lovely! People would beg to be his friend! My second instinct was to charge round to the boy's house and demand to know what was going on, and not leave until they'd made friends again. Maybe talk to his parents, get them to make him make friends. Perhaps get something in writing.
Of course, I didn't do that. Not just because it was a fairly cold night and the dinner was in the oven.
Because you have to let them make their own way, more and more, every single day. You have to watch them grow up and grow away, hoping they'll always stay close. And that's the hardest thing of all.
I'd love to tell you the whole parenting malarkey gets easier, but there's only one part of it that does, especially if you've got a boy. They've always, always got their eyes glued to a PS3 game or a film or the laptop.
And it makes it easier to hide your heart when it breaks, just a little.
Now I'm a mum of a 12 year old, so I can tell you how much easier it is now, how we've got through the worst, and it's all plain sailing from here on in.
I can tell you that, but I think mummy bloggers are supposed to do it with integrity, and there's as much integrity in those statements as there is in the X-Factor.
In the last week before half term, son had a bit of a disagreement with his best friend at senior school. They've been stuck together like glue for the entire first year, although they're both part of a larger group of friends. They socialised out of school, evenings and weekends, phoning each other about homework and suddenly it's all stopped. As the mum of a 12 year old boy, I can tell you it's pretty difficult to get to the bottom of a story, I'll be entirely honest, it's sometimes difficult to get a "hello" if they're playing on a computer game.
This time though son was unusally forthcoming, which gives a little pause for thought. You wonder to yourself if they're telling you a very elaborate story to cover something else up, like detentions, or drug smuggling charges. And of course I only have one half of the story, which I won't bore you with or risk libel charges, save to say it had something to do with a lunchtime football game and goalkeeper gloves.
And my first instinct was to think how could the other boy possibly fall out with my son? He's lovely! People would beg to be his friend! My second instinct was to charge round to the boy's house and demand to know what was going on, and not leave until they'd made friends again. Maybe talk to his parents, get them to make him make friends. Perhaps get something in writing.
Of course, I didn't do that. Not just because it was a fairly cold night and the dinner was in the oven.
Because you have to let them make their own way, more and more, every single day. You have to watch them grow up and grow away, hoping they'll always stay close. And that's the hardest thing of all.
I'd love to tell you the whole parenting malarkey gets easier, but there's only one part of it that does, especially if you've got a boy. They've always, always got their eyes glued to a PS3 game or a film or the laptop.
And it makes it easier to hide your heart when it breaks, just a little.
Tuesday, 26 October 2010
Not Old Mother Hubbard
I’m not really like Old Mother Hubbard, I’m the very opposite. Unless of course you take it very literally as there are no bones in the cupboards at all. At least I don’t think there are; I don’t really look in the backs of the cupboards, but I think I can fairly confidently say that it’s unlikely there are any bones in the cupboard. There are however plenty of other things, like maple syrup, bicarbonate of soda, hundreds and thousands and white wine vinegar. Some of them have been there for a long time. I try not to think too much about the sell by dates until I start a new recipe and need a particular item which I know I have in my cupboard, only to find out it’s not only past it’s “sell by” date and it’s “use by” date, but it’s now well into the “this is destroying your cupboard” date and the “this will kill you and several thousand people in your immediate vicinity if you remove the lid” date.
Part of the problem is I’m a bit of a cookery book fanatic. I have a lot of them, and I mean a lot. If I go to a book fair, a food fair, or probably a fun fair, I’ll return with a cookery book that contains the one elusive recipe for the absolutely perfect dessert that none of my other 25 recipe books contained. I’ll then choose a recipe I like the look of, discover I’ve got less than one tenth of the ingredients already and make my way to the local supermarket. I’ll then be staggered every single time when I walk round only to discover they don’t stock sheep’s milk cheese, fresh rosemary or dried bat’s blood, which is the absolutely essential item for the recipe and which I end up substituting with chicken stock or vanilla essence depending on the sweet or savoury nature of the dish. Almost invariably. I then potter off back home, make the recipe, and don’t get me wrong, it’s usually lovely, but I end up with a cupboard full of boxes, tins and bottles where I’ve used either a pinch or 3 drops and I never, ever come across any recipe ever again which contains them.
This isn’t the only problem I face when I go food shopping. The other half and I had a swish round Waitrose the other day, and I was overtaken by the spirit of a woman who wants to buy a lot of things in pretty boxes, which smell nice, and either say “organic”, “original recipe” or have a quaint little brand name like Fiddledeedee Pies. (If ever someone calls their range of pies that, someone needs to tell me, because I’ll be owed a lot of money). We walked round, I tried to plan meals for the entire week ahead, and we thought we’d got it well sorted, but then arrived home with no eggs which were kind of one of the very important ingredients.
When you’re making an omelette.
The problem, we decided, was that we didn’t use shopping lists. I rarely use a shopping list unless I’m going on one of the aforementioned specific recipe trips, but I associate them with a generation different to my own. I remember all too well being sent on shopping errands by my mum who had a, well let’s say, unique style. Until I learned better, I never looked at the list until I got into the supermarket, then I’d stand there while I tried to decipher what on earth she meant. Trolls were one of my favourite items which appeared regularly, and it took a while to work out that it actually said t-rolls, shorthand for toilet rolls. My other abiding memory is fininger, but I’m sure even the best educated of us could forgive my mum the slightly eccentric spelling of vinegar.
Still, it all makes for a slightly more interesting shopping experience, but if anyone can source me a recipe which uses whole nutmegs, peanut butter, dried suet, pickled red cabbage and lemon curd, I’d be eternally grateful.
Saturday, 23 October 2010
The One Where I'm a Mum
Anyone who knows me will tell you I love my food. I don't have a particularly sweet tooth, but I very much enjoy eating. In fact there are few things I don't like to eat. My son has grown up with a similarly robust attitude to food, he'll volunteer to try all sorts of things and sometimes he'll like them and sometimes he won't. Unfortunately he's also cursed with a sweet tooth, but then I'd imagine there are very few 12 year olds who aren't.
When I saw a headline in the news (and I'll let you read the full article here if you haven't already) about a mother who had restricted her daughter's calorie intake to 700 a day I was flabbergasted. But also it made me stop and think about how much of our own issues with food is passed on to our children.
I'm almost constantly trying to lose weight. I know I weigh too much, not enormously so, but still overweight. Particularly if you examine the little person on the Wii Fit representing me who looks like a little orange bouncing across the screen with twig arms and legs. Depending on my own weight, and how I feel about it, the family meal changes accordingly. Unfortunately, I still equate good mothering as feeding everyone very well and seeing happy faces round the dining table, so on numerous occasions my internal calories counter goes out the window for the price of a home made lasagne or key lime pie.
And it makes me wonder what sort of influence I'm having on my son. He's a strapping lad as they say, almost as tall as me and what I would have referred to in the past as well built. He loves his food, but plays rugby and badminton at school and goes swimming twice a week. All of which is more than I do, as my exercise is currently limited to using my fingers on a keyboard. I'm not oblivious at all to the fact that we need to eat a healthy diet, I ensure that everyone eats fruit, cuts down on sweets and chocolate and vegetables aren't as scary as they might be. But should I be eating in a more healthy manner so that this rubs off on him? Should I be restricting his calorie intake without him knowing, to prevent weight problems in the future? Or do I risk having a child who's so consumed (if you'll pardon the pun) by the calorific value of cake that he grows up with an entirely unhealthy view of food?
How do you tip the scales on this one?
When I saw a headline in the news (and I'll let you read the full article here if you haven't already) about a mother who had restricted her daughter's calorie intake to 700 a day I was flabbergasted. But also it made me stop and think about how much of our own issues with food is passed on to our children.
I'm almost constantly trying to lose weight. I know I weigh too much, not enormously so, but still overweight. Particularly if you examine the little person on the Wii Fit representing me who looks like a little orange bouncing across the screen with twig arms and legs. Depending on my own weight, and how I feel about it, the family meal changes accordingly. Unfortunately, I still equate good mothering as feeding everyone very well and seeing happy faces round the dining table, so on numerous occasions my internal calories counter goes out the window for the price of a home made lasagne or key lime pie.
And it makes me wonder what sort of influence I'm having on my son. He's a strapping lad as they say, almost as tall as me and what I would have referred to in the past as well built. He loves his food, but plays rugby and badminton at school and goes swimming twice a week. All of which is more than I do, as my exercise is currently limited to using my fingers on a keyboard. I'm not oblivious at all to the fact that we need to eat a healthy diet, I ensure that everyone eats fruit, cuts down on sweets and chocolate and vegetables aren't as scary as they might be. But should I be eating in a more healthy manner so that this rubs off on him? Should I be restricting his calorie intake without him knowing, to prevent weight problems in the future? Or do I risk having a child who's so consumed (if you'll pardon the pun) by the calorific value of cake that he grows up with an entirely unhealthy view of food?
How do you tip the scales on this one?
Thursday, 21 October 2010
When Community Goes Bad
I've blogged for quite some time now, on and off, but as far as I'm concerned it's an enjoyable pursuit, I write because I like to do it and I also think that I'm quite good at it. I like being part of the mummy blogging community because I feel as though I can have a chat with people on issues which are relevant to us as a group and get to see other people's views on subjects which I find interesting. I enjoy being on Twitter because you can join in a random chat, sit back, relax and have a bit of a laugh. But this week has made me realise that it isn't always a great place to be.
I'm not really in what I'd describe as the inner circle of mummy bloggers. I'm not really in the outer circle either. In fact, if you were looking at the inner circle and the outer circle, and then zoomed out, I'd be trying to get a bus from the next town to the circles. This means that more often than not, I don't understand the in-jokes, I don't understand who's friends with who and I certainly don't understand who hates who, who wishes the other one would get run over by a car and who thinks the other one's blogs/pictures/babies are the most disgusting thing she's ever seen.
This week, there's been the swift start and hasty demise of a new blog, written anonymously, which, if I'm honest, was just sniping for the sake of it, and nasty with it. This appears to have been accompanied by a proper old handbag slinging on Twitter and probably a load of other places on the internet I've never even heard of. There were accusations and counter accusations and threats of legal action.
And I'm sort of left thinking - well that's not very nice is it? I'm going to be really honest now - I wish sometimes I was on the inner circle of mummy bloggers - it's like when I was back at school and I wanted to knock round with the cool girls, but that never happened either. While I might want to join in their gang, I look at what they have to do, how much work they each individually put in to their blogs and businesses, and how talented they are, and I think fair play to them. I look enviously at the amount of comments and visits some people get on their blog and wish that my blog was so well read and well thought of, and then I look at how much promotion they do for it, and again I think they get out of it what they put in. I work full time, I don't get back home till after 6, I can't blog during the day and in the evening I have to try and fit in minor things like eating and chores and sleeping. So I have to settle for what I can get.
The things that really bother me though are the vitriol and downright unpleasantness that goes back and forth. Anonymity is a great thing to hide behind, and which of us hasn't spouted off at the Virgin Media Customer Service Team on a website in a manner which doesn't befit a lady? (Or is that just me?) Would these people be so brave face to face if they worked in an office and then had to carry on working with these people? Would they even be so brave if they used their real names? Anonymity has its place, of course it does, but it isn't just a convenient shield for when you want to be rude to someone.
This week I think the community has shown its claws, and sadly I think it won't show us in a good light. As a mum, I have to ask...
Would you let your children behave like that?
I'm not really in what I'd describe as the inner circle of mummy bloggers. I'm not really in the outer circle either. In fact, if you were looking at the inner circle and the outer circle, and then zoomed out, I'd be trying to get a bus from the next town to the circles. This means that more often than not, I don't understand the in-jokes, I don't understand who's friends with who and I certainly don't understand who hates who, who wishes the other one would get run over by a car and who thinks the other one's blogs/pictures/babies are the most disgusting thing she's ever seen.
This week, there's been the swift start and hasty demise of a new blog, written anonymously, which, if I'm honest, was just sniping for the sake of it, and nasty with it. This appears to have been accompanied by a proper old handbag slinging on Twitter and probably a load of other places on the internet I've never even heard of. There were accusations and counter accusations and threats of legal action.
And I'm sort of left thinking - well that's not very nice is it? I'm going to be really honest now - I wish sometimes I was on the inner circle of mummy bloggers - it's like when I was back at school and I wanted to knock round with the cool girls, but that never happened either. While I might want to join in their gang, I look at what they have to do, how much work they each individually put in to their blogs and businesses, and how talented they are, and I think fair play to them. I look enviously at the amount of comments and visits some people get on their blog and wish that my blog was so well read and well thought of, and then I look at how much promotion they do for it, and again I think they get out of it what they put in. I work full time, I don't get back home till after 6, I can't blog during the day and in the evening I have to try and fit in minor things like eating and chores and sleeping. So I have to settle for what I can get.
The things that really bother me though are the vitriol and downright unpleasantness that goes back and forth. Anonymity is a great thing to hide behind, and which of us hasn't spouted off at the Virgin Media Customer Service Team on a website in a manner which doesn't befit a lady? (Or is that just me?) Would these people be so brave face to face if they worked in an office and then had to carry on working with these people? Would they even be so brave if they used their real names? Anonymity has its place, of course it does, but it isn't just a convenient shield for when you want to be rude to someone.
This week I think the community has shown its claws, and sadly I think it won't show us in a good light. As a mum, I have to ask...
Would you let your children behave like that?
Saturday, 16 October 2010
The One Where I'm a Mum
I can understand why you're wondering, really I can. You find me linked up to the British Mummy Bloggers website (yes I know, I keep forgetting to get the badge - I'll get the badge) and you come along here expecting my words of wisdom or alternatively some carnage of a family that makes you feel better about your own, and what do you get? Some grumpy old woman moaning on about all sorts, and barely some mention of a child who's probably imaginary.
Well you're going to have to trust me, he's not imaginary, he's here, he's 12 and he's the reason I'm an expert on Wizards of Waverley Place and anything relating to a Wii. It's a long time since he was a gorgeous little baby, so I can't help you with recent tales of nappy changing, pureed vegetables or In The Night Garden. If however you want to discuss boys who are nearly as tall as you, with bigger feet than you and a pained, long suffering look every time you sing, then you're in the right place.
He also gives me ample blog fodder, because I get to share my views with you on a whole range of stuff that would be unknown to me but for his existence. Take text speak for instance. I've got a mobile phone, I'm not a dinosaur, but it's not one of those fandangly ones where you can update your Facebook, tweet and get an app to cut your toenails. When I first had a mobile phone, as far as I was concerned, it was like writing a very short note to a friend, but with a phone. How great is that? There were no funny abbreviations, no words with numbers in them, no smiley little icons bouncing up and down. And by and large, very little has changed.
Mainly because, even though I use it a tiny little bit, (much to my shame,) I can't stand text speak.
As far as I'm concerned we have a very well functioning language, it has more words than we need, many more we barely use, and even more we can't spell. So why did we need to start inventing words like "gr8", "lol" "rofl" and "eva"? When my son sends me a text message I virtually need some sort of Urban Dictionary on standby to understand what he means, and how the hell am I meant to know if he can spell properly if he uses his own words? You see, as far as I'm concerned that's the whole problem. How are you meant to be able to tell if your children are learning the basics at school if they don't even use them when they're on their own time? And it's no use assuring me that of course he knows the proper words, because I've seen grown ups who think it's perfectly fine to write a business e-mail like they're putting on a Facebook status update. I understand that our language has evolved massively since Shakespeare invented a whole batch of new words, and we hardly walk round the streets muttering zounds and forsooth (although to be fair we do use gloomy and laughable, according to our mood).
But that isn't the point, you see. I told you I want my son to be clever and if his sentences look like a long line of Wingdings and equations, then I don't see how this is going to work.
So what do you think? Luv it or h8 it?
Well you're going to have to trust me, he's not imaginary, he's here, he's 12 and he's the reason I'm an expert on Wizards of Waverley Place and anything relating to a Wii. It's a long time since he was a gorgeous little baby, so I can't help you with recent tales of nappy changing, pureed vegetables or In The Night Garden. If however you want to discuss boys who are nearly as tall as you, with bigger feet than you and a pained, long suffering look every time you sing, then you're in the right place.
He also gives me ample blog fodder, because I get to share my views with you on a whole range of stuff that would be unknown to me but for his existence. Take text speak for instance. I've got a mobile phone, I'm not a dinosaur, but it's not one of those fandangly ones where you can update your Facebook, tweet and get an app to cut your toenails. When I first had a mobile phone, as far as I was concerned, it was like writing a very short note to a friend, but with a phone. How great is that? There were no funny abbreviations, no words with numbers in them, no smiley little icons bouncing up and down. And by and large, very little has changed.
Mainly because, even though I use it a tiny little bit, (much to my shame,) I can't stand text speak.
As far as I'm concerned we have a very well functioning language, it has more words than we need, many more we barely use, and even more we can't spell. So why did we need to start inventing words like "gr8", "lol" "rofl" and "eva"? When my son sends me a text message I virtually need some sort of Urban Dictionary on standby to understand what he means, and how the hell am I meant to know if he can spell properly if he uses his own words? You see, as far as I'm concerned that's the whole problem. How are you meant to be able to tell if your children are learning the basics at school if they don't even use them when they're on their own time? And it's no use assuring me that of course he knows the proper words, because I've seen grown ups who think it's perfectly fine to write a business e-mail like they're putting on a Facebook status update. I understand that our language has evolved massively since Shakespeare invented a whole batch of new words, and we hardly walk round the streets muttering zounds and forsooth (although to be fair we do use gloomy and laughable, according to our mood).
But that isn't the point, you see. I told you I want my son to be clever and if his sentences look like a long line of Wingdings and equations, then I don't see how this is going to work.
So what do you think? Luv it or h8 it?
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