Shared Parental Leave Comes Into Force 1st December 2014

From 1st December 2014, Shared Parental Leave will come into force.  It will enable mothers, fathers, partners and adopters to choose how to share time off work after their child is born or placed for adoption. For example, the mother or adopter could share some leave with a partner, returning to work for a while and then resuming leave in the final months of the year.

Caitlin in 2008

The idea is to give greater flexibility in how to share childcare in the first year following birth or adoption.  Basically there will now be one pot of leave available to both parents which they can allocate between them. And, of course, it means that fathers will be able to play a greater role in caring for their children in the first year.

Shared Parental Leave does not replace Maternity and Paternity leave but is a separate option available to those parents who meet the qualifying criteria.  This means that a mother would need to end her maternity leave early and opt for Shared Parental Leave instead of Maternity Leave. She would then need to decide how to share her Shared Parental Leave and Pay entitlement with her partner. Maternity Leave is currently 52 weeks of which 39 weeks accrue either statutory maternity pay or maternity allowance. Paid Paternity Leave of two weeks will still be available but it proposed that Shared Parental Leave will eventually replace Additional Paternity Leave.

Qualifying criteria are explained in detail on the ACAS website but will apply for parents where a baby is due to be born on or after 5th April 2015 or for children placed for adoption on or after that date.  Employers can start to receive notices of intention to take Shared Parental Leave from January 2015, provided that the qualifying criteria are met - for example you must have worked for the same employer for at least 26 weeks at the end of the 15th week before the week in which the child is due.

If you think this arrangement may work for you and your partner, now is the time to start researching the new regulations to see if you will be eligible.

For information is available at www.acas.org.uk

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Silent Sunday - 02/11/2014

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Silent Sunday - 26/10/2014

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Mince Pies In My Eyes - Shame About My Thighs!

It is with a certain amount of embarrassment that I have to report I am now a stone heavier than I was on my wedding day in 2011.  Most of it has crept on this year largely due, I think, to the stress of numerous hospital appointments of the gynaecological variety and the shock of turning 50.  

Mince Pies!  bbcgoodfood.com

I had been adhering well to the Rosemary Conley low fat regime but had slipped back into the heinous sin of adding butter to bread and, worse, developing a passion of Tarte au Citron at Cafe Rouge. So far, so self-obsessed I agree. But isn't it difficult to rein your appetite back in once you have set it loose?

And aren't you sometimes suspicious that the things you do to stay slim are not that healthy for you? I swear a large part of my appetite control was due to diet coke (2 cans a day) even though studies indicate that drinking aspartame laden drinks actually increases your appetite.  Drinking a substance that contains what is basically formaldehyde (aspartame) is surely never wise but aspartame is everywhere and, shockingly, OK'd by the US Food and Drug Administration (the FDA). My other appetite suppressant is a snack of four marshmallows instead of biscuits with my morning coffee. These are low fat and surprisingly filling.  The trick, of course, is restricting yourself to only four!

A slim-line us on our wedding day in 2011

This time of year is a nightmare for trying to curb your appetite. It is goodwill to man and good-swill at the same time. The supermarket magazines are groaning with comfy, cosy, autumnal recipes - beef and ale pie, pulled pork, apple crumbles, and then there is the sugar onslaught that is now Halloween where any mum worth her salt is creating witches and vampires out of sponge fingers and a packet of Maltesers.

The main ingredients of a celebration are family, friends, food and drink (and generally not in that order).  I'm sure at some level many of us believe that food = love.  An equation which is making the Food and Clothing industries very happy.  The growth of plus size clothing catalogues is interesting as, if you go by the TV advertising, these now outnumber those from companies offering the more 'traditional' sizing.  As a side note, many shoe manufacturers do not seem to have cottoned on to the fact that our feet are getting bigger too. Karen Millen, for example does not stock shoes over a UK size 7.

There is a subtle hint in all of this advertising that we should embrace our weight - and I wholeheartedly agree that we should love ourselves no matter what we weigh - but is ignoring weight gain on the basis that we only need to buy the next dress size up a wise approach?

As we approach mince pie season (and I could eat them every day), the hubby and I are having six weeks of sensible eating (hubby's main weakness is crisps) so that we can treat ourselves over the festive period - without looking like a pair of chocolate snowmen at the end of it.

How are you approaching the season of endless food?  Do you diet in preparation for it?  What are your diet tips.  I'd love to know.

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Silent Sunday - 19/10/2014

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Silent Sunday - 28/09/2014

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Monday Morning Lemsip

It is Monday morning in the Hobbis household and I have the kind of head cold that renders you grumpy and out of sorts with the world.  It is the sort of cold that makes you want to retire to your bed with a Mary Berry recipe book,  a milky coffee and a packet of digestives.  My eyes sting, my ears hurt and their usual buzzing has been amplified to an even higher pitched "wheeeeee".

I should have been taking the advice of my many natural health books and making batches of chicken soup, dosing myself with echinacea and drinking honey, lemon and cinnamon but, as usual, whilst I have been mentally flirting with these ideas, the reality is a fresh box of tissues and some Lemsip capsules swigged down with lukewarm tea. I always think it is baffling that whilst we are even now planning to create cities in space, nobody has managed to eradicate the common cold.

Plus now that the kids have settled back into their routine, I'm noticing that, aside from housework, I don't really have a routine.  Certainly nothing mentally challenging is looming on the horizon. The garden is wearing its autumn jacket and there are leaves to be swept. I have a pile of novels to read (I still haven't got around to reading Hilary Mantel's Bring Up The Bodies) and more recipe books to peruse than the cookery section of Waterstones.

I could tidy up my wardrobe, although it mainly comprises leggings and the odd frock for going out to dinner with the hubby. Or, I could attack the nightmare that is 'toy corner' in our lounge and weed out all the broken and outgrown toys.  Previous attempts to do this though have resulted in Caitlin and Ieuan going through charity bags when my back is turned and replacing anything which could be passed on with cries of "but muuuum we still play with it" - when I know full well said toy hasn't seen the light of day for at least three months.

I haven't even got the energy to start planning for Christmas (well, it is nearly October!) or, my other favourite, Halloween. Every year I revisit Martha Stewart's Halloween guide and plan six foot witches and cats cut out of balsa wood and painted black (by the hubby obviously), ignoring that fact that we've nowhere to put them and since our garden is walled around its entire perimeter, nobody apart from us will see them anyway.

I need something to get me out of this slump.  But what?

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I'm Buzzing - My Tinnitus is Back!

It's back. The incessant buzzing in my ears. My Tinnitus is back. Who knows what triggered it. The usual suspects could be caffeine, red wine, chocolate, aspartame or sudden loud noises. The hairs in my cochlea could be bent. It could be too much ibruprofen. The buzzing has reduced slightly today after a good night's sleep (thank you amitryptyline) but in the name of silence how come so little can be done for a complaint which affects thousands in the UK?

Source:  www.idailymail.co.uk

That is the number one question asked in the Facebook tinnitus forums - and the question that has no answer.  There are trials being conducted - nebulous trials involving implanting iPod like devices in the sufferer's body.  There are drug trials - apparently anti-epilepsy drugs have shown positive results in preventing tinnitus in mice.  Great for the mice but useless for the rest of us.  Is that the choice? Listen to the endless cacophony in your ears or wander round like a zombie, zoned out on medication?

It is very difficult too, to describe to someone what it's like and thus sympathy tends to be short lived and advice focuses on the "well you'll just have to live with it and pull yourself together".  I am pretty sure my tinnitus developed as a result of listening to music too loudly on the Sony Walkman (in the days of cassette tapes) and I worry about people today who play their ipod tunes so loudly that the bass or treble can be heard by everyone else in the railway carriage or the length of the bus.  Then there are those who, as we walk to school in the morning, play music in their car so loudly it sounds like someone is beating the side of their car with a mallet or worse, those who take in-car telephone calls at a volume which ensures their entire conversation can be heard miles away.  "She did what???" - speak up love, there's someone in the Outer Hebrides who didn't quite catch that.

I am going to have to bite the bullet and start wearing my hearing aids.  I'm told it will replace the buzzing with sound at the frequency my ears are missing and so I'll gradually notice it less and less. Reports on whether hearing aids are effective in masking tinnitus are equally mixed on the forums but I will give it a go.  I did try them a few weeks back at a children's party.  This was obviously completely the wrong occasion to try them out and the sound volume was so loud, they were swiftly removed and hidden in my handbag.  

I have heard good reports about Tinnitus Retraining Therapy (TRT) which uses cognitive behavioural techniques to change the way you think about your tinnitus.  I am not sure that it is available in Cardiff or the Vale though.  

In the meantime, I'm trying to take my mind off it and if you're suffering with it today too, you have my heartfelt sympathy.  

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Silent Sunday - 07/09/2014

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A Year of Beauty & Health? I Wish!

It is 4 pm and the Husband has taken the kids to their swimming lesson. I am sat in blissful silence, save the now permanent sound of house renovation taking place in our street and the monotonous drone of an outsize lawn-mower chugging across the postage stamp of a lawn in one of the houses backing on to our garden.

The day is unseasonably warm with the kind of heat that leaves you drowsy and heavy-limbed. I briefly tidy up the house and, in a fit of domestic fervour, whip up a blackberry and apple cake in tribute to what promises to be a golden autumn.

As I wait for the cake to bake, I ponder all manner of things, particularly my various ailments, the latest of which is a strange tension headache which grips me either side of my skull at odd moments. I worry, given the presence of epilepsy and numerous brain tumours on my mother's side of the family, that I am potentiallly a goner. Then there are the back exercises I am supposed to do to strengthen my lower back. And the hearing aids I am supposed to wear to help my tinnitus.  The week after next I have one visit to Llandough Hospital and another to the Heath Hospital scheduled. Let's put it this way, I am no stranger to the gynaecology department.

So it is with no small irony that I recall a book I once read many years ago by Beverly and Vidal Sassoon entitled "A Year of Beauty & Health".  It was written in 1975 and since that time I have had approximately a year of beauty and health!  Actually the one piece of advice I can remember is that, when shampooing your hair, you only need a dollop of shampoo the size of a 10p piece.

This was before celebrity hairdressers realised that, in order to sell your product, you had to encourage hair washing on a daily basis, together with conditioner, mask, conditioning spray, straightening balm, hairspray and a small payday loan with which to purchase said items.

This is probably why I have a cupboard full of shampoo and conditioner remnants - the latest include Brazilian Macademia Oil shampoo and Elvive's Fixology, neither of which have given me hair like the late Farrah Fawcett.  I truly don't understand how the Hair & Beauty Industry survives because it takes me an age to finish anything - from shampoo to cleanser and lipstick. I suspect that the houses of the United Kingdom are stuffed with half used beauty products whilst we all dance to the tune of the Pied Piper that is Beauty Industry marketing and walk zombie like towards Boots and Superdrug in a state of fervent anticipation.This is also probably why the annual beauty awards tend to go to the same products ad nauseum. Liz Earle, YSL Touche Eclat, Clinique Chubby Sticks, you know the ones.

I wish I could remember what I've done with the Sassoon tome. Given the state of the old bod, there are probably things more important I should have been doing than rationing my shampoo usage.  Like drinking 8 glasses of water a day.  And exercising.

That's never going to be as exciting as a trip to Boots though, is it?

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Where's Roger The Shrubber When You Need Him?

Early Autumn and, given that the kids are wound up like tops ready to rejoin the rank and file of sticky fingered and over-excitable school pupils, and the now deflated paddling pool has completely ruined the lawn, I feel it is time to pick up the secateurs for some gardening. I use the term "gardening" loosely because, although my friend The Sybil (she of infinite and random wisdom) introduced me to the pleasures of horticulture and I now can almost see the point of Alan Titchmarsh, I must confess I'm still not altogether sure what on earth I'm supposed to be doing.

Fuchsia Mayhem

The previous owners of our house must have had a thing about Fuchsias because their purple tendrils reach everywhere, no matter how often they are trimmed (hacked!) back. They have totally swallowed up the sunshine along one length of our small walled garden which consists of raised beds along two sides of a square and a long garage running the length of the third. The shrubs I have planted there have wilted in the constant shade.

The garden is reached either through the kitchen or, primarily via glass french doors at the end of an extended lounge outside of which is a small patio.  The potential for mud and mess as the kids run through the lounge is, as you might imagine, considerable.

I have tried to add some shrubs and some herbs, mostly procured from Morrisons or our local garden center on SWAT missions with The Sybil. These generally involve her pointing at plants and me putting them in the trolley. Some I can recognise, roses, lavender, rosemary, pansies - all the easy ones are in my "Dummies Guide to Gardening For the Peri-Menopausal". Sadly, despite recognising them, their fate is very hit and miss.

Geraniums (I think)!

I have managed to grow some strawberries and last year had a bumper crop of tomatoes and beans which, shamefully, mostly went to waste.  I am afraid my vintage housewife score dropped radically through failure to produce a batch of spicy tomato chutney or anything vaguely inspiring involving runner beans.  I may try again next year when I am better prepared and armed with a full chutney kit!

If in doubt, use the old statue and wind-chimes disguise...

I have cunningly pruned this, erm, plant to resemble a triangle

The biggest problem I have at the moment is the whacking great bald patch on the lawn where the paddling pool sat. It looks like a monk's tonsure and I'm praying the grass grows back quickly.

My bald spot

The husband is campaigning to fill the raised beds with chippings and replace the plants with things in pots. He may have a point. If he does, I shall take a leaf out of the Knights Who Say Ni's book and call for Roger the Shrubber. Does anyone have his number?

Roger the Shrubber from Monty Python & The Holy Grail

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Silent Sunday - 31/08/2014

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Caitlin's Play house - It's a Grand Design

When Sir Robert McAlpine started building houses in 1869, I think it's safe to say that there was little provision made in the blueprint for a 'fairy room' or a WC with enough headroom to comfortably house an enormous pink bow suspended from the ceiling.  

Caitlin's vision:  some day all houses will be built this way

These are just two of the items my six year old daughter, Caitlin, deems a prerequisite in the des res of any young lady in this brave new millennium.  She has designed this, by the way, as her entry into a competition to design a dream house by Tigersheds.com, the prize being a marvellous wooden hideout for the garden. Quite why the toilet features so prominently in her design has more, I suspect, to do with the general state of the family waterworks, than it does to any architectural whim.

Were Grand Design's Kevin McCloud (MBE) to don his leather jacket and wander round, he'd no doubt be stunned by the room filled entirely by a fridge containing nothing but ice cream.  Instead of marvelling at the quality of glass and aluminium, he'd be awe-stuck by the room filled entirely by a table for water and sand play.

There are rooms for 'art' (more Tate Modern than National Portrait Gallery) and 'dressing up' on a scale which would make Kim Kardashian clap her hands with glee.  Like many 6 year old little girls, Caitlin thinks nothing of accompanying me to the supermarket in the guise of her favourite Disney princess - the identity of whom changes on the hour.  There is a TV room with a screen worthy of our local multiplex and a mysterious 'secret room' - presumably in which to imprison her little brother. The house can also be exited by an emergency pole.  

It is clear that sleeping does not appear highly on the agenda since there's no bedroom - which bodes rather ominously for her teen years and food is provided out of the ether by mum's incredible catering / reheating service.

I quite fancy living there myself.

This is Caitlin's entry into the #TigercubHideout competition run by www.tigersheds.com inviting children to draw a picture of their dream home.  

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My Front Door Gives Me Superpowers

Ours is a pretty unprepossessing, some may say scruffy, front door. It does not, it has to be said, rank in the top ten front doors of history. These include (in a straw poll conducted in the queue at Tesco) the residence of master sleuth Sherlock Holmes at 22l b Baker Street, 10 Downing Street, the wardrobe entrance to Narnia (N.B. not supplied by IKEA) and the bridge doors on the Starship Enterprise in Star Trek. Then there are the doors to the Big Brother House (most likely IKEA) and, as voted for by Ieuan (aged 5), the doors at our local Pizza Express.

Is it our front door - or a portal to a different space / time reality?

Over the centuries, man has always had the urge to protect his home and property and though we have dispensed with a moat and portcullis, alarms, mortice locks, chains and CCTV systems are important weapons in our armoury against burglary and vandalism. Indeed these items are insisted upon by many insurance companies. Some Tory MPs even still have moats.

Our front doors stand sentinel 24 hours a day, being dressed up only for Halloween or Christmas - the latter being the only time when we actively encourage callers.  I have, however, noticed a very strange phenomenon that takes place on a daily basis, whenever I enter through our front door.

From mild mannered and slightly harrassed wife and mother of two, I become ......SuperMum..... a creature forced to inhabit a different reality spanning numerous time zones all at once. My weapons are not, to quote Monty Python, "fear and surprise" (nobody ever expects the Spanish Inquisition), rather a collection of displeased facial expressions running the gamut from apoplectic to zen (the latter required a serious amount of vino to achieve).

When I step through the magical portal that is our front door, I acquire the ability to multi-task.This may often involve heating up a pizza whilst shouting but it's still more than one activity at once, isn't it?  I am caterer, chauffeur, laundress and moneylender. I am seamstress, psychologist, tutor and nurse.  I am regularly called upon to inspect malfunctioning body parts and required to mend toys with the speed of a ninja.

 Working on my 'Supermum' look is very time consuming

It is a job whose description expands constantly and which tests my Supermum mettle to the full. And yet another, equally curious transformation occurs when I step back through that same front door on a Saturday night en route to our local hostelry.  I become - incredible! - an adult (well, grown up) once again. The husband and I are able to talk about things occurring outside our four walls, knowing that our trusty front door will be keeping the kids and babysitter safe and warm.

I suppose given the protection our trusty front door gives us, an extra special Christmas wreath and possibly an extra Halloween pumpkin are in order.  Now that's a job for Superdad.

This is my entry into the Yale Door creative writing competition.

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Where I Find My Story-Telling Inspiration

When I was young I used to share a bedroom with my little sister and, every night, would regale her with (as she recounts it) hilarious tales of her and my adventures in school. Now the clock has turned full circle and I am able to listen to my children (aged 6 and 5) tell each other stories with similarly comedic potential. 

My two are always on the lookout for an adventure

To be truthful, this is because there is a rich vein of barely veiled lunacy residing in our family and its precious archives. At tea, my father used to tell us that the gherkin which resided at the bottom of our jar of pickled onions (nope, no idea why) was a monster similar to Nessie but very shy. I spent many a tea time staring at said jar of pickled onions trying to spot the beast. If conversation lulled, father would either take his teeth out or put the tea cosy on his head and pretend to be Napoleon. If mother annoyed him, he would simply place a tea-towel over his head and impersonate a budgie.

My sister and I would frequently get our own back on father, knowing, for example, that he was terrified of snakes and spiders.  On one occasion we left a toy snake (an adder, quite realistic, from Bristol Zoo) in the upper branches of our apple tree whilst he was collecting the fruit. The resulting scream could be heard at the end of the street.

Mother was completely unphased by my father's behaviour, probably because her father, a man we referred to as 'Flash Harry' was a legendary mischief maker and story teller in his own right. Harry was a bus driver in Plymouth who had been practically blind in one eye for many years. His favourite tale was how he passed his advanced bus driving examination despite his eyesight - hard to believe these days. He would also take my sister and I to look at the scrumpy drinkers collapsed in a heap in Plymouth Market and sing songs such as "Ain't it grand to be blooming well dead" (Leslie Sarony, 1932) and claim he didn't want a funeral, just to be stuck in a black bag and put out for the bin men. Nowadays of course he'd be stuck kerbside for a fortnight but that's local government for you.

My mother's grandfather was a quaint looking little man who greatly resembled Hercule Poirot and who was an excellent violinist, despite having a wooden arm due to a farming accident. Her own mother came from a family of 11 and several of her uncles were bandsmen in the marines. 

So you can see that when I have to reach into the wine o'clock reaches of my imagination to lull the kids into a state of happy peace, I have plenty of material to use. Not least my own, er, foibles and slightly worrying experiences - for example getting locked in a train toilet and having to pull the emergency cord (always a favourite tale), or during a ballet lesson as a young girl doing a pirouette (well, spinning a bit) and having one of the lenses of my black NHS specs fall out and smash on the floor.

My children love all things spooky so I claim to know all the magical healing powers of various gems and herbs. My daughter and I recently made up a 'potion', devised by Caitlin, which consisted of one entire apple, some springs of Rosemary and some wine vinegar plus a rock from the garden which we had left out overnight so it could be 'charged with the moon's power'. Is there anything truly more magical than a child's imagination? They both love tales of the naughty goblins who live in the wood and are just waiting to pounce on unsuspecting children who wander off the path (or annoy their mother one too many times....). 

Halloween is always celebrated by draping lengths of pretend spiders' webs throughout the house, together with black plastic spiders. We have a plastic full sized skeleton we have named Mr Bones who joins us for tea. My father's face last year when he came for a Halloween tea was truly a picture to behold, particularly since we had made sure that there was an ample supply of spiders artfully arranged in the bathroom. This time, though, the extractor fan muffled his scream.

Story telling, to me, is a vital ingredient in a magical childhood because a good story carries with it lessons about emotions, family, morality and even spirituality.  I was, and am still, an avid reader. I somehow managed to finish the school's reading syllabus first out of my classmates and my English teacher, Mr Jones, would let me have free run of the book cupboard whilst the other pupils dutifully read through the prescribed texts. I can still remember reading The Shrimp & The Anemone (L P Hartley) in the warmth of the school room, basking in the sun and watching the motes of dust from the blackboard chalk swirling in the air. I loved Gerald Durrell's "My Family & Other Animals" and was lost on the moors with Cathy in Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights". Books were places were magic resided - where stories revealed landscapes as surprising and wonderful as Narnia.

I also used to write avidly. My favourite English assignment was always the essay writing tasks and I have begun to write again. My first short story is posted on my blog here. I have in mind a children's novel too - featuring a hedgehog and his friends on a magical journey to find an enormous gem buried deep underground which is the beating heart of his woodland home.  

My children's current opus is a series of 'programmes' entitled "Hulk and Puppy" where a very grumpy incredible hulk (played with practically no behavioural adjustment by Ieuan) is accompanied by a small, yappy puppy (played rather fetchingly by Caitlin). Each episode involves the puppy ending up in a scrape and a subsequent rescue by Hulk bursting in and smashing things. I am required to provide the voice over and plot development as and when required.

When it all gets too much for me, I just put a tea towel over my head .....

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Our First Cinema Visit With The Kids

It was the kids' first ever visit to the cinema today. We visited the Odeon at the Red Dragon Centre, Cardiff to see Disney's Planes 2: Fire & Rescue. Not put off in the least by the fact that the film is a sequel and since cousin Georgia had come to stay for a few days and could be roped in as a bouncer / minder, off we trekked.

Disney's Planes 2: Fire and Rescue 

Now the first film I saw was in the 1960's - Disney's Cinderella with my mum. I remember it being a truly magical experience. In those days it was perfectly acceptable for a girl's only life goal to be attending a ball and marrying a prince, no matter how lowly their pedigree. On this basis, Kate Middleton must have had wall to wall screenings of Disney movies practically from birth.

Planes 2 told the story of world famous air racer, Dusty who discovers that his engine is damaged and he may never race again. He joins forces with a veteran fire and rescue helicopter, Blade Ranger and his team and together they battle a massive wildfire. This is a movie about second chances and Dusty learns what it takes to become a true hero. Incidentally, I believe White Dee is undergoing something of a similar transformation in Celebrity Big Brother, but I digress. As usual.

We were greeted cordially by a helpful young man who duly rendered my purse lighter to the tune of approximately £40 (one adult, one teen, two under twelves) and then, having taken the precaution of smuggling a couple of bags of sweets in my voluminous and sticky bag (I carried a pot of honey in it during the Vale of Glamorgan Show and the seal broke), I swallowed hard as I paid £9 for two cokes and a bottle of water.

Into the blackness we went. It was the 13:50 pm showing and the cinema was blissfully uncrowded. There must have been less than 20 film-goers in there and most of those could only just walk. We sat through about a half hour of what seemed like endless adverts, trailers and then adverts again! Sadly, Pearl and Dean no longer feature so I didn't have the chance to bellow "pa pa pa pa & etc" with the rest of the audience. Those were days (in my youth) of the Orange Maid Ice Lolly (so orange it glowed in the dark) or, if you were particularly reckless the Strawberry Mivvi lolly which had ice cream in the middle. Popcorn was always Butterkist and the drinks on offer, Kiora. Eventually the familiar certification screen appeared and we all settled down to watch.

Planes 2 does take a while to get going, although the thumping soundtrack kept spirits up. And, until the plot thickened, so to speak, we had to put up with my children's usual comedy 'let's drive mum nuts' routine. I'm sure you will all be familiar with this, but the highlights are, briefly,

* any drink provided will be drained within the first five minutes

* any bagged sweets will be the 'wrong' sweets

* Ieuan will be hungry

* Caitlin will have a tummy ache but deny needing the toilet

* After five minutes wrangling in voices hushed to violent hissing, Caitlin will deign to go to the toilet if one of us 'holds her hand' when she's on the seat.

* Once back in her seat and settled down, Caitlin will announce loudly, a propos of nothing, "I feel lonely"

* Ieuan will demand to go home immediately.

Still we survived the 100 minutes running time without too much trouble. The characters, particularly Dusty and Blade are engaging and there are enough comedy characters and the odd adult joke to keep a family interested. I have to say that cinema and tinnitus aren't a particularly happy combination but the ensuing buzzing was worth introducing the kids to the magic of film.

As we left the cinema, blinking in the bright daylight of the Red Dragon Centre, Ieuan spotted a very small merry-go-round with planes and cars and not daunted by being a tall lad, he tried to prize himself into a plane. Not willing to cough up the statutory £2 for a minute ride, he was unceremoniously removed by me and the usual pout ensued. "Mum", he announced to the swelling throng in the Centre, "you've ruined my life".

That went well then.

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Silent Sunday - 17/08/2014

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Pro Ana (Anorexia) - Parents Need To Know About It

A while ago, Channel 5's series "Celebrity Autopsy" covered the tragic death of Karen Carpenter through causes related to anorexia. Her death was, it was claimed, due to cardiac arrest and a cocktail of various prescription drugs (some not prescribed). Her heart had been irreversibly damaged by her eating disorder.

Karen Carpenter (Source:  clearpathtofitness.com)

I've written before about the challenges parents face to address the obesity issue with children. When is it appropriate to tell a child that they are 'fat'? In this house we ration 'bad' foods as much as we can and try to eat a healthy fruit and veg filled diet but it's not easy. 

Sugar is everywhere and, frankly, rather than bash us all over the head with endless lectures about what we should be eating, our Government would be better off, in my view, setting far more rigid regulations for acceptable sugar content in food and a food labeling system that is printed in a size which those of us who usually forget our reading glasses can actually see.

I was aware, through reading various news publications of internet sites actively promoting anorexia (Pro Ana) and pondering what I would do if the ghastly spectre of this disease were to appear in our house, I did a brief, but startlingly alarming search.

What I found was almost a secret lifestyle club where bloggers write about their 'thinspiration' and egg each other on (probably the wrong phrase) to eat less than 500 calories a day and do ridiculous numbers of stomach crunches (in the many hundreds). There are the 'Pro Ana' rules which clearly state that if you cannot commit to making anorexia the centre of your life, then you are not a true disciple.  

To give you an example, here are a few of them. Just a few - because it really is not a place where you want to spend much time...

• Ana must be the centre of your life
• Eat in front of a mirror, naked or in underwear if possible
• Friends will only get in the way; avoid them until you reach your weight loss goals
• When you resist the pangs of hunger it means you are not a slave to your body
• Being thin is more important than anything
• Bones define who we really are.  Let them show!
• Thin is perfection;  I'll die trying to achieve it.

You get the gist. Now it is clear that the authors of this nonsense are suffering terribly and deserve our sympathy and compassion. We can argue endlessly about the influence of the Media and our Celebrity Culture. We have become a selfie nation - obsessed with our own reflections. In Greek mythology, the hunter Narcissus was lured to a pool by Nemesis where he fell in love with his own reflection, and, unable to leave the pool, died. Hence, the term Narcissism - the tragedy being that the sufferer does not realise they are in love with an image.

Kim Kardashian has published a book composed entirely of selfies. Tattooed Sarah Harding has been less than polite about tattooed Cheryl Fernandez-Versini who has recently been trolled for looking too thin. 'Real Housewives' the length and shallows of the NBC Network are posting pictures of themselves resembling what a previous colleague of mine (male) would refer to in terms of disparagement as a 'rack of lamb'. It's all image in a desperate attempt to create an identity which ironically is paper thin and transient as this week's diet plan. A triumph, generally, of style over content but a tragedy for those youngsters who buy into the 'dream' that thin is the be all and end all - and a quicker way to fame than getting an education and, if they are really lucky, these days, a decent job at the end of it.

The really worrying thing about the Pro Ana 'manifesto' is that, on first sight, it reads very similar to the instructions for many of the fad diets we willingly consume in the 'celeb' magazines. Drink lots of green tea to curb hunger pangs. Cut your food into small bits. Chew properly. Distract yourself from food. Exercise. Commenters on these blog posts encourage each other, offer support about how to stay on the Ana path. It is a unique, but highly disfunctional social network.

You can see how easy it would be for an  impressionable young person to be drawn into the murky depths because, actually, it's not really about food. At the heart of Pro Ana is the quest for control. If you can't control the other circumstances of your life (and that is one of the inescapable challenges of the human condition), you can, in theory, control the food you put into your body and therefore the way you look. It's you versus your body, you versus your friends and family, you versus life itself.

Those in support of free speech will argue that these websites have every right to exist. You cannot regulate the content of the internet. All you can do is make sure there are some territories you avoid - and encourage your children to do the same. 

However unsettling these sites and blogs are, at least as parents we can arm ourselves with knowledge, learn the signs, counter the arguments. We can support those who promote a positive body image where that image is based on health, confidence and self acceptance. We can teach our kids that food is fuel for life but also one of life's greatest pleasures if treated with respect. We can teach them that there is a weight at which our bodies function best (and it is not the same for everyone I know). Most importantly, we can teach them that being loved, respected and cherished has absolutely nothing to do with being thin.  

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Musings From A Stay At Home Mum

I used to work. In fact, I started work at 16 (Saturday girl in F. W. Woolworths) and left my last job (Practice Director & Head of Marketing for a local law firm) at 43 - that's 27 years' experience of the working world. 

But since I became a stay at home mum, it appears this counts for little. Once you become a stay at home mum (SAHM), you experience subtle shifts in your friendships - particularly if your closest friends still work. Not only do priorities change but time itself seems to shift.

Baby Caitlin, born 2007

Irrespective of the fact that full time childcare is bloody hard, albeit endlessly rewarding, work,  it is seen by many mums as a privileged position - and in many ways I can't disagree. 

No dreadful early morning commute, no adherence to petty rules and regulations, no mind-numbing office politics. But the truth is things are mighty different between the routines (and children) of mums who work and those who don't.

Come the holidays, those children who are cared for by child minders seem to experience little change to their routines, save for the precious week or so holiday their parents are able to carve into their schedules (and fleeced nicely by the UK Holiday Industry for doing so). 

It seems that children who are cared for outside their immediate family develop social skills quicker and benefit from a wider network of friends. These benefits also help the parents who probably get to know each other a little better since their offspring spend much longer periods of time together.

Working mums seem to be able to do more, to fit more into their days, to juggle. When term ends I am always worried that my kids face a period of social isolation, deprived of their friends - even though I try my hardest to ensure that they meet their buddies over the holidays, I am aware that they usually have only each other for company. 

Today in particular I have heard the "I've nobody to play with" refrain from Ieuan over and over again. It sometimes feels as if I am trying to force their friendships whereas 'minded' children appear better 'networkers' even at this age!

When I used to attend Mother & Toddler Groups (which, hands-up, I found awful), there used to be a row of child minders one side of the church hall with the other side comprising grandmothers and perhaps one or two other Stay at Home Mothers (SAHMs). 

Occasionally, (whisper it) a MAN would appear to the great consternation of the throng and would be duly scrutinized, ostracized, subsequently pitied and possibly given a cup of tea. The children would run amok, playing in that strange isolation made bearable by sharing a hall with 20 other screaming children, waiting patiently for their reward of a half cup of extremely dilute squash and a biscuit. Needless to say, Ieuan was happier scaling the stacked tables and trying to dismantle the fire extinguisher to the barely muted 'tuts' of the child minders.

Yup. Stay at Home Mums, these days seem to be quite a rare breed. Particularly women embracing motherhood over the age of 40. This creates a further divide because the other SAHMs you do meet are, generally much younger than you are. I can hear you all shouting - "well, what did you expect" and you are right. 

The weird thing about being pregnant (at least for me), is that the entire focus is about getting the baby out safe, well and with as little pain as possible. I cannot for the life of me fathom those women who look down on mothers whose children were born by caesarian as if a 'normal' birth is some kind of badge of honour. They rank as low, in my book, as those who judge women who are unable or unwilling to breast feed. 

My point is  I really had no idea of what was coming. I was not one of those women anxiously researching nurseries for junior.  I had a major panic attack just at the thought of packing my hospital bag for the birth. 

If you're feeling the same at the moment, don't worry - a pack of muslin squares, a couple of nappies, a babygro and some ear plugs for you should cover it. You don't really need an iPod of 'birthing songs' or an Evian spray for your face unless you simply must look moisturized at the height of physical discomfort or when you're high on gas and air.

I also find that friendships with those who do not have children require careful nurturing. It is easy to vanish into the bosom of your family and their routines and not emerge for weeks, if not months. This is natural to you but incredibly rude to them. 

Something as simple as a visit to the local pub for a couple of hours requires careful planning. You can forget spontaneity. If you need to pay a babysitter, time with your friends comes at a cost, which can be hard for them to accept (and some may even be offended by this). And when they visit, noise levels are carefully monitored and God forbid that they may accidentally drop the 'f' bomb in case junior is scarred or repeats it when the grandparents visit.

You can also resign yourself to the fact that many will view you as less intelligent because you do not work. Even surveys rarely have a box for 'stay at home parent'. You may find 'homemaker' but generally you have to select 'unemployed' as the status option. Well, sorry, but I don't consider myself 'unemployed'!

Do I want to go back to work?  Eventually perhaps. Part of me thinks I should just relax more and take every day as it comes because I am very lucky to have the opportunity to raise my kids full time.

But there's a tiny part of me that remembers who I used to be when I worked - and misses her.

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Silent Sunday - 10 August 2014

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Children's Short Story: Moosie-Moo Cow And The Cheesy Moon

Once upon a time, there was a cow called Moosie-Moo who spent her days happily grazing in Poppy Meadow. Her closest friends were a beautiful fluffy rabbit called Honeybun and a wise old owl called Lennon.

Source:  Independent.co.uk

Now Moosie-Moo loved to canter, gambol and kick her heels. She'd race raindrops running down the knobbly oak, she'd race beatles through the long lush grass and sometimes, when the sun was high, she'd even race her own shadow.

Summer turned into autumn. The Harvest Moon rose like a huge blue lantern and Moosie-Moo became suddenly sad. “What's wrong?”, asked Honeybun, bouncing like a rubber ball, eyes shining bright in the moonbeams. A rustle high above in the leaves of the knobbly oak announced the arrival of Lennon who settled on his favourite branch, spectacles perched on his beak. He let out a long “twit twooooo”.

Moosie-Moo sighed and stared at the moon. “It's so beautiful”, she said, “I just want to jump right over it”. Honeybun sat back on her haunches in surprise. “But,” said Moosie-Moo, “I can walk and run and roll on my back but I can't fly like Lennon or jump like you”.

Honeybun considered. Lennon closed both his eyes and seemed to sleep. “Well,” she said, “perhaps you should do some training to practise jumping high enough to reach the moon. Why do you want to go to the moon anyway?”. “That's easy”, said Moosie-Moo. “I've heard that there's a cat who plays the violin, a little laughing dog, a dish and spoon who love each other and it's made of lovely, yummy, creamy cheese! It sounds so much fun!”

Next morning the training session began. Honeybun used her great strong paws to dig a pit filled with warm sandy soil and created a finishing line made from her best carrots at the end of Poppy Meadow. “Moosie-Moo”, she instructed, “run as fast as you can and jump! Jump with all your might!”.

So Moosie-Moo ran the length of the meadow and when she saw the pit and the line of carrots she threw herself into the air but her hooves barely rose higher than the tallest blade of grass and she sank firmly into the pit of sandy soil. “Oh dear”. said Honeybun. Over and over again Moosie-Moo raced the length of the meadow, willing her body to rise into the air. “You make it look so easy, Honeybun” she sighed sadly.

As the moon rose that night, the two friends sat together bathing in the soft moonlight. “I bet it's the best, most creamy cheese you could wish for up there”, said Moosie-Moo. “Have a carrot”, said Honeybun, “you'll see better in the dark”. A swish in the trees announced Lennon's arrival, but he remained silent in the dark canopy of leaves above.

“I have heard”, said Honeybun about a magic device made by a cat named paul”. “I think you mean a catapault”, said Moosie-Moo, “I'm too heavy”. Honeybun thought again. “what about going on that tram with pauline”? “I think you mean a trampoline”, said Moosie-Moo, “I don't think it'd get me high enough”.

Now Lennon could keep quiet no longer. He shook his wings and fluffed out his chest. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Moosie-Moo”, he said sternly, “the moon is there for all to enjoy. It would be a shame if you were to take dents out of it by eating its lovely soft cheese!”.

“Well,” said Moosie-Moo, “it seems as if I will never get there in any case. I cannot fly and I cannot jump. All I can do is walk and run and roll on my back”.

“Moosie-Moo”, said Lennon, his glasses sliding even further down his beak, “you can walk in the sunshine and run in the rain, you can roll on your back in the mud. You are tall enough to see right across Poppy Meadow. I have to fly in the air and Honeybun has to hop till she's breathless to see the sun setting on the horizon. And your friends the beatles barely get to see above the grass”.

“I suppose I am being rather ungrateful”, said Moosie-Moo.

“We all have our special talents and skills”, said Lennon. “It's what makes Poppy Meadow the wonderful place that it is.”.

Honeybun twitched her nose, gently placing her paw on her old friend's hoof said, “We'll always be friends whether or not you can jump over the moon”.

“Indeed,” said Lennon. “It's not how high you can jump but what makes your heart jump with joy that matters”.

And with that, he closed his great round eyes and went back to sleep, leaving Moosie-Moo and Honeybun to happily continue moonbathing in the peace of Poppy Meadow.

copyright Linda Hobbis 8/8/14

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