Open the presents, quick!

 Presents! Presents! PRESENTS!

I didn't deserve them!

Okay, maybe the corn dolly reindeer. Yes, I did deserve that. In view of the awkward moment I introduced round the Christmas tree.

But the best and most deserving writ-for-Grit present, here. I totally recommend. If you are a lover of window sills.

I can take my proper place in the order of wacko

For years I have mocked the assumption that if you home educate it must be because you are profoundly religious. And because it's just too easy to jump that step from knowing someone has a deep-seated belief to the conclusion that because they also chose home ed, they must be a religious fanatic, isolating their kids from any corrupting influence to better indoctrinate them with a single world view.

Usually, my take is to say yes, there are parents who home educate for religious motives and their kids probably attend the tennis club with everyone else. Yes, there are parents who put their child in a single focus faith school and their kids probably come out into a world to meet the non-believers. Yes, there are parents whose religion at home puts their child in direct contradiction with the culture of school - watch a child of Jehovah's Witness face the school build up to Christmas, and you'll know what I mean. Yes, there are oddballs; the ones of singular eccentricity regarding the divine - but education can't be a reliable barometer for their peculiar degree of wacko. On that, I have an extended family as evidence.

Mostly, I have felt on the outside of all those opinions. Until today. When I discover what looks to me like a makeshift shrine to a unicorn and the offering of a sacrificed cat called Bubbles.

Mr Balls, I hope you can see your mistake

Because Mr Balls, now you're not contending only with old trout Grit in this household.

You're taking on all the little grits, fourteen unicorns, a plaster fairy and a pegasus.

This unlikely alliance is the result of you trying to remove their rights. Shark, Squirrel and Tiger believe it is their right to choose what they learn, where they learn, and how they learn. And they see you as trying to undermine those rights.* So they have started drafting out campaigning newsletters.

And putting up banners in the garden.


And then assembling the leaders of the march in a big pile to be given a rousing speech by Squirrel, who has said you are probably a big fat bum and she would like to punch you on the nose, but she recognises that is not how we do things so she is setting up an organisation to defeat you. Her words. Not mine.


Now you can pooh-pooh their work as the result of parental brainwashing if you wish.

But I will call it the result of seeing school parties of 60 kids at a time queueing for twenty minutes in Snibston discovery centre to be shouted at for wandering off, while Shark, Squirrel and Tiger play happily on the equipment for as long as they like before discussing their observations one-to-one with the education staff.

I will also call their work today the result of the freedom they experience in choosing to go swimming, visit London, attend walks, workshops, and be talked to and respected as individuals at our local library, shops and museum.

I'll also add the fact that one of their schooled friends told them that being home educated must be the coolest thing ever.

And the fact that Squirrel says she now is quite interested in politics, and why don't they teach that at school because she quite fancies that when she is not doing law, running her own business or being a paleontologist and dancer.

I haven't yet got round to their observations about the way kids are locked up all day away from society, or the boring uniforms, the lack of ambition in creative arts, and the grudge that Squirrel still holds about the sandpit from nursery. The sandpit she so desperately wanted to play with, day after day, and was told she could not do that because they were all doing something else INCLUDING WATCHING TV.

And the fact that my mini campaigners originally spelled out We want rats before this was pointed out to them and it became We want rits and finally We want rites merely goes to show that this is all part of a living education, tied to real life, real need, and real demands.

Mr Balls, I hope you're listening to these active campaigners, and future voters.


* Recommendation 1, being told what 'outcomes' to teach for, and 'supported', should we choose differently:

At the time of registration parents/carers/guardians must provide a clear statement of their educational approach, intent and desired/planned outcomes for the child over the following twelve months.

Guidance should be issued to support parents in this task with an opportunity to meet local authority officers to discuss the planned approach to home education and develop the plan before it is finalised. The plan should be finalised within eight weeks of first registration.

Would that plan co-incide with your National Curriculum, Mr Balls?

The house of pain

Girls, you are playing with the unicorns. I'm not celebrating.

When you, Shark, run to the toy box and pull out the furry unicorns, one after the other by the horn, mane, tail and hoof, my heart sinks. Squirrel screams in glee and Tiger claps her hands. I was truly, honestly, deeply, hoping, that you had forgotten about the unicorns. Despair can sweep through this land like it blows holes through my heart.

But you'd think that little girls playing with their fluffy unicorns was cute, wouldn't you? OK. It starts cute. Listen to this.

Lovely! Her tail is sparkling!
She will dream of having that wedding photo took.
She hasn't been asked to marry yet. She needs everyone's permission to marry!
Why?
Because she is a princess and there has to be a proclamation.

Sounds cute, doesn't it? Now listen.

Aliche the unicorn hasn't chosen who to marry.
She wants to marry Col...
No, not that one. That's the one we dangled by the tail.
The one we put in prison so he couldn't get out.

You see? Things are taking a sinister turn, aren't they?

I have a nice tail brush. I'm putting more wax on that.
You can't relax with wax on your tail, can you?
Tie it down.
Strap that to his legs.

I can't bear to look.

Can he see anything?
Put this up his nose.
Use a stick.

Right. I'm taking a peek.

Good grief. My kitchen looks like an operating theatre. They've got a unicorn staked out on the table, tied up with orange wool. They're stabbing at it with a cocktail stick and hitting it with a wax candle. When I ask what's going on, I'm told this is Furryhorn, and he's at the unicorn beauty parlour because he's getting married later.

I'd like to say it gets better at The House of Grit Beauty Centre, aka Sweeney Todd's.

Look how she is shining!
Doesn't she look beautiful!
Not when you're soaking wet.
No! She goes under the water and tumbles down and down.
And stays there.
Like she is dead.
And falling apart.
And then can't get out!
Then she has to eat her tail.

Oh my God. Now we are not satisfied with killing and dismembering the corpse. Now it turns into a cannibal tail-eating zombie fest straight from Night of the Living Dead.

I could set about writing an academic paper on triplets playing with unicorns. I might conclude, girls, that these little furry monsters are really extensions of your personalities, where you can use them to build friendships, nurture enemies, settle scores and explore deep, dark, places of your eight-year old psyche, like fears, liberations and control; or your sense of duty and loyalty; your loves and responsibilities, your feelings of power and powerlessness; your who you are.

Now because I know these kids and their unicorns, I would hazard a guess to say that in the next five hours, play will evolve like this.

Shark, Squirrel and Tiger will move from the let's talk about it stage to the let's do it stage. This is the soil and oil down the toilet moment. Let's move the unicorns to the beauty bath! Here they can play in the mud which we will bring inside! Now add foam and leaves! Then in jumps Danceyhorn because he doesn't want to get married anymore and he is hiding. Look! All the unicorns want to hide from the princess bride! She's going to take the bath because she has eaten beetroot soup that we made from mamma's food colouring!

Of course you are thinking Grit! Make them stop! Don't let them fill up the bath! Of course I will try that. I will try and distract them with a rotten apple or a few beads. But if I attempt to interrupt any unicorn play, then take cover. Because this is deep, intense, stream of consciousness play. And if the intruder seeks to swing it their way, they must get in there with Danceyhorn and Lem and Col and all their type. Because if you just try to come along and say STOP! then you may as well plant firecrackers in everyone's shoes because at that word these kids will be screaming and tearing about this house like Hurricane Misery on acid.

From here of course, I have to watch. The next step is a furious row. Probably between Lem and Danceyhorn. Troublemakers. They'll fall out over something like who gets to marry Lem first. Then, because we are now talking betrayal, disloyalty, powerlessness, torn promises, revenge, the beauty parlour will be spoiled, the tears of hurt will fall and the insults fly.

But Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are too far mired in deep structure play with the unicorns, and cannot stop playing, no matter now how sharp the pain, scarred the walls, or broken hearted is mama while mopping up the beetroot blood spatters.

The final spark will be a control over meaning, over a unicorn, over the words of the unicorn marriage ceremony. The deeper intent will be loyalty, need, rejection, humiliation. A real fight will break out. Tiger will lock herself in the bathroom, howling. Squirrel will spin off to Planet Rage. Shark will snatch all the unicorns to stop cruel mama taking them from her grasp. Cruel mama will end up on the floor, clutching the back end of a wet unicorn covered in bath foam and beetroot.

There is only one outcome for today. Screaming. Throwing objects. Groundings. The whole house will be in uproar, the bath will be full of mud, the unicorns spinning in the washing cycle, a zero sense of achievement, a face full of tears and a day torn apart.

Danceyhorn and Sparkle get married. The beginning of the end.

History should tell us

All morning me and Dig are drowned under an ocean tide of sweetness and co-operation, so the grounding and the threat of having to stay at home forever - or at least never being able to stop on bike rides to visit places of interest ever again - have possibly had an impact on Shark, Squirrel and Tiger's developing mentalities.

And mummy Grit and daddy Dig are feeling good about this. We are the King and Queen of our castle! We have demonstrated the sovereign powers and rights of the ruling parents! Yes! We have established authority and control in our own dominion! Yes! We have contained the rank and file and ordered our society!

In this stable and adult directed environment we like to believe the little gritlets are researching new ways of co-operation and team working. We have seen such evidence indeed. The careful and socially responsible division of mud for the mud pies for example, cutting the grass with nail scissors so mamma doesn't have to get out the mower, sitting together in the tree, whispering, and proclaiming that because they have been so helpful and nice now for four hours and thirty-two minutes, that's justification for daddy Dig to book another PGL holiday and for mamma to take them to see Nim's Island at the Odeon.

We will see, I say, after lunch, when everyone has been polite at the table and not shouted 'She got more than me!' And then, carefully putting down her fork, Shark declares 'And now I want to sit on a parent'.

Usually this is not the creepy thing it sounds. This is something that Shark, Squirrel and Tiger do when they like to assert their claims to be cute. They like to come and sit on a parental lap after eating. The grown ups have fondly explained this as a way of saying 'thank you for my full tummy' but it probably evolved from a sort of primitive-instinct thing to secure ongoing parental attachment so that dinner appears on the table in four hours, and possibly cake inbetween.

Of course at the knee-sitting routine Shark, Squirrel and Tiger take turns, because they have only two parents. Sometimes they agree in advance who is sitting on who for how long and sometimes they organise the line up for the knee-sitting and cuddles by rota. But sometimes they just start pushing and shoving and fighting. Then daddy Dig and mummy Grit get swamped by not very cute arms and legs thrashing about and become flattened under the combined weight of two huge kids fighting for control over a left leg and get elbows in the face and then everyone starts shouting, screaming and crying and the gritlets get banished from the kitchen and sent to the far reaches of the kingdom to calm down.

Well today that line of Shark's is a bit creepy because I get the intuitive feeling the little girls might have somehow planned this invasion upon the royal person; there is a bit of meaningful silence and intent looking at Shark when she says 'And now I want to sit on a parent', and Squirrel and Tiger both laugh. Dig laughs too, but I think it may be nervous.

Squirrel sits on Dig's knee and Tiger and Shark agree to divide up the mummy Grit legs so that Tiger perches on the left and Shark perches on the right. That's not very comfortable, and I think my thigh bones might be cracking under the strain but I'm prepared to go with it because everyone's been so sweet and helpful now for six hours ten minutes.

And then out of nowhere the unicorn appears. Unicorns are banned from the kitchen. And the front room, schoolroom and now, the toilets. They routinely knock over the wine glasses, land in the tomato sauce and inhabit spaces where they should not be. They take over the remote control, guard the stairs, command the computer table and get dolled up in sparkly necklaces and silk scarves before taking flying lessons down the stairs. The unicorns are everything. They are the brave soldiers who fight against the watties, and the watties, I suspect, are me and Dig and every adult thing. The unicorns, if I am being philosophical about it, are the symbol of the struggle between the powers and rights of the child and those of the adult world. They are the pioneers expanding kiddy frontiers; they sweep the land for dominance and assert the right to baron rule. They even have their own song.

And I am trapped. When I am safely pinned down in my kitchen chair with two 8-year olds feigning cuteness, fastening my legs to the floor and with one hand each holding my arms, the unicorns appear. There is uproar and laughter. It could be the siege of Berkeley Castle* all over again.

Because in what better manner to to subvert the newly-established adult control, to reestablish kiddy dominance, than to strike at the head that wears the crown? Not one, but two unicorns are battered up and down on mummy Grit's tender head while the unicorn anthem is chanted to whoops of delight.

Well after the barons have scattered to raise their further armies, I may leave the bloody scene undignified, with an elbow in the face and with my crown displaced, but I leave too with resolve. Next time I will return with better watchfulness and will check under the kitchen curtains before agreeing to any knee-sitting.

And, I can claim, I have got away lightly, because at no point was I threatened with a red-hot poker up the bottom**.

The usurper, plotting the next attack

And while we're about it, I've found this palm squirrel on the schoolroom floor. Tiger claims the stick strapped to its ear is a snorkel but I do not believe her. It looks suspiciously like a pikestaff to me.

* The parliamentarian forces take the castle in the English Civil War
** The unfortunate but fatally flawed Edward II

Bathroom etiquette

I am a proud mummy.

Shark, Tiger and Squirrel have reached a new, important stage in their intellectual development as Proper Growing Up Little Madams.

When they were aged five, or six, one of them, usually Squirrel, would be dispatched on a mission to find me, wherever I was in the house. Mummy! she would whisper urgently, with eyes wide and expression grave. Do not come into the bathroom!

This injunction is, obviously, a fundamental mistake, as any supervising mother will know. Of course I uttered Oh my god, then left my appearance a decent time, possibly three minutes, before striding into the bathroom as if I had forgotten the request, or come to claim Oh that was a long time ago, and anyway, come out quickly because there is jammy toast on the table!

Then Squirrel, Shark and Tiger would all scarper out of the bathroom and I would find out what they have been up to, do a bit of complaining, issue rules about wood, soil, plastic snakes, toilets and Sindy dolls, and clean up.


Now, I am proud to say, my little girls are becoming much more sophisticated about their bathroom usage.

Today I pass the closed bathroom door. I hear running water pouring into the bath and a great deal of earnest talk: three little voices, twittering, with lots of giggles inbetween. He is going for a swim now. Put his head under the tap. He likes the shower, doesn't he? He would like this on his head. Get it ready! Swing him round! He likes flying!

I pause outside the bathroom door to eavesdrop long enough, then shout What are you doing in the bathroom? There is a moment's frozen silence, apart from the sound of water splashing into the bathtub. Then Tiger shouts, Nothing.

And I hear the sound of something heavy, slowly being pushed against the door.


...


And after some time had elapsed, and some tempting jammy toast laid out on the kitchen table, this is what I found hanging up over the bath.


You would not have guessed washed unicorns hanging over a bathtub filled with snakes, lizards, and pots of paint, would you?

Ambush

I feel hurt. My very interesting talk, with bonus activity of redesigning George Stephenson's Rocket from Lego, is ambushed. Shark, Squirrel and Tiger listen to me read the introductory bit about James Watt's steam engine (first patented in 1769, according to the Life and Times book) and then leap in and drown me out with the secret codes that can be used between unicorns planning an attack on the territory of the Watties.

Grudgingly, I gave up, and said 'Let's do codes instead'.

I thought my talk on steam engines was very interesting. I have a book about it from the children's library and, what's more, we have been to Stephenson's house. I distinctly remember because it was January 1st 2005 and Dig marched us all half a mile up a wagon way in the middle of nowhere and in the freezing cold to Stephenson's birthplace. It was shut.

At that time of year I was contemplating divorce or murder and then I find out the ruddy cottage isn't open at all during the coldest winter months. Of course it isn't open. Any visitor marching up the wagon way would get the toes on their feet welded together with frost and their four-year old triplets would cry.

OK, that last bit about the triplets crying actually isn't true. It was me. Shark, Squirrel and Tiger were skipping up the wagon way thinking the whole experience was tremendous fun and possibly the best thing to do on a freezing cold day ever. If they had cried, then I would have been able to twist it round to my point about being powerless about everything happening in my life and could have blamed Dig.

Anyway, the lesson on George Stephenson redesigning the steam engine is now a lesson on codes, ambush, attack and control.

And if you are joining the conspiracy of the unicorn attack against the Watties, the secret code you need to know is:

CPFS L AU: UO KICNA FFS DEGE WK C

Hornish Airways

The unicorns have packed their bags. Then they boarded Hornish Airways, which was actually a cut-off piece of shelving, held by Tiger. Of course they had to have tickets to get on board and sit on the wood. And everybody had to get past customs, which was Shark, who stood in the doorway with a stick in her hand.

The tickets were good. They were laboriously pressed out from an ancient letraset sheet. I tried to get some maths in while the tickets were being made. Foolish. I tried to suggest the Units, Tens, Hundreds thing again. It didn't work. 'What number's that?' I cautiously say, pointing at 135. 'It's the ticket!' cries Tiger, clearly irritated. 'How many unicorns fit on the aircraft?' I say to Squirrel. 'Mummy you're in the way!' she shouts, bundling unicorns together by the hooves. So I just watch, while I'm putting things away in their proper places. I'm very proud of my new organised system for pipe cleaners and wiggly eyes.

After about half an hour, Hornish Airways takes off. Customs has been grim. All the unicorns have been searched by Shark for contraband items like the tiara that she says is hers. They've been allowed to take some luggage, like bits of wool, the bugs from the Jumpin' Bugs game, a Christmas bauble and Tiger's shoe. The in flight service is rubbish. Tiger makes it through the kitchen and into the hall, and half-way up the stairs. Then five unicorns slide off Hornish Airways and tumble back down the stairs with all their bizarre luggage scattering around them. If I was them, I'd have demanded compensation. They don't even get an apology, just picked up by the horns and flung back upstairs.

When they get to their new homes, the unicorns get stuffed into wicker baskets that are too tiny for them, so that their legs stick out. They're hiding, Squirrel tells me. This is because I have threatened to cut off their horns if I find them in any of the rooms I've cleared out. I'm making prohibition signs, pictures of unicorns in a circle with a red line across, that says underneath, Unicorns Keep OUT.

When Hornish Airways gets back downstairs I confiscate it, since the aeroplane has turned into a weapon and Shark's just about to be on the receiving end from Tiger. Apparently, Shark stood on Furryhorn. Tiger retaliated by telling Blutina that she's no longer Queen of the Unicorns but is a pig in a ditch. Then Pinky and Misty went to war over the wool that was in the luggage and ended tangled up at the foot of the stairs. Sardine is hiding, along with Squirrel, who likes to keep out of these things.

But we're making headway. The unicorns moving from the old bedrooms to the new is like an emotional shift; Shark, Tiger and Squirrel will happily follow.

Now all that's left to do is to put up the chandelier in the princess room, move everyone's clothes, dismantle the old beds, move the mattresses, put up the light-stop curtains, agonise over the price of blinds for Velux windows again, get an electrician to sort out a trip, muck out the old bedroom to become the new playroom, take our old mattress and bed to the tip, pick up the freecycled table and chairs for the little upstairs kitchen, put up the desks in what is the childrens new workroom, buy a third desk fromn Ikea, move around baskets, table and castle, hide Hornish Airways in the garage, and get Dig to put up the Sewing Room shelf and the bathroom mirror. Not much, really.

Battle of the Unicorns

I blame the unicorns. They've been implicated in all the trouble today. First appearance is at the breakfast table. They know they're banned. They knock the milk over and squat in the cereal, and when they jump up, they've got sugar puffs glued to their backside. Then the sugar puffs get sprayed all over the floor, which would be OK except for the fact that I vacuum rarely, and sugar puffs glue.

The next time they put in an appearance is our lesson 'Where did the Persian Empire go?' At least that's my title for it. The kids are colouring in a huge picture of Sinbad the Sailor while I look through all their history books on Early Empires, reading out bits and asking if they can find Turkey on the globe. Then the unicorns arrive. They're like an invading army. Blutina is the leader, because she's blue, apparently. After her comes Furryhorn. He's enormous, and is treated like a gentle giant. Only he's not. I've witnessed him in the bran flakes, and it's not pretty. Then there's Lem whom nobody likes, Pinky who has his horn cut off, Misty whom I despise, and Sardine. She wears a pink curly wig. They all start jumping up and down, and onto the floor go all the books and the papers, and we all do a lot of shouting and a new rule is made: No Unicorns to Appear at the Table At Any Time.

If that had been the end of the unicorn trouble, that would be OK. But they cause five more fights. First because Furryhorn is being forced to marry Blutina and he doesn't like it. Second because Pinky is wearing a new dress and Misty wants it. Third because Tiger is treatening to draw pictures on Sardine with chalk. Fourth because Lem wants to sit in front of the fire and Blutina says that's her seat. Fifth because Dig has threatened to put Furryhorn and all his little unicorn friends in the bin unless he gets off the table right now. Patience with the unicorns is running a bit thin.

By bathtime, they're back. Dig has found one in the sink and in a temper tantrum he's picked it up by the horn, dripping wet, and thrown it into the yard. It's Sardine, with her pink wig. Squirrel, meanwhile, is sitting on the floor, throwing stuff around the room and making ill-advised comments about the state of the house. So Dig picks her up too, and she's in the yard as well. Only she owns Sardine. Back in the house comes Squirrel, holding Sardine at arm's length and dripping all over the floor. Squirrel is persuaded to get in the bath, and Sardine is bundled into the washing machine. Thirty minutes later I find her pink wig has come off in the wash. Now Squirrel is very proud of this wig. She especially made it for Sardine because we all laughed at her bald patch. I didn't realise that was a cruel thing to do until the wig appeared. Then I helped glue it on. It looked better than the chin straps.

Now the unicorns, bar Sardine, are all in their rightful places in the beds of their owners and the children are asleep. All weary day long I've been threatening to put any unicorn I see into a bin liner. And now, after the unicorn wars have all stopped, I find myself tenderly glueing on Sardine's wig, and putting her to dry on the radiator so she looks soft and fluffy for the morning.

Honestly, if I had any power over this, I'd go round now, and cut off all their horns.