The Chocolate Wars

I have a pretty enviable three year old, who does what he is told. He looks for my hand as soon as we get near a road or into a car park, he isn’t a screamer or prone to tantrum, he always says thank you, and he never ever takes things without asking.

Well, he never used to,  anyway.

The last two weeks I have woken up in the morning to various ‘surprises’ in the kitchen. Empty wrappers, chocolate crumbs, empty spaces where expensive imported treats used to be.. All before 7am. After receiving various pieces of advice, I decided to chronicle the events, for other judgemental parents worldwide, and as a testament to the last few weeks of my life-if as I suspect, the stress of this early morning battle of wills actually forces me into an early grave.

Sunday May 11th
Hubby calls me into the kitchen, to be greeted by a virtual mountain of Reese’s cup wrappers. I count the damage, 9. I’m torn between shock that he would take them and eat them without asking, and hope that I don’t have to deal with projectile vomiting elsewhere in the house. I go find R, and after naughty corner, sternly tell him it is not acceptable behaviour, and there will be no treats for the rest of the day, and take away a stuffed toy. No tears from him, but those punishments are usually the end of it in our house, so I get on with the day.

Sunday May 18th
Had almost forgotten about last week’s ‘mishap.’ About 7.30am, I went to throw some rubbish in our kitchen bin, and was confronted by an empty bag of giant milky bar buttons. A bag I could have sworn had been half full. So unsure that it would have happened again, my first instinct was to ask the other man in our house. “Darling?” I called through the bathroom door. “Did you wake up in the night with the munchies, and finish off half a bag of giant milky bar buttons?” Surprisingly, my hubby was not the culprit.

This time I got really angry. Especially after asking R if he’s eaten anything from the kitchen and getting a negative response. Stealing, Lies, Deception tactics… was my son on the road to a juvenile detention centre?! Overreactions aside, (after three minute naughty corner for us to confab) this time we took away iPad, (more of a punishment for us frankly) and favoured toys for a week. Niggling thought in back of head that we needed a consistent punishment if this was going to become a habit. Also occurred to us that taking away treats doesn’t really work when the child in question has already had more chocolate that morning than you would ordinarily allow in a week.

Monday May 19th
“He’s done it again.”
No one wants to wake up to those words. Not for the second day in a row. I blearily went into the kitchen, to find a Musketeers Bar gnawed on on the floor. Should I be glad he at least didn’t try to hide it today? Unimpressed by the peanuts, he had bitten off all the surrounding chocolate, leaving a pile of shavings on the floor. I literally gave birth to a hamster. Sigh.
Again, he denied it, even when faced with the evidence. He started pulling funny faces, looking cross, and basically acting.. well.. three. Eventually I was rewarded with the indignant, “What?! I was so hungry!” which surprisingly didn’t make me feel any better, especially as he had been given a full cup of Cheerios about a half hour beforehand, still untouched in his bedroom. We decided on a consistent punishment, but I have a feeling it’s more about getting through to him.

I turned to social media, and as we all do, asked a question I already had my own opinion on, and waited for someone to agree with me. Should I move the choc to a cupboard out of his reach, or find a consistent punishment and stick with it? I had an overwhelming response towards option number one. Nearly everyone agreed that he was too little to deal with the temptation, and I was causing myself more hassle than necessary trying to get the message into his little boy head.

Of course, like the majority of us, I couldn’t care less what anyone else’s thoughts about my parenting are, and decided to ignore popular opinion and keep at the consequences approach. Short term pain, long term gain. As easy as it might be to just avoid the problem and move it all away, by persevering I would teach R that he can’t have whatever he wants without asking, that lying is wrong, that gluttony is wrong. It would be worth it in the long run when I had built up a three year old who asks permission, who knows that just because something is tempting, it doesn’t mean he gets to just take it. I would be raising a man who is loyal and honest and has patience, and is TRUSTWORTHY.  Either that, or just less calories for me to inhale in the mean time. Win Win.

Tuesday May 20th
Success! No chocolate eaten, one happy little boy reunited with the iPad and lots and lots of praise and play. Oh all of ye of little faith out there! I had an excellent talk with him, explained all the reasons why he can’t help himself, and here are the results. Smug mum alert. I knew I could get through to him.

Wednesday May 21st
Er… May have spoken too soon, if the remains of an ENTIRE EASTER EGG in the bin this morning are anything to go by….
Again, greeted by denial and angry face, and eventual insistence that he was “very very hungry” and then that I was “not at ALL splendid.” (Cue fist in mouth to muffle snort of laughter and maintain stern face.)

If this hadn’t already become a matter of principle, I think I may be ready to move to the ‘move it’ camp. But hey, who DOESN’T love banging their head against a brick wall eh?

We have now enlisted nursery to help, with his favourite Auntie coining the hashtag, “Big Boys Don’t Take Without Asking.” I love it; we’re printing t-shirts.

Not quite, but we have made a fetching sign together, and dare I say it… I *think* he gets the message this time.

Agree with me? Think I’m mad? Feel free to post below. I can only hope this is the end of the saga, but something makes me say “To be continued…”

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Disneyland Paris… through his eyes.

As many of you know, my son has a genetic eye condition known as Nystagmus. Those of you who have met him, will notice his involuntary eye movement, like a pendulum from side to side. You may know from me that he is partially sighted, as it would never be obvious to look at him, he is fiercely capable in almost every situation.

But when we booked to take him, age 3 and a half to EuroDisney in Paris, I can’t pretend I wasn’t nervous. The noise, the crowds, the simple newness of it all can be a recipe for disaster for even a fully sighted child, let alone one who struggles when we move his coat along a peg without sharing the info first. So when the Nystagmus Network, a fabulous charity working to provide support and information for us all, asked me to write a blog on what turned out to be an incredible trip for all of us, how could I refuse?

EuroDisney has an excellent accessibility policy which covers a wide number of disabilities, and the staff are happy to answer any questions you might have about the parks suitability. As a disclaimer, this blog can only comment on visual impairment, and even then only specifically on Nystagmus… And even then, really on my particular little boy. Hello? Any readers left? … Oh hi Husband.

The first thing you need to know before you book, is that you’ll need clear medical evidence of your child’s condition. We used his sight impairment card, and also took a couple of recent hospital reports which detailed Nystagmus and his difficulties with bright lights, crowds, loud noises, and the like. Truthfully they were happy with just the card, and seemed familiar with it too. Go straight to city hall, on the left once you enter the main Disneyland park, and present this evidence, and they will give you a green card, ticked with visual impairment on the back. On the front it will detail how many people the card admits to an attraction. There were three of us, and the card can admit up to six depending on the individual circumstances of the card holder. Note: this counts for all rides and attractions, but not for parades and shows. (See below.)

Once you have the card, you will not have to queue for any ride in either park. Just look for the disabled sign at each ride, (no mean feat for a sight impaired child and his sight impaired mother!) which is usually by the exit, and a staff member will be along to help you. You will need to show your card for each ride, so keep it handy, and try not to lose or destroy it. One extremely capable parent had somehow managed to have hers laminated, a feat which will keep me puzzling for years to come. Does she carry a pocket laminator around with her?

Nystagmus parents will know, that simply the passage of time itself, as well as any new environment is truly exhausting for our wobbly eyed little ones. Standing in queues, waiting in crowds, sometimes for up to an hour, all for a two minute flash of a ride, is either impossible, or not maintainable for longer than a ride at a time. The card meant that we could get on average three times as much done as those without it, meaning that although we would still need to take a long break for him to sleep or rest every two or three hours, it would be after 10 rides rather than 3. There was still waiting, for rides to begin and behind others with a disabled card, but it was usually in an emptier space, often with seating, and never for longer than five minutes at a time.

The other amazing plus was that we could get off and on the same ride sometimes 3 or more times in a row, using the first time round as a ‘getting used to the feelings/sounds’ and then subsequently pointing out what we thought he could see the next time(s) round. The staff were really helpful and lovely about this. Just remember to get off at the end of the ride, and ask the staff where the best place to wait to go on the ride again would be.

One further note on the rides, which we didn’t think of before we left. An unexpected discovery for us was how much our little man enjoyed the roller-coaster kind of rides. Where he was tall enough to go on, these were by far his favourite. Debriefing in the hotel, we think we can understand why. On those rides, it is a purely sensory experience where he can stop working hard to see and just let go and enjoy. Dark tunnels, light outside, fast movement in every direction, no one on the ride knows what’s coming next, and no one can see anything at all, in fact- there is nothing to see! If your LOs are of the brave variety, I would really recommend being courageous yourself and taking them on Thunder Mountain. I rarely see my son that freely enjoying himself, with no hard work on his part whatsoever. Just wait an hour or two after lunch.

A word on the shows and parades. Disney is known for its productions, and there are various shows running all day long. The staff will be as helpful as they can be, but the disabled areas are not close to the stage in all the theatres we tried, (being more set up for wheelchair access etc) and parents do not stop to look at your disability card before elbowing you out of the way with an Elsa wand so that they have the best view for their hyped up candy floss filled youngsters. Once people are seated, they will not move anyone to make space for a visually impaired child.

You may decide that all the shows are just therefore entirely unsuitable, and you will still have plenty to do at the parks. but where you can, present your green card, and bat your eyelashes, and ask at the door whether you can reserve a seat for a later showing,. This also has the benefit of being able to ask for something specific. (For example our son sees far better on the left than right.) Make sure they write the request down, as staff changes often on the admissions desks.

In terms of parades, it’s a little more complicated. The disabled areas give the best views, ensuring no one will be standing directly in your line of vision, but at the end of the day, it’s a parade! It’s fast moving, lots of colour, lots of music and no way to prepare for each new float ahead of time. The characters were brilliant, coming right up to the barriers to shake hands and wave at the kids in the disabled area, which made the parade worthwhile for us, even though I don’t think our LO got a great deal more than that out of it. Coupled with the fact that the card only admits one carer at a time with the child, meaning we had to separate, after that one try on the first day, we skipped the parades and used the time to get food and drinks where the queues were shortest. The night time Disney Dreams show in particular is late at night, full of loud noises, fast changing pictures, confusing colours and large crowds. Just to make things even easier, you can not stand anywhere remotely close due to the fireworks. Our son immediately asked us to “turn it off” and spent the remainder of the show in a frightened cuddle.

The Disney hotels, Cafe Mickey, and various ‘character meets’ around the parks meant that I personally didn’t feel like he was missing out by not seeing the parades, but it’s definitely something to bear in mind when planning your trip, especially with fully sighted siblings in tow.

I was incredibly impressed with both Disneyland Paris itself, and the accessibility policies they had in place. A number of decades ago, children like my son would not have been able to walk through the park gates without a meltdown of epic proportions. We would have managed maybe two rides a day, and certainly no shows or parades. The whole experience would have been miserable. We are extremely lucky to live in a time where disabilities of all kinds are recognised and worked around. and EuroDisney are certainly to be commended for their work to provide equal opportunities for all visitors.

As with any experience in life, there were elements of our stay which were out of our son’s reach, but these largely went unnoticed. Thanks to a little organisation on our part, and incredible effort and thought from the magic of Disney, the wobble in his eyes was far outweighed by the wonder.

Why Kanye is a moron, and other stories.

“I am not a fan of books. I would never want a book’s autograph. I am a proud non reader.”

At first look, these seem like the words of a idiot. But after closer inspection, Kanye West is so much more than just your average moronic individual.

Being a ‘fan’, wanting an ‘autograph’, that language means more today than it ever has done. We have more access to celebrities, more ways to stalk them, more insight into their lives and their comings and goings than any generation before us. We aren’t standing in the front row of a concert, waving a “marry me” banner and screaming ourselves hoarse. We’re looking up info on the internet, scouting out our celeb’s home on google maps, climbing the tree outside their window and whispering subliminal messages while they sleep, carefully crouching in that blind spot between the security cameras, to film our own foundation for a heavily iMovie edited fan fiction blog.

For a celebrity himself to talk about being a fan, wanting an autograph, being proud, is dangerous language to use. If Kanye believes one tenth of the things he says about himself, being the next Nelson Mandela, the next Steve Jobs, the next sliced bread, he must be aware that he has influence. Influence over young minds and actions alike. To make the idea of being a ‘fan’ of books into a joke is not only ignorant to the billion dollar industry he is bad mouthing, but also putting an idea into motion, that books are not cool, that reading is not worth pursuing or getting excited over.

Mid twenties, I’m past the age of infatuation with celebrities, and like any generation worth it’s salt, I like to think that even if I were a teen right now, the so called music of today would not be worth my adoration. Sorry, can anyone understand what Tinchy Stryder is saying? Can someone tell Justin Beiber to get a haircut? Don’t One Direction have homework to be getting on with?

But hyperbole aside, I’m not so far gone that I don’t remember what it felt like. I had massive posters of BSB and Boyzone on my wall, and was secretly sad when I found out Steven Gately was gay. (Like that was the main obstacle to us living happily ever after). I cut out pics of unlikely teen heart-throbs Evan and Jaron (anyone?!) and stuck them in clumsily drawn hearts. I religiously read articles and interviews in Shout and Cosmo girl, just in case I ever bumped into Craig David and could wow him with my knowledge that his favourite ice cream flavour is vanilla. (In case he wasn’t already aware.)

But nowadays, I fan girl in a different way. Lionel Shriver spoke at this years London book fair, and I got there an hour and a half early to save myself the best seat. I tweet authors obsessively, and get almost unbearably excited when they reply. If I had to write a list of the books I would love the autograph of? Let’s just say we would be here a while. Books have changed my life, have made me cry far more than any ex-boyfriend, have brought me to tears of uncontrollable laughter, and have taught me more about myself than any one person. I would be proud to cover my notebooks with “Mrs Elisheva Books”, heart-ing the i, and cutting out glossy pictures of libraries across the globe. Just try and stop me from stripping naked and hiding out in a book’s trailer for when the show finishes.

“I am a fan of books, I would most definitely want a books autograph. I am a proud reader.”

I don’t expect my opinion to make the youth of today run off to Foyles, and I’m sure that some of my childhood ‘heroes’ are also non readers, just like Kanye. You don’t have to be a bookworm to write or perform great music. Certainly not to write popular music. But the point is, I don’t know whether Ronan has a volume of short stories on his bedside cabinet. I’m not sure if the A1 boys like a bit of Bronte after a long day. They never lifted themselves off the 2D background of my bedroom walls to tell me. To make me less literate, to encourage me to learn less, to take less notice of better minds than my own.

Well done Kanye! you don’t read. Frankly, no one is surprised to learn that you’re not a Dickens fan, or even a Katie Price fan, with your almost agonisingly poor verbal and written skills. But you are self aware enough to know that people are listening to you, people are emulating you, for the same reason that I know that Aaron Carter’s middle name is Charles and he has a twin sister called Angel. You’re famous. And unlike many other celebrities who say they don’t want the responsibility of being a role model, you actively seek it out. It’s not just fame you’re after. “I got the answers, I understand culture, I am the nucleus.” Every word out of your mouth is another sound bite or bumper sticker for kids looking for guidance. You WANT to be a role model.

It’s an inescapable part of celebrity in this day and age that fame will almost inadvertently turn a person into a role model of sorts, whether positive or otherwise. But this kind of subtle propaganda against literacy and reading is in many ways more dangerous than any dry humping of a wrecking ball. Your average teenager might think Miley Cyrus is cool, but the furthest the adoration is likely to go is a bit of harmless twerking at a school disco. Fashions change, trends come and go, and teenage girls grow up and realise that without the help of an airbrush, they really don’t have the legs for it.

But a fatwa on books? On reading? On one of the fundamentals of any form of education?

Careful Kanye, or the next generation of easily swayed youth will be incapable of reading your mindless drivel to start wi… On second thoughts, as you were.

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Just don’t mention the edible glue.

I never had birthday cakes. As a kid I mean. I admit, it’s not the most often cited form of child abuse, so I can imagine you’re finding it hard to drum up appropriate sympathy. I doubt the NSPCC often whisper in hushed tones about birthday cake neglect as they try to rehouse badly cared for children. “Y’know, I heard he had to make do with cupcakes. And they weren’t even chocolate. I shudder to think.”

But it’s true nonetheless. I think the word ‘never’ might be a little harsh, as I have a couple of photos pre the age of 5 of me standing in front of store-bought rectangular monstrosities with calligraphy Happy Birthdays and chalky icing numbers that would never taste as good as they looked. After that age, I remember the odd year where I could sneak a supermarket-bought chocolate cake underneath the rest of the shopping in the trolley, once we’d checked for a V for Vegetarian of course. Our aim in life being to appear to the world as ultra-orthodox even though we were in reality nothing of the sort, these had to be eaten quickly and stealthily, and the trappings thrown in the outside bin so that no passing visitor (like my brother for example) would see that it wasn’t ‘strictly kosher.’ Eating cake in secret wasn’t something I would ever learn to enjoy, the self loathing pretty much overriding any of the butter-creamy goodness they ever had to offer.

So perhaps it’s more honest to say I never had the birthday cake ‘experience.’ No candles to blow out, no friends singing embarrassingly at me, no parents up to their elbows in fondant the night before the big day, cursing at Thomas’s funnel for refusing to stand upright. If I’m honest, it’s that last part that bothers me the most. I’m not the most creative person in the world, and a step by step recipe is going to be the least of my expectations if I’m going to make anything half recognisable, but making my son a birthday cake every year is one of the ways I say, “I know you.”

I know that before you were one, and you couldn’t even see our faces, reading the Gruffalo out loud was the only thing that could calm you down, so committing the entire book to memory was the least we could do for you. We spent the best part of that year regaling audiences across coffee shops and shopping malls and London transport whenever you were cranky. I’m pretty sure a couple people missed their stops to find out how that crafty mouse escaped consumption.

Before you were two, and you began to enjoy the world, you learned to reach out and have your own effect on your surroundings, lifting flaps and beaming at the results of your own hands. We read Dear Zoo over and over again, buying every version we could find. The devil makes work for idle hands must be based on a toddler, as keeping a book in your reach was the best way to keep our house intact.

This year, almost three, and you are making your own sentences, demanding to ‘read’ books to us, and with the patience given at birth (not mine, his) we listen to your babble with the odd word thrown in for good measure.  Each step I follow in making your cake this year is my way of showing how proud I am of your achievements.

I met a five year old recently who had been given a guitar cake for her birthday. “Amazing!” I exclaimed in my special over excited voice I reserve for children and the mentally challenged. When she shrugged I decided to probe further. “So how long have you been playing guitar?”

“I don’t.” She replied forlornly. “I play piano and recorder.”

Hello nspcc? It’s me again, I don’t think you’re understanding the gravity of the situation. She plays recorder, and the cake was in the shape of a GUITAR. That’s not even close frankly. It’s not even a wind instrument… .

It was like looking in a mirror. Over the top or not, slightly crazy or otherwise, this nugget of ‘I don’t know you’ from my own childhood has stayed with me. And so, I’m a little bit obsessed with birthday cakes. Weirdly enough, the birthday itself I can take or leave, buying random gifts last minute on Amazon, and choosing cards based on the ‘least awful one in the bargain bin’ criteria. (All I’m saying is, if I have to buy a five pound card, you aren’t getting a present. Or a card for that matter.) I’m not even a fan of the happy birthday song, as frankly I think if we all put our heads together we could do a lot better both musically and lyrically, but damn-it if I’m not going to get you double figure ‘likes’ on your cake photo on Facebook.

So it’s definitely not birthdays in general I feel passionately about. Although I’m glad I have one.  I once knew a man who had no idea when his birthday fell, or even how old he was. This to me was extremely newsworthy.

But.. but… how do you fill in forms? How do you sign up to things online? What’s life like without that oddly satisfying feeling of seeing your birthday written down on a pint of milk or a movie poster, like a private joke between you and the universe?

He seemed unperturbed, but I wasn’t interested in letting this go.

How did you ever get employed anywhere?!

“Ah, Mr Smith, lovely to meet you. Please do sit down and let me take a few pieces of basic information before we start the interview.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Full name?”
“Mr Horatio Brandon Smith.”
“Gender..? Male… Good, UK citizen?”
“Oh yes, for over three decades now.”
“Excellent. Date of Birth?”
“Ah… well actually… I’m not sure.”
“Sorry, I said date of birth. -pause- your birthday.”
“Yes, I don’t actually have that information to hand.”
“How about year of birth at least? … -awkward pause-  How OLD are you?”
“Cant help you there. Somewhere between 50 and 60 I would guess?”

It blew my mind. I mean, when does he have cake with his name on? Just randomly when he feels like it? Has he chosen a day in replacement? If so, how did he choose it? Statistically most people are born in August. Would he go with probability, or purposely choose a less likely month for fairness sake? I still have so many unanswered questions! Unfortunately, we never traded contact info, and it’s hard enough to track people down, let alone without a date of birth to go by….

This generation, birthdays have become a much bigger deal, with endless yummy mummies making their fortune with at-home bakeries sure to make even the pickiest birthday brat girl beam. And if like me, you’re a little bit hysterical and have based your worth as a parent on making the cake from start to finish by yourself, it’s much easier to be creative. Spending a mortgage payment at a shop called Sugar Shack, which is basically baking erotica, and armed with a step by step recipe pilfered from the Internet, I am now in possession of all the cheats necessary to make me a temporary Nigella. Edible markers, edible glitter, edible paint… Another plus of Sugar Shack is the ease you can convince your other half it’s a necessary investment just by reading out the names in your shopping basket. (Just don’t mention the edible glue.)

I’m not naive about the likely reception to my efforts. At the grand unveiling, I fully expect more praise from old high school friends I haven’t seen in a decade than I do from the eponymous hero of the cake itself. I imagine R looking briefly at the masterpiece, sussing it’s food and shouting ‘eat it!” before descending into a full blown tantrum. But that’s part of the magic for me. If a parent had made me a cake with half the effort that this one is going to take, I would probably be a blubbering mess of gratitude. I actually think it would be too much love to take. And while I do love cake, I’m aware that’s not a normal reaction.

Don’t get me wrong, as they grow old enough to understand both the concept of effort and the hassle of food colouring, I fully expect a heartfelt thank you for my yearly forays into domestic goddess mode. But I like the idea that birthday cakes will be the norm. Along with dinner on the table, bed times, cuddles, help with homework, and any number of other things I never had.

Probably the way my grandchildren will feel about expensive birthday cards.

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