#148193517 / gettyimages.com Do your kids listen to a word you say? Is there anything you utter, apart from “as much Haribo as you can eat!”, that you don’t have to repeat more than once? As if the glass ceiling weren’t enough, we also have to contend with the Glass Wall. “If I have to ask you to put your shoes on again,” (pause while you think of a realistic threat that you haven’t already used in the last three minutes) “you won’t have a birthday party next year either!” Still no movement footwear-wards. I rest my head against something, the invisible barrier that defends my children against the sounds produced by my weary tongue and lips. The Glass Wall. It flips up like a forcefield around the sofa when they’re watching telly. It seals their bedroom when it’s time to go to school and they’ve just got into their Lego. It encases the freezer aisle when I attempt to deny their need for a full range of lollies in November. It – sometimes – stops me enjoying communication with my children. Although screens are indeed glass walls of a sort, and, many would argue, barriers to communication, I talk simply of kids’ innate capacity to completely ignore their parents. Perhaps it’s part of their wonderful and essential ability to concentrate entirely on the present. To acquire new skills by focusing wholly on the matter in the hand, whether it is building an intricate Lego model or watching the end of Dinopaws. Certainly it’s part of our training as parents; we have their teenage years yet to come. Maybe it’s their hearing, I thought. It’s true, one of my children has got a bit of glue ear, so obviously I am aware that this could be a factor. But I know he can hear me from a certain range, which I always try to be within. As an experiment, in your normal voice, ask your child to clean their teeth / go to the loo / put a wash on (delete as appropriate). Then whisper under your breath, “Bye, see you later,” to the babysitter, and see which they pay attention to. Maybe it’s my hearing, I thought. I admit to tuning out a lot of their bickering and low-level whining where I know from experience that my interference will only prolong the white noise of childhood chuntering. I defy anyone to hear what their dearest child in the back seat is murmuring above the blare of ‘Gangnam Style’ in the car, when reaching for the volume control is caught by hawk eyes and decried with the ferocity of a tigress. I feel like I’m in a London cab, except that I’m not the happy drunk one in the back but the miserable driver. The only difference is, I want the glass partition open. It makes me sad that I miss those golden words from the backseat. But I can hear a child make that pre-vomit choking noise from the heart of the deepest sleep. It’s not so much you hear what you want to hear, but you hear what you need to hear. I know selective deafness is nothing new. I’m sure in the early days of man, caves resounded with mothers and fathers yelling, “Barney, get your loincloth on, we’re going hunting in five ticks of the shadow past the rock!” But what do you do about it? There’s whole organisations devoted to petitioning Parliament to smash the glass ceiling – quite rightly – but where’s the campaign group to get kids to listen to their parents? Maybe I’ll just have to wait till they’re old enough to use the only way I get answers out of their father. Via What’s App.
I love buying new baby gifts. It’s an utter joy to think of a new little person in the world – that I don’t have to look after, hurrah! All our stuff has been through three not-very-careful owners now, so it’s a pleasure to browse the shiny, pretty things now on offer.
It’s an occasion of such joy and celebration. So momentous, in fact, that it is hard to buy something that truly reflects the miracle of their entrance into the world. And of course, you are expressing your love and affection for the parents through what you buy.
With the first baby in the family, you have free rein, knowing that the parents won’t have anything (much) already and may not even know what they need yet.
With lovely additions to a family, you need to veer away from the usual baby blankets, bodysuits and socks – unless it’s a different sex. I’m not saying that girls should wear pink, but when they don’t have any hair I know some mums like to make it obvious to the casual passerby that they’re a girl. (I have three boys – and they rock pink!)
A personalised gift is always a special choice, for a first, second or 19th baby. My friend has recently had her first, Rhys, and I was very lucky to be gifted this beautiful baby name picture from Little Foundry.
All the creations are handmade and arrive mounted and ready to hang, or display on a shelf, as I have above. I just adore the ticking backdrop to the beautifully crafted name. The girls’ version is lovely too:
This family company also offers another fantastic gift idea – either for yourself or for a friend or family member: a handmade house portrait (which can be created from a photograph). Something for me to covet for another day – perhaps a letter to Father Christmas?
I’ve now sent my gorgeous gift to my friend, and she was delighted with it. It adds a lovely personal touch to her baby’s nursery and is something for him to cherish for years to come.
What baby gifts do you like to give? And receive?
Disclosure: As mentioned, I was kindly gifted the ‘Rhys’ baby name artwork. All opinions and photographs of it are my own. Other photographs courtesy of Little Foundry.
‘7 Years’ makes me cry. It’s the whole of life wrapped up in one beautiful song but I just want to press pause.
Lukas Graham’s hit song ‘7 Years‘ sure is a catchy tune – which also contains some sterling lessons for the parent. Such as: don’t tell your children to “make friends or they’ll be lonely” (PRESSURE!) nor to get a wife at 11 (TEENAGE PREGNANCY!). Of course, we can subtly encourage junior friendships and, when the time is right, courtships, but I think we can all agree we don’t want our babies “smoking herb or drinking burning liquor” before they’re twelve.
But facetiousness aside, the line that really makes me cry is the one on the picture of my youngest, above: “I hope my children come and visit once or twice a month”. What a paltry hope! The thought of seeing my children only every couple of weeks brings a sob to my throat.
But the tears are also happy tears – once or twice a month is not bad, really. When I’m pottering around the house doing all the things I thought I wanted to but never could when they were little, their ring on the doorbell will flood my heart with joy. When I’m power-walking up the road back from Pilates (I hope), their car outside the house will lift my feet to the front door. I will be happy that they visit once or twice a month.
And the words make me cry, too, because I don’t see my parents once or twice or month – once every two months possibly. We email, text and sometimes speak most days and that often feels like enough; or rather, it’s all I can easily manage when we live so far apart.
My parents don’t complain, or make me feel guilty. They are happy to see me whenever it happens. And I know why. We don’t raise children to keep them by our side.
But while they are by our side, we should appreciate them. I guess that is the other reason why the line makes me cry. I often characterize my three boys as a seething cloud of mayhem which I must somehow charter through breakfast, school, clubs and bedtime. Every evening I feel like keeling over.
But every night I go to sleep looking forward to seeing them in the morning (or, as often happens, 2am).
Because one day they won’t be there.
So thank you, Lukas Graham. I heard it only took you about half an hour to write the song (respect!) and I don’t know if you put this much thought into the line, or whether it was just to rhyme with “once”. Either way, thank you for reminding me to cherish this time and feel positive about the next turn of the circle of life.
But if my sons are drinking burning liquor at 11, I’ll be suing.
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Nothing shouts “I’m a mum!” like pulling a breast pad out of your bag when you’re looking for a pen. You can hide a mum tum under a well-chosen top, but if your baby tips your handbag out in public, your half-squeezed mouldy pouches and health-hazard dummies are there for all to see.
I love a good nose into other people’s handbags – via blogposts, you understand: I don’t rifle through real bags. So when M&S Baby asked me to share my handbag story, I was happy to join in.
Handbags: Before and After Children
The bag: Before: Small, smart, sexy, leather. After: An ancient, grubby sports rucksack. Because it’s hands-free and it’s there.
The stationery: What girl doesn’t love her stationery? Before, I had a smart diary, a notebook and a pink pen (always). Now, I still have a diary but the appointments are more “doc re worms (query?)” than “cocktails at 5pm”. And it has squished fruit bar on the cover. Crumpled receipts are my notepaper, and my writing tool is a broken crayon.
The cosmetics: Before, an Estee Lauder compact, full make-up bag. Now: Vaseline. No job is more parching than that of mother. And it’s also good for baby’s bottom.
The clothes: Before, a fine knit for the cooler air on the way home. Now, a balled-up babygrow in a nappy bag that I forgot to put in the wash. And a single glove.
The toys: Before, A BlackBerry. Now, random bits of Lego, like the Penguin-Dalek pictured above. And a Hex Bug, that frightens the bejesus out of me every time I see or touch it.
Snacks: Before, health bars from the juice cafe. Now, half-eaten biscuits and – sometimes – apple cores. But no raisins. After years of giving my three children raisins, I’ve noticed that the rate of one going in the actual mouth is 1:1000. I have stopped buying them.
Comforter: Before: a gin tin. Now, a gritty dummy.
I don’t think I’ll ever have a crumb-free handbag again, but I can still dream of a changing bag upgrade. The new dedicated baby section on marksandspencer.com – M&S Baby has a huge range of gorgeous baby goods, from the practical (bottles, weaning spoons and so on, which you may not have realised they stock) to the downright beautiful. I love this gorgeous changing bag (below), full of practical features and in the colour of the season. I have all boys but I think they would rock the flamingo fairground babygrow pictured below, and I love the pack of bodysuits in five fab colours, which wash brilliantly and would last to hand down if I were to have another baby. Now, that would be an excuse for a new changing bag…
My Dream Changing Bag
Clockwise, from top left:SKIP HOP M&S Exclusive Deluxe Blue Pinpoint £65.00, 5 Pack Pure Cotton Striped Bodysuits £13.00 – £14.00, Three Pack Girls Fairground Toucan Sleepsuits £15.00 – £16.00, Cotton Rich Teddy Face Bib £4.00, 2 Fish Buggy Toy £10.00, VITAL Baby Weaning Set £4.00, Contemporary Vibrant Yellow Stripe A6 Notebook £4.00, Elegant Gentle Pink Ballpoint Pen £3.00, SKIP HOP Zoo Straw Bottle – Monkey £6.50, MAM Perfect Night Soother.
Some mums know exactly what they’re doing. Then there’s the rest of us.
Everyone knows your first baby is a massive learning curve. You’d think by the third child, I’d have it all sussed. But I find the older my children get, the more “ummy” I become. Mums are supposed to have an answer for everything – but I don’t.
Obviously, I’ve got certain areas nailed:
“Can I jump off the roof of the car?”
“No.”
“Can I play with daddy’s razor?”
“No”
“Can I do my homework?”
Only joking – but just for the record, I would say yes if they ever did ask this.
But all the rest – I just don’t have an instant opinion.
For example: “Can I spend my birthday money [£20] on Match Attacks?”
This is what I think: Giant waste of money, he could get a proper toy for the amount he’s planning to spend, but if he’s to learn about the value of money shouldn’t we allow him to make his own choices and his own mistake purchases? Heck, I’m still making erroneous purchases…
But I can’t say all that to my child. So I say “Ummmm”.
While I think about it. While I run the question through the Mummy Calibrator in my brain.
Even a simple question like “Can I have another Jaffa Cake?” throws up a ridiculous algorithm that I have to solve. While my mouth is saying “Um”, my mind is going:
How long is it till tea?
How many Jaffa Cakes have I given them already?
And how many have they actually had?
Is this a fight I really want to pick? We’ve got the big Homework War coming up straight after tea.
Is there enough for all three of them to have another Jaffa Cake?
Does he really deserve one after refusing to bring his bag in from the car?
He’s only 8 and growing approximately a centimetre a week – what’s the harm?
If I say yes, they’ll start on asking for Cadbury’s Animals. I’ll have opened the floodgate to snackery insanity.
Have I got any snacks for tomorrow after school and have I got time / strength to do an online shop tonight or go tomorrow with the three year-old?
[If a playdate is there:] Will he tell his mum I let them have 4 Jaffa Cakes 10 minutes before tea?
Where’s my Jaffa Cake?
You can see why, when it comes to snacks, I often just go for a simple “Yes”. Or “no”, depending on what battles are left that day.
Of course, saying “Um” is a sign of weakness. It shows you’re not sure. That you’re open to persuasion / manipulation. And my children are all over it. Sometimes by the time I’ve finished saying “Um” they’ve already devoured the Jaffa Cakes, taken all the covers off the beds for their den, and started watching Gummy Bear in Slovakian on YouTube.
Leaving me to rue my failure to give a snappy yes or no.
Jaffa Cakes are just the start, though.
What I’m really talking about is more tricksy issues, such as, “When can I have a mobile?”, “Can [rowdy, annoying friend] come for a sleepover?” and “What is the biggest poo in the world?” (Genuine question. My six-year-old is obsessed with the biggest, the longest, the deepest…And poo, of course.)
I know (and even like!) lots of mums who are pretty clear-cut. No, you can’t have any sugar. No, you can’t jump off that wall. No, you can’t have TV until you’ve done your homework and reading. No, you can’t have an ice cream when it’s zero degrees out. The capital of Slovakia is Bratislava and the biggest poo is the blue whale’s, although it’s mainly water.
I try and be that mum every Monday.
Other mums are much more permissive, but I’m not quite that either. I don’t let them have or do whatever they want, they have a (fairly flexible) routine and go to bed at an appropriate hour. But I do get bored of saying ‘No’ all the time.
And quite often, I just don’t know the answer. I’ve never had an eight year-old before and new issues come up nearly every day that I have to navigate. You’d think that at least I know how to manage my younger two (aged six and three), but all children are different. If I said yes to my eight-year-old about having an extra TV programme, he’d carry on watching until I turned it off at the mains in desperation. Whereas my six year-old would let me stop the show after the allotted time without any fuss.
As well as the new issues that come with the oldest child’s adventure through life, school and emotional maturing, there are the new academic challenges to my brain. English and Maths I’m OK on (so far), but:
“How does electricity work?”
“Why won’t there be a World War 3?”
“Is there a penguin heaven?”
“What’s the coldest place on earth?”
“Um, let’s look at your how things work book, um, because we have nuclear weapons now and, um, most countries get along and agree it would be better to, um, keep it that way [?!?!], um I think they probably get to come to our heaven too, um, isn’t it that Lambert Glacier off Go Jetters?”
Um buys you time, but doesn’t necessarily provide you with answers that will set the world alight. There’s Google for that.
Sibling adjudication is another key area for umminess. If one boy presents with a “he punched me,” claim, before roasting the accused, I have to ascertain whether it was provoked, who is actually most hurt, who should know better and so forth.
A good “um” gets me through, along with a cuddle for the injured party/ies of course.
A good “um” can also give the impression that you are seriously considering a question, when you know full well you’re going to say no – thus softening the blow a little. “Can we go to Centerparcs this weekend?” “Um…no. Soz.”
And the same vice versa. I don’t care what month of the year it is, I’m happy for them to have an occasional ice cream if, in their insanity, they want one, but I like to throw in a nice long um to make them feel like I’m making a MASSIVE concession by letting them, thus winning some mummy brownie points.
So, while the kids can use my “um” against me, I can do the same back at them. Poor deluded dears.
Are you a yummy, a slummy or just an ummy mummy like me?
When your child looks good enough to eat. Literally.
Parenting is hard enough without being so hungry you want to eat your children. Of course, I would never do such a thing (I’m veggie, after all), but talk to me all you want about slow-release carbs and level blood sugar – if I’m restricting my calorie intake, I’m not the only one to suffer.
It’s that time of year when everyone is on a diet, or so it seems. I’m never normally one to join them, but turns out that as the years creep on, you can no longer drink your body weight in Baileys with impunity. The Christmas bulge is harder to lose, and, as mentioned, the years are creeping on. In fact, I am going to be 40 in seven short weeks, and my Baileys belly is not invited to the party!
Eat nice, play nice?
I’m well known amongst family and friends for being a *bit* snappy when hungry. And my kids are annoying enough (LOVE THEM!) anyway. Combine the two and you have misunderstandings, sharp words and, I’m afraid, some downright shouting. Of course, even after a four-course meal, my children have the capacity to goad me, but when I am counting the minutes to my next (sorry-excuse-for-a-) meal, I find it particularly hard to exercise the patience and tolerance necessary for harmonious family relations.
Sugar crash clash
This occurs when the mother (me) is halfway between meals and goes to collect her children, who haven’t eaten for a barbaric three-four hours depending on the lunch rota. Sometimes I’m surprised the car doesn’t go up in flames before we manage to rip the snacks open. But still no snack for mummy.
A similar phenomenon is found in the morning, when the children, high from their breakfast, contrast with their mother, who is so wound up with getting the three of them out the door, she has not been able to eat even if she’d wanted to. Even if the kids’ breakfast is not that sugary, they are still on a different plane to me, and the result is explosive.
(Stealing food) from the mouths of babes
You don’t want that last chip, do you darling?
Even if don’t get hangry like me, there are other subtle effects dieting has on parenting. Watching your child’s every mouthful and pouncing on every unsuspecting slip of the fork. Dumping salt all over leftover food to stop you picking at it – and then eating it anyway. Deceiving your children so they don’t realise you’re on a diet, to avoid introducing the concept at an unnecessarily early age. (Although of course it’s a good thing to teach them healthy eating habits by example.)
A mum marches on her stomach
Mums need fuel.
We do a lot of physical labour: hoisting kids, kit bags, overloaded laundry baskets – and our asses – around all day. Add in emergency sprints to avert accidents at any given moment and you are clocking up quite a burn.
We don’t get much sleep. The energy has to come from somewhere.
We need brain power. If the doctor’s receptionist asks our child’s date of birth, we must not fail to answer as we’re gazing dreamily at the left-over Cheerios on the worktop.
We need comfort. Yeah, yeah I know we’re not supposed to comfort eat in this new juicing age, but sometimes you need a little something when you’re tired, lonely, frustrated, bored, going mental or many of the other feelings common to mums.
So how to combine Parenting and Dieting?
I’m not saying you can’t diet and parent. Obviously. Although in moments of extreme ‘hanger’, you might find yourself thinking dark thoughts about how it’s your child’s doing that you’re in this shape in the first place (incorrect, in my case, the blame is fully at Cadbury’s door) it isn’t fair to take your diet out on the children. My adequately-fed self knows this. So before you snap at your child, ask yourself, is he really being annoying or does mummy need a snack? If after a hasty oatcake you still find them being unreasonable, then welcome to parenthood.
Presents. The only thing that stands between your children and a shit Christmas. And it’s all up to you.
You can talk about baby Jesus all you want, but any parent knows that, to a young child, presents are the true meaning of Christmas. They are what will make this Christmas live or die in your child’s heart and memory. Or so your parental present paranoia tells you.
It’s the last possible day to squeeze in an Amazon Prime before the big day. Feeling comfortable? Sitting pretty on a pile of perfect presents?
Are you sure?
That was me last night, wrapping our little horde of gifts for our three wise men. I thought I’d done so well. The full working week before Christmas had enabled me to get all their presents through the front door with time to wrap them.
All their presents, though? As I surveyed the pile, a little voice started niggling at me:
“Are there enough?”
And then: “Are there too many?”
Judging the fine line between showing your love for your children via the medium of commerce and spoiling them into spoilt brats is a tricky business.
But my parental present paranoia had more to say:
“Have you been fair? Are they big enough? Have I bought the right NERF gun from the massive range of ridiculously similar weapons that all jam and need a thousand batteries anyway?”
Children judge presents by size, not value – there’s no use telling them you spent the same amount to the penny on each of them and have the spreadsheet to prove it. But as they get older, presents they actually want tend to get smaller. I know my oldest is going to kick off about the frankly scarily big stuffed monkey we’ve got his younger brother (£30 from Cosco!) despite his special present being two computer games which cost considerably more but are tiny in comparison.
Children are open books – if you’ve bought the wrong NERF gun, boy, do you know about it. They have not yet mastered the Present Face and their disappointment – and quite possibly anger – will be plain to see. Riling as this is on so many levels – not least invoking the familiar fear that you have not brought up your children properly – I have to say I sympathise. I clearly remember my dear mother giving me a beautiful pink cardigan from Boden and me – may I be struck down! – commenting, as a young teenager!, that “it was the wrong kind of pink”. I’m sure I’m owed 20 years of infant ingratitude for my own sins against parental present-giving.
Children change their minds. In the last few days, as parcels drop through the door every few hours to be whisked away with the words “it’s for me, darling!”, my children have been coming up with all sorts of lovely things they want for Christmas. None of which I have bought. For they are a totally different collection of coveted items to the ones they’ve been talking about ALL YEAR.
What then, is a parent to do?
Panic buy when you’ve already overspent? Donate all their gifts to a children’s hospital to remove the issue?
Or just take a deep breath and hope you’re just being paranoid.
No one knows your children better than you. You will see their little face light up with joy, if only at the selection pack you bought again on Christmas Eve because you keep eating them with the stress of getting it all right.
Whatever you’ve bought your child, I’m sure they will love it, if only in the fulness of time. Meanwhile, I wish you luck, and a very MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Do you always turn the wrong way? Do you struggle with your right and left? This quiz is for you!
If you’re famed amongst family and friends for having no sense of direction, your navigational confidence may be at an all-time low. But this quiz could turn your life around. Maybe it’s not that you have a poor sense of direction; you actually have a perfect sense of anti-direction!
Take this quiz or send to a directionally-challenged friend to find out.
Do you get lost in public toilets?
Especially service station toilets?
Every time?
Where is North? Any idea?
Do have to subtly pretend to write to work out which is your right hand?
Do you need SatNav to do any journey beyond a mile of your home?
Have you ever gone the wrong way out of a motorway services or garage and only realised miles later?
Do you turn the wrong way out of lifts?
Do ambiguous arrows give you the fear?
Does your two-year-old have a far better sense of direction than you?
Does your partner ring you at your ETA with a mixture of concern and amusement to check you got there OK?
Do you get lost in Tesco carpark?
If you’re swimming, do you know which way is up? (Thank goodness for instinct, eh?)
Do your children / friends groan when you get lost AGAIN?
Do you ring your partner to verify SatNav if it sends you on a detour to avoid traffic? Do you end up ignoring both of them and doggedly sit in gridlock rather than trust their witchcraft?
Do you immediately glaze over when someone is giving you directions – they are wasted on you?
Do you frequently take wrong turns despite SatNav?
Do you wish SatNav could be more personal and encouraging: “Oops we came off the wrong exit there, but let’s go back and try again shall we?” rather than diverting you round the houses, with you having no choice but to obey blindly, blinking back tears of frustration at your own ineptitude?
Do other people glaze over when you are giving directions because they know they are wasting their time?
Do you secretly enjoy going your own sweet way, “right” or “wrong”?
Despite all the above, do you frequently insist that your way is the correct one and regularly get into heated arguments about it, even though you are always wrong?
If you answered yes to half or more of the above questions, congratulations! You are blessed with a perfect sense of anti-direction!
Nothing shouts “I’m a mum!” like pulling a breast pad out of your bag when you’re looking for a pen. You can hide a mum tum under a well-chosen top, but if your baby tips your handbag out in public, your half-squeezed mouldy pouches and health-hazard dummies are there for all to see.
Clockwise, from top left: SKIP HOP M&S Exclusive Deluxe Blue Pinpoint £65.00, 5 Pack Pure Cotton Striped Bodysuits £13.00 – £14.00, Three Pack Girls Fairground Toucan Sleepsuits £15.00 – £16.00, Cotton Rich Teddy Face Bib £4.00, 2 Fish Buggy Toy £10.00, VITAL Baby Weaning Set £4.00, Contemporary Vibrant Yellow Stripe A6 Notebook £4.00, Elegant Gentle Pink Ballpoint Pen £3.00, SKIP HOP Zoo Straw Bottle – Monkey £6.50, MAM Perfect Night Soother.
October 7, 2025
The Glass Wall: The Glass Ceiling of the Home – Wry Mummy
maximios Blog
#148193517 / gettyimages.com Do your kids listen to a word you say? Is there anything you utter, apart from “as much Haribo as you can eat!”, that you don’t have to repeat more than once? As if the glass ceiling weren’t enough, we also have to contend with the Glass Wall. “If I have to ask you to put your shoes on again,” (pause while you think of a realistic threat that you haven’t already used in the last three minutes) “you won’t have a birthday party next year either!” Still no movement footwear-wards. I rest my head against something, the invisible barrier that defends my children against the sounds produced by my weary tongue and lips. The Glass Wall. It flips up like a forcefield around the sofa when they’re watching telly. It seals their bedroom when it’s time to go to school and they’ve just got into their Lego. It encases the freezer aisle when I attempt to deny their need for a full range of lollies in November. It – sometimes – stops me enjoying communication with my children. Although screens are indeed glass walls of a sort, and, many would argue, barriers to communication, I talk simply of kids’ innate capacity to completely ignore their parents. Perhaps it’s part of their wonderful and essential ability to concentrate entirely on the present. To acquire new skills by focusing wholly on the matter in the hand, whether it is building an intricate Lego model or watching the end of Dinopaws. Certainly it’s part of our training as parents; we have their teenage years yet to come. Maybe it’s their hearing, I thought. It’s true, one of my children has got a bit of glue ear, so obviously I am aware that this could be a factor. But I know he can hear me from a certain range, which I always try to be within. As an experiment, in your normal voice, ask your child to clean their teeth / go to the loo / put a wash on (delete as appropriate). Then whisper under your breath, “Bye, see you later,” to the babysitter, and see which they pay attention to. Maybe it’s my hearing, I thought. I admit to tuning out a lot of their bickering and low-level whining where I know from experience that my interference will only prolong the white noise of childhood chuntering. I defy anyone to hear what their dearest child in the back seat is murmuring above the blare of ‘Gangnam Style’ in the car, when reaching for the volume control is caught by hawk eyes and decried with the ferocity of a tigress. I feel like I’m in a London cab, except that I’m not the happy drunk one in the back but the miserable driver. The only difference is, I want the glass partition open. It makes me sad that I miss those golden words from the backseat. But I can hear a child make that pre-vomit choking noise from the heart of the deepest sleep. It’s not so much you hear what you want to hear, but you hear what you need to hear. I know selective deafness is nothing new. I’m sure in the early days of man, caves resounded with mothers and fathers yelling, “Barney, get your loincloth on, we’re going hunting in five ticks of the shadow past the rock!” But what do you do about it? There’s whole organisations devoted to petitioning Parliament to smash the glass ceiling – quite rightly – but where’s the campaign group to get kids to listen to their parents? Maybe I’ll just have to wait till they’re old enough to use the only way I get answers out of their father. Via What’s App.
