June 2020

We don’t get out much, us mums. But when we do, it’s in December. Cards at the ready – you’re about to play babysitting bingo! Christmas throws upon us the heady mix of more social occasions than the rest of the year put together, and the organisational nightmare of arranging childcare so we can attend. You are pitted against the other parents in the town in pursuit of a babysitter not only for one night, but potentially several. School occasions see you competing for sitters against your own classmates, from a pool of often common childcarers. Your fourth favourite girl at your child’s old nursery now seems like a golden option. Throw into the mix your work / husband’s work parties and you’re in Diary-Gate. Whose occasion is more worthy? If you’re the one expected to babysit that night, is your event eligible for engaging a sitter? Like most people, we end up negotiating madly and in the end our social scene in December is dictated by babysitter availability, not personal preference. I’d rather disclose my bra size than my babysitter’s number If there’s a secret you keep closer to your chest, I should like to know it. It’s all very well in, say, March, to succumb to another mum’s plight and give out a reliable babysitter’s number. But come December and you’re both going to the same class drinks, you will rue that day, mark my words. Rue it. I’d rather offer to babysit myself than give up my premium sitter, whom I have wooed over months and bamboozled into somehow liking my children enough to enter the evening with enthusiasm. If I were to help a friend in need by sharing a top sitter’s number, I would have to privately enforce an embargo, whereby I should always get first refusal. All this is laughable, of course. Market forces are at work here as in every other sphere, and she with the most generous hourly rate and the handsomest plate of biscuits shall win the prize. Loyalty counts for nothing in the face of M&S’s chocolate biscuit selection box. Christmas Day – the calm before the babysitting storm At least when the big day dawns, there are no babysitting dilemmas to be overcome. Roast potato rows – how many is enough? – yes. Present palavers – yes. But no baby-sitting bust-ups. But after a few days of Quality Street-induced inertia, we seek to rise again, like the social phoenix from the ashes. For it is time to see in the New Year. It is time to nail down the prize. The most elusive of all things – the New Years’ Eve babysitter This is someone whom I’ve yet to meet. Every NYE since I’ve had children has been spent in with a curry, my husband and, occasionally, other parents who’ve put the kids to bed upstairs. Which has been lovely. Good job, as the cost and gamesmanship of obtaining a NYE sitter is pretty much beyond me. I have semi-secured one on a couple of occasions, only to be let down with some spurious flu or family-related excuse and 12 hours’ notice. But by that time, I am battle-weary. I’m quite happy to give up the chase and stay in for the next eleven months. Happy Christmas Countdown!

“Not tonight, love, I’m folding my laundry.” This was on the tip of my tongue the other night, when a friend asked me to the pub. I kid you not. Do you ever feel you have to choose between seeing your friends and getting on top of the housework? Enter the Chore Date.

Our children get playdates; we get to squeeze in a coffee while ticking through in our worried little minds the unfolded laundry, the unmopped floor, the unsewn nametapes waiting for us at home. OK, maybe sewing nametapes is going a bit far (laundry pens people!), but the point is: there’s crochet groups, book groups, quilt-making groups, Zumba groups – so why not a housework group?

Obviously this only applies to fairly close friends: I wouldn’t invite a new acquaintance round to watch me scrub the loo. And it requires a mutual despair at the state of your house, to the point where taking your laundry mountain to a friend’s to fold seems like a sane thing to do.

I have three young children: I am never on top of my housework. I am already at the stage of life where I compare notes with my friends on things like the pros and cons of the various mop-heads on the market, and how best to clear up couscous (answer: leave to dry and then hoover up – otherwise the little devils stick to your brush.)

So why should the twain not meet?

It’s not exactly washing clothes together on the stones of a fast-flowing river, but as far as solidarity goes, a group ironing session would be pretty awesome. We could even have wine!

In case you’re wondering / worrying – I did go to the pub that night. But the spectre of my laundry mountain haunted me all night.

The Romantic Chore Date

Your husband needn’t miss out! What could be more pleasing than an evening spent mutually doing chores? The day we spent clearing out (half of) the garage was the best time we’ve had together in ages. Who knows where a chore date could lead?

Do you manage to make time for everything, or could you do with a chore date?

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If you can keep your head when all about you

Are screaming theirs off and baying for milk,

If you can trust yourself when health visitors doubt you,

But make allowance for their well meaning too;

If you can get up for the ninth time and not moan about waking,

Or being weed upon, don’t make a fuss,

Or having sick in your bra, don’t give way to quaking,

And still try to look good, though your can’t do your jeans up:

If you can dream— hurray, you’re getting more sleep!;

If you can think— after one or more children;

If you can meet with Triumph and Tantrums

And treat those inevitabilities just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve uttered

Twisted by your kids to make a trap for you,

Or watch the child you gave life to, stutter,

And stoop and pick ’em up with worn-out arms:

If you can talk with mums and compare pelvic floors,

Or walk with kids — nor forget the changing bag,

If neither forks nor thrown food can hurt you,

If you can hug someone, when things feel too bad;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of laundry folded,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Mum, my friend!

With thanks and apologies to Rudyard Kipling.

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are screaming theirs off and baying for milk,

If you can trust yourself when health visitors doubt you,

But make allowance for their well meaning too;

If you can get up for the ninth time and not moan about waking,

Or being weed upon, don’t make a fuss,

Or having sick in your bra, don’t give way to quaking,

And still try to look good, though your can’t do your jeans up:

If you can dream— hurray, you’re getting more sleep!;

If you can think— after one or more children;

If you can meet with Triumph and Tantrums

And treat those inevitabilities just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve uttered

Twisted by your kids to make a trap for you,

Or watch the child you gave life to, stutter,

And stoop and pick ’em up with worn-out arms:

If you can talk with mums and compare pelvic floors,

Or walk with kids — nor forget the changing bag,

If neither forks nor thrown food can hurt you,

If you can hug someone, when things feel too bad;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of laundry folded,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Mum, my friend!

With thanks and apologies to Rudyard Kipling.

We don’t get out much, us mums. But when we do, it’s in December. Cards at the ready – you’re about to play babysitting bingo! Christmas throws upon us the heady mix of more social occasions than the rest of the year put together, and the organisational nightmare of arranging childcare so we can attend. You are pitted against the other parents in the town in pursuit of a babysitter not only for one night, but potentially several. School occasions see you competing for sitters against your own classmates, from a pool of often common childcarers. Your fourth favourite girl at your child’s old nursery now seems like a golden option. Throw into the mix your work / husband’s work parties and you’re in Diary-Gate. Whose occasion is more worthy? If you’re the one expected to babysit that night, is your event eligible for engaging a sitter? Like most people, we end up negotiating madly and in the end our social scene in December is dictated by babysitter availability, not personal preference. I’d rather disclose my bra size than my babysitter’s number If there’s a secret you keep closer to your chest, I should like to know it. It’s all very well in, say, March, to succumb to another mum’s plight and give out a reliable babysitter’s number. But come December and you’re both going to the same class drinks, you will rue that day, mark my words. Rue it. I’d rather offer to babysit myself than give up my premium sitter, whom I have wooed over months and bamboozled into somehow liking my children enough to enter the evening with enthusiasm. If I were to help a friend in need by sharing a top sitter’s number, I would have to privately enforce an embargo, whereby I should always get first refusal. All this is laughable, of course. Market forces are at work here as in every other sphere, and she with the most generous hourly rate and the handsomest plate of biscuits shall win the prize. Loyalty counts for nothing in the face of M&S’s chocolate biscuit selection box. Christmas Day – the calm before the babysitting storm At least when the big day dawns, there are no babysitting dilemmas to be overcome. Roast potato rows – how many is enough? – yes. Present palavers – yes. But no baby-sitting bust-ups. But after a few days of Quality Street-induced inertia, we seek to rise again, like the social phoenix from the ashes. For it is time to see in the New Year. It is time to nail down the prize. The most elusive of all things – the New Years’ Eve babysitter This is someone whom I’ve yet to meet. Every NYE since I’ve had children has been spent in with a curry, my husband and, occasionally, other parents who’ve put the kids to bed upstairs. Which has been lovely. Good job, as the cost and gamesmanship of obtaining a NYE sitter is pretty much beyond me. I have semi-secured one on a couple of occasions, only to be let down with some spurious flu or family-related excuse and 12 hours’ notice. But by that time, I am battle-weary. I’m quite happy to give up the chase and stay in for the next eleven months. Happy Christmas Countdown!

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are screaming theirs off and baying for milk,

If you can trust yourself when health visitors doubt you,

But make allowance for their well meaning too;

If you can get up for the ninth time and not moan about waking,

Or being weed upon, don’t make a fuss,

Or having sick in your bra, don’t give way to quaking,

And still try to look good, though your can’t do your jeans up:

If you can dream— hurray, you’re getting more sleep!;

If you can think— after one or more children;

If you can meet with Triumph and Tantrums

And treat those inevitabilities just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve uttered

Twisted by your kids to make a trap for you,

Or watch the child you gave life to, stutter,

And stoop and pick ’em up with worn-out arms:

If you can talk with mums and compare pelvic floors,

Or walk with kids — nor forget the changing bag,

If neither forks nor thrown food can hurt you,

If you can hug someone, when things feel too bad;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of laundry folded,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Mum, my friend!

With thanks and apologies to Rudyard Kipling.

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are screaming theirs off and baying for milk,

If you can trust yourself when health visitors doubt you,

But make allowance for their well meaning too;

If you can get up for the ninth time and not moan about waking,

Or being weed upon, don’t make a fuss,

Or having sick in your bra, don’t give way to quaking,

And still try to look good, though your can’t do your jeans up:

If you can dream— hurray, you’re getting more sleep!;

If you can think— after one or more children;

If you can meet with Triumph and Tantrums

And treat those inevitabilities just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve uttered

Twisted by your kids to make a trap for you,

Or watch the child you gave life to, stutter,

And stoop and pick ’em up with worn-out arms:

If you can talk with mums and compare pelvic floors,

Or walk with kids — nor forget the changing bag,

If neither forks nor thrown food can hurt you,

If you can hug someone, when things feel too bad;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of laundry folded,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Mum, my friend!

With thanks and apologies to Rudyard Kipling.

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are screaming theirs off and baying for milk,

If you can trust yourself when health visitors doubt you,

But make allowance for their well meaning too;

If you can get up for the ninth time and not moan about waking,

Or being weed upon, don’t make a fuss,

Or having sick in your bra, don’t give way to quaking,

And still try to look good, though your can’t do your jeans up:

If you can dream— hurray, you’re getting more sleep!;

If you can think— after one or more children;

If you can meet with Triumph and Tantrums

And treat those inevitabilities just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve uttered

Twisted by your kids to make a trap for you,

Or watch the child you gave life to, stutter,

And stoop and pick ’em up with worn-out arms:

If you can talk with mums and compare pelvic floors,

Or walk with kids — nor forget the changing bag,

If neither forks nor thrown food can hurt you,

If you can hug someone, when things feel too bad;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of laundry folded,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Mum, my friend!

With thanks and apologies to Rudyard Kipling.

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are screaming theirs off and baying for milk,

If you can trust yourself when health visitors doubt you,

But make allowance for their well meaning too;

If you can get up for the ninth time and not moan about waking,

Or being weed upon, don’t make a fuss,

Or having sick in your bra, don’t give way to quaking,

And still try to look good, though your can’t do your jeans up:

If you can dream— hurray, you’re getting more sleep!;

If you can think— after one or more children;

If you can meet with Triumph and Tantrums

And treat those inevitabilities just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve uttered

Twisted by your kids to make a trap for you,

Or watch the child you gave life to, stutter,

And stoop and pick ’em up with worn-out arms:

If you can talk with mums and compare pelvic floors,

Or walk with kids — nor forget the changing bag,

If neither forks nor thrown food can hurt you,

If you can hug someone, when things feel too bad;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of laundry folded,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Mum, my friend!

With thanks and apologies to Rudyard Kipling.

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are screaming theirs off and baying for milk,

If you can trust yourself when health visitors doubt you,

But make allowance for their well meaning too;

If you can get up for the ninth time and not moan about waking,

Or being weed upon, don’t make a fuss,

Or having sick in your bra, don’t give way to quaking,

And still try to look good, though your can’t do your jeans up:

If you can dream— hurray, you’re getting more sleep!;

If you can think— after one or more children;

If you can meet with Triumph and Tantrums

And treat those inevitabilities just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve uttered

Twisted by your kids to make a trap for you,

Or watch the child you gave life to, stutter,

And stoop and pick ’em up with worn-out arms:

If you can talk with mums and compare pelvic floors,

Or walk with kids — nor forget the changing bag,

If neither forks nor thrown food can hurt you,

If you can hug someone, when things feel too bad;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of laundry folded,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Mum, my friend!

With thanks and apologies to Rudyard Kipling.