My parental authority came to an end

There are many techniques to maintain power and authority as a parent, are there not?

Well, I can tell you that I have tried most of them.

But I sense the power balance is changing round here. I may not be the powerful authority figure I once was, some sunny and distant afternoon past when I held all the chocolate fingers. No. Sadly, I think my many techniques to maintain parental control are coming rapidly to an abrupt end.

I have a brief time to think quickly, plan, and develop a whole new power-rule-strategy if I am to maintain a hand in this game over the coming years. Or be kicked aside, probably.

I cannot suck in plutonium, lay my hands on kryptonite, or do anything like walk up walls using sticky pads for hands while wearing red lycra knickers, so don't suggest it.

But I need to do something. And quick.

I look back to see what I already did, from Year Zero, to keep order.

1. Baby balancing.
Compared to everything that went before, like giving birth, this stage of parental power was peasy. I tucked one baby under each arm and balanced the third on my flat head. Then I called out for a takeaway. This was easy authority indeed.

2. Rope trickery.
Babies grow! Within a year or two, each had the size, gross motor activity, and locomotive purpose of an adolescent badger. Yet I found I could maintain some form of parental control. Even without the constraints afforded by a triple container van of a custom-made buggy. I simply used straps, ropes, chains and string.

To reach the Co-op and buy food I simply tied all badgers together, manoeuvred them in the right direction, crossed four roads, negotiated a back alley where the residents keep their fridges and sofas, and made it back home with the day's shopping. (Remember that I have only two hands. I am proud no-one died at this delicate stage.)

3. Resolving conflicts by physical control.*
I maintain that any fully-grown adult human female who is reasonably determined can overpower a badger. Even when it is having a temper tantrum.

Example:

Grit: You don't want to leave the Co-op, little girl? Let me show you how I can HELP YOU.
(Badger merely screams and makes the shape of an ironing board.)
Grit: But now you are easy to carry! HA HA HA HA HA! I WIN!

Problem solved. In any conflict situation, simply exert parental authority by picking up the little badgers and marching off with them. (So long as you do not have to carry more than one ironing board badger at any one time, this works.)

4. Using physical control, discreetly.
A tricky way of maintaining parental authority, because the small beings begin to show their superior, wily intelligence. My own little creatures could outwit me. They realised that the physical shape into which they contorted themselves could be moulded to their advantage. With this technique, mama could be made to do stuff.

Example:

Small child, you can unbuckle your child-proof safety belt and bend your little body into the shape of a Roman archway while travelling at 50mph on the A241. You sense power! This makes mama stop the car in great panic!

Aha! This circumstance needs all my dark arts and subtle skills as parent power keeper, because we are all going to die unless the small being sits back down and I can double lock those straps with triple combination security padlocks and duct tape. A knee gently bent towards the stomach can do the trick. (And don't tell me, reader, you never did this one.)

But of course children grow out of most forms of physical power. Worse, they develop mouths that adopt attitude. This leads to the next phase of my power and control system.

5. Distraction.
At first, this seemed an easy way to maintain my authority.

Small person: But I want an ice cream!
Grit: Look! There is a snail!
Small person: I WANT AN ICE CREAM.
Grit: Aren't the snails pretty? Come here Mr Snail!
Small person: Mr Snail! Mr Snail!

Alas! It is a short-lived triumph of power.

6. Bribery.
Grit: Do not put the snails in your pockets. They do not like it.
Small person: But I want Mr Snail! I WANT MR SNAIL.
Grit: Look! There is ice cream. Give me Mr Snail, then I will buy you an ice cream.

Bribery is a fragile hold on power, I know. And it is such an ugly word. You can call it reward in advance if you wish. I know I do. And don't bother telling me that bribery is nothing more than a downward spiral of shallow low-life sneaky mean-handed trickery to get your own way without resorting to physical violence. Just enjoy it, that's what I say. Because this simple stage passes all too soon.

7. Reason.
I actively sought out this technique early. I thought that as soon as the alien beings could link one idea to another, then I could pretend to reason with them, and get my own way sneakily. Hoodwink them, and be authoritative as the parent all at the same time. Then I could call this being reasonable.

But it never worked. The small beings often developed their own independent theories which led them in an entirely different minded direction. And if you home educate, you are really stuffed, because they go off and get all the missing bits in their arguments from Wikipedia and present you with the entire debate. Basically, they win.

I have also found that when you are on the losing side, it is no use resorting to bribery because they can suss this out too. Their compliance comes at an ever escalating price. The experience is humiliating. Especially as even at this late stage they may be dressed like Flipper or a wombat, and it is embarrassing to lose to someone in an argument in this condition while you are standing in a public place like a Post Office queue.

8. Adopting a posture of parental authority.
Yes, I have tried to gain the upper hand by this Because I Say So method. I have sought to maintain power by calling out to my many long years of experience. A sort of Because I know best attitude.

Quite frankly, I would say this approach is as crap as false reasoning. It never works because someone always knows better than me, even if they are aged eight.

Then a strategy that started out as a means to gain power actually becomes a means by which I am humiliated once more in a power knowledge game where I always lose. Needless to say, these days I don't try it very often.

9. Appealing to the heart.
Life as a parent is hard. It is difficult. Sometimes I have very little authority, control, power, presence, or integrity. So I am not above pleading, bursting into tears, and offering my sacrificial heart on a plate.

In fact, this is how I know life has changed. My parental power is weakened, too soon.

Today I consider Squirrel's response to my tactics 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9.

Mummy. Stop that immediately. You know it does not work. And you can stop that crying noise too, because I know that is called emotional blackmail. I read about that in a book.


*Sadly, not by personality, intelligence, charm, or charisma

The mummy milk bottle of menace

I have tried many child management techniques.

So I can tell you straight, I wish I had not bothered with the stickers. They were very expensive. And pointless. I think I vacuumed them up by accident.

Ditto the Miss Sunshine Happy Chart. I ripped her legs off in a temper tantrum.

And the golden stars in the fruit bowl. Squirrel ate them and was sick.

The Girl of the Day strategy was reasonably successful. But this in the end failed too. Mostly because the people running that system have to remember they are running it. Also, they must not become confused about which child is which. That is hard if all the kids run together and some of them are identical.

The oranges in the jar system worked well, for about two weeks. I like to think of that time as the period of consistent parenting. But it ended when the children took control in what I liked to call 'the self-guiding stage'. After an hour of self guiding, Shark possessed all 86 oranges and wouldn't give them back.

The pocket money idea has come and gone and come and gone again. Of course we have remunerated the children according to chores achieved and chores neglected. That system ended when I had to borrow £3.20 from Tiger, with interest, to pay Squirrel who owed Shark, who owed it back to Tiger in a system they called Protection.

I have used other methods too. In varying proportions, and sometimes combined: face pulling, finger wagging, soft and kind speaking, hair tugging (mine), eyeball-to-eyeball, threatening various punishments (going home NOW, no dinner, donating to the neighbour, selling for medical experiments), offering calm-down cuddles, frowning, screaming hysterically, weeping, tutting, looking the other way, putting fingers in ears, lifting face to sky and adopting an expression of sacred suffering (a little like the Virgin Mary), and dramatically stabbing self in left bosom and howling See poor mama's heart BLEED!

I cannot say any of these have effected much.

But recently I have adopted what is called the Mummy Milk Bottle of Menace. This expression is coined by Tiger. Which possibly shows how seriously she views this management technique. But it might have worked once.

Just for a few moments, everyone stopped fighting, and stared at me, pouring diluted red food colouring into a milk bottle on the kitchen table. I took the advantage and said the milk bottle was a metaphor for my mind, and the red colour was like a pressure inside my head. The whole is a measure of mamma's emotional health and mental well being. Quietly, I thought that was clever, because I'm showing how arguments can affect a person emotionally. So I wanted to share this idea to benefit the entire world.

You can use other bottles, obviously, if you are vegan. An empty gin bottle is a very good substitute, whether you are vegan or not.

This is how it works.

You start with a clear mind and a happy, optimistic disposition. Round here, that is usually about 8.30am, and before anyone else has come down to breakfast.


But then I hear the first argument, accompanied by howling, coming down the stairs. It is probably 9.20am. I pour a little food colour into my milk bottle.


I say that we could get out of this situation. If everyone stopped arguing, and treated each other nicely, of course I would pour out the contents, and my milk bottle would be empty again!

Or maybe there is some snarling. And a very big fight over a pencil.


When that fight dies down, I say everyone could now be calm and we could plan the day. I could have a cup of tea, and everyone would treat each other NICELY. It is maybe 9.45am.

Then there is an argument over a wind chime. With weapons.


You see? Even at this late stage, mummy is keeping all her emotions under control. She executes a variety of eyerolling, frowning, fingerwagging and soft speaking. Then merely pours her danger water into her milk bottle, while explaining how arguments can lead us to have a good day or a bad day. It is 10am.

Time for a fight involving table shoving, paper scattering, and a ruler.


I point out that my milk bottle is still not filled to the top! But IT SOON WILL BE. NOW SHUT UP EVERYBODY and mummy can pour all her red fire danger water away and we can START AGAIN. The clock ticks round to 10.10am.

And someone makes the quietest, teeniest weeniest sarcastic comment about today's milk being a bit off.

The battle of the bathroom, June 2010

This hour's going down in the family annals. After a Saturday night in six year's time it'll be Tiger's defence against the Old Bill, when she's up on charges of disorderly conduct, theft, criminal damage, joy-riding, public intoxication, and GBH. This will be the defining moment. So I'll make my statement now and open up a fighting fund to pay the lawyers.

This is also an example of gross parenting fail, so make sure you learn from Grit's disastrous approach to handling small pre-teen type people. Just learn from it, and do the proper thing, which is: Exit the bathroom, pour yourself a large glass of Lagavulin and watch old episodes of Corrie. That is the proper parenting response to what I am about to narrate.

Readers of this blog probably know that Tiger is a special sort of hyper sensitive child, affected emotionally by air temperature, molecules, atoms, and basically all sights, sounds, smells, tastes and textures that the world has to offer. She also carries a 400lb barrel of Semtex in her forehead. It's connected to a very short fuse. The fuse can be lit at any moment by a wide variety of materials, such as the colour green, a wobbly 2B pencil line, the arrangement of soil, and the sight of mama with a comb.

Now at first, all goes badly. I should know this, and retreat. But no. I think I can help make things better.

It is hair washing night for Tiger. After the last skirmish with the hair I suggested that Tiger might now take responsibility for combing her own hair. After all, she has made double figures and I never sold her for medical experiments.

But that is too big a responsibility, and she will not do it. She will not do it, even though she won't allow me to do that combing business, either. And not her sisters, not daddy, not anyone. Not anyone dressed a horse, or pretending to be a horse, either. We already tried it. And she will not get the problem we all have, that she is walking about with the equivalent of an enormous hairy pan scrubber fastened to the back of her head, a lump which is basically made of matted felted hair. And does that look neglectful to you?

So a week goes by and I bite my knuckles, then a fortnight, and I can take it no longer. It is hair washing night for Tiger.

And that's when the howling starts. I mean howling, like screaming that you are being tortured by the sight of water. At which point I suggest conditioner might help and the howling grows to epic proportions because conditioner always goes in her eyes and always blinds her and always is made of hydrochloric acid and always is made especially by mama deliberately for the intent of blinding, poisoning and otherwise disfiguring a perfectly healthy set of eyeballs.

So I remain as calm as I can and I coax the embodiment of Howl under the shower and apply the miracle super strength detangling hydrochloric acid and suggest she now finger combs the pan scrubber. Then I quickly depart because my eardrums have burst.

When I return ten minutes later, she is out the shower. Or rather the shower is out and all over the bathroom floor, and a howling Tiger with a pan scrubber larded with conditioner is howling fit to bust. It takes some effort to get her back in the shower, not even to comb her hair, but to rinse out the conditioner of Satan from her hair and try finger combing the dreaded locks.

Then things become hysterical. And I maybe do nothing more than scream back into the howl, demonstrate my zero parental abilities and snap back my fingers which are itching to engage in a spot of child brutality and wield a pair of scissors, say, five inches up from the ends.

Now I can think about it and know it was a totally unattractive demonstration of sub humanity, all with the howling snot and screaming from the pair of us, both operating without frontal lobes but with plenty of high emotion, that I'm surprised you didn't call the police, just in case you suspected murder, arson, kidnapping and horse whipping.

It is also possibly the worst bathtime I ever experienced in my life. I came out of it wanting to tear up that contract I wrote in blood ten years ago. I wanted to rip it to pieces because I never even knew that I signed it. And this thing I have to do called parent? That's an unwanted burden someone gave me, and they can have it right back, thanks.

The parent side of me tells me to shut the crap up, and pray that I took every opportunity when she was little to hold her tight, and tell her that I loved her, more than anything in the whole world. Because in these days of warfare I fear there'll be few opportunities to make her hear me say those words, and more, to believe me.

Entering the hormonal world of the pre-teen

After today, I think I can safely say that we have entered the nightmare zone of the pre-teens.

I am discovering the pre-teen landscape takes many forms.

There is a lot of random screaming, sudden outbursts of piteous crying, and unpredictable explosive fits of violence, some of which involves tables.

There is a lot of sudden and sustained shouting too. Of the type DO YOU WANT ME TO PUNCH YOU IN THE NOSE? WELL, DO YOU?

Then there is the other type: the sneer attack, executed with indifferent glance, hair flick and hip hand.

That last one is brutal. It aims to murder me with words.

But I am finding this territory very confusing.

Part of me wants to use the child management techniques that I know for sure worked six years ago. Hey, Look! There is a balloon!

But that's not going to work. I can see the pre-teen has a developed brain and can follow an argument through. They know a pathetic distraction method when they see one. It leaves me flustered, knowing that part of me is inadequate, and confounded, and bewildered. I do not know how to react.

But I must not show my confusion. To do that is to critically delay for seconds while I think the situation through, and that gives the pre-teen the crucial advantage and authority. They will think their sneer has worked, and that they have won.

I need to plan ahead. Maybe this moment is a secret test of my parenting. I must be super ego. I must model calm, parental authority. I must shut my gaping mouth, and think before I speak. I must avoid harridan shrieking, undignified yelling, sarcastic answers. If I do that, afterwards I will feel ashamed.

But part of me is outraged with this cruel betrayal! How could they use their dearest mama in such a vile way! Me! I have given ALL. I could wring my hands, tear at my hair, and rend my clothes with the disloyal serpent's teeth I have bred!

But part of me would like to punch them in the face first.

So I am finding this moment of crisis parenting particularly difficult.

Especially the part of me that is secretly impressed that they can shoot a wisecrack backchat in a fingerclick. They do it with just the right pause. A perfect intonation.

That takes skill. That takes linguistic ability. That takes interpretation, social judgment, cool and confident delivery. Ahh. See that pre-teen? That's my girl.

Slightly unhinged

Spend the day being chased by goblins. Not the paranoid delusional variety induced by daily misuse of hard drugs and vodka, but the small goblin variety also known as Shark, Tiger and Squirrel.

Occasionally, under my breath, they travel, cursed, under the names Goneril, Regan and Lady Macbeth. Those names will one day make horrible, cruel sense, and then my daughters will sob and say Why, mother, why?

I will answer that by saying that in these growing years, before you chuck your family up altogether and stomp off to live in a squat with a born again Christian and then get pregnant at age 17 (these things happen, trust me), then any quiet resistance I can manage now is merely growing my inner shield in preparation for worse to come. In fact I am growing it for the teenage years, which on some days, I think we may glimpse, just a little, of what life is to be.

By that time, this shield should take literally anything that is thrown at me. And yes, even a shield that outwardly is composed of curses and in the future may seem cruel, disloyal and uncaring is actually a way of emotional resistance and a positive act of therapy. And having that hard shield which stops me from being fatally wounded is far better than stabbing myself in the head or grabbing someone and throwing them out of the top floor window.

Anyway, I will tell Shark, Tiger and Squirrel, you know that I love you more than all the green tea in China and beyond, and possibly more than life itself, so you should be able to withstand your new names, Goneril, Regan, and Lady Macbeth.

However I also know that there are more socially acceptable forms of therapy I can admit to than muttering curses to my own children under my breath, even if they are Shakespearean.

Thanks to the wonderful Ellie and Mr W, therapy can also take the shape of a good chat over supper while Goneril, Regan, and Lady Macbeth are drugged upstairs by Anastasia. As if my id were not calmed down enough, then Ellie produces another form of therapy and it is this:


When I finally extract this recipe from Ellie, possibly under threat of torture and blackmail, I shall blast it out to planet Internet and anyone who is suffering from the pre-teen years can join me in this therapeutic melting moment.