As every parent reading this will be fully aware (as well as those who work with children), sometimes, when dealing with small people, we have to be economical with the truth. So for a change in tack from my recent run of Seville and foodie posts – and inspired by, while in no way claiming to be on the same level as, my new favourite mum blog, The Ugly Volvo – I have put together a list of scenarios when telling a porkie pie (cockney rhyming slang: look it up, or take a guess) is perfectly admissible to get you out of a deep, dark parenting hole. You know, the situation where you can see nay a glimmer of light, only the blackness of shame, despair, and an endless vista of bickering, screaming children. (Or is that just me?)
Oh, what a shame. They’re all gone!
“There’s none left”
You’re on a long car journey, where carefully timed snacks are as essential to a convivial environment as separate colouring books and pens, sugar-free drinks, and The Cat in the Hat and Other Dr Seuss Classics played on loop. Then it turns out that the kids are especially partial to your favourite stupidly expensive exotically-flavoured gourmet crisps. “But what’s wrong with your Fair Trade low-salt wholegrain rice cakes?” you enquire. When they clamour for some more of those delectable honey-roasted parsnip, cardamom and curry leaf munchies*, you put on a sad expression and sigh, “Sorry darling, they’re all gone“, while tucking the remaining half-packet down the side of your seat and smiling inside in a crazed, Dawn French chocaholic way: “Ha, suckers, they’re all mine!”
You’re on a long car journey, where carefully timed snacks are as essential to a convivial environment as separate colouring books and pens, sugar-free drinks, and The Cat in the Hat and Other Dr Seuss Classics played on loop. Then it turns out that the kids are especially partial to your favourite stupidly expensive exotically-flavoured gourmet crisps. “But what’s wrong with your Fair Trade low-salt wholegrain rice cakes?” you enquire. When they clamour for some more of those delectable honey-roasted parsnip, cardamom and curry leaf munchies*, you put on a sad expression and sigh, “Sorry darling, they’re all gone“, while tucking the remaining half-packet down the side of your seat and smiling inside in a crazed, Dawn French chocaholic way: “Ha, suckers, they’re all mine!”
Ice-cream shop – tantrum central.
“The ice-cream shop’s closed”
You’re walking round the centre of town on a day out, it’s nearly lunch time and the last thing you want is that they spoil their appetites for the meal you’re about to enjoy together on a rare visit to a proper restaurant. The ice-cream monster child (there’s always one) sees the ice-cream shop that you had noticed and surreptitiously crossed the road to avoid, quickly pointing out an interesting shop-window display of flamenco dresses with matching accessories, or toy cars and aeroplanes (excuse the gender stereotyping).
The ICMC demands an ice-cream. “Oh what a shame – it’s closed,” you say, looking sympathetically at a hopeful little face. “But I can see people in there, Mummy,” counters the ICMC. (Damn! Think fast.) “They’re the people who make the ice-cream,” you explain. (Phew!) “Can we go and watch, Mummy?” “Ah, but it’s top secret,” you reply, sounding mysterious and important. “Noone is allowed to see. We’ll come and have a look later, when they’re finished.” In other words, after lunch, by which time it doesn’t matter anyway. Crisis averted.
“Not much further now, guys!” (Where the f*** are we, anyway?)
“We’re nearly there”
You’ve been in the car for four hours, the kids are getting restless – OK, let’s be honest, World War Three is about to break out, with hostilities that would otherwise necessitate UN intervention. Everyone’s sick of Dr Seuss by this point (no I DO NOT LIKE green eggs and frigging ham), all the other CDs are scratched (note to self: must get MP3 for car), all colouring books have been exquisitely rendered, and even Eye Spy’s attractions have faded. The road you’re on and the map you’re using seem in no way related, and you have no clear idea where you are at this moment, or where you’re supposed to be going.
But you’re not going to tell them that. Oh no. With a convincing, practised air of cheery confidence you say, “Not much longer now, folks.” They break off from bashing, poking and the irritating the hell out of each other for a few precious seconds to look out of the window. “Nearly there, my arse,” you think to yourself. “If you believe that, you poor gullible fools…” A least it’s bought you a brief break from the battle – distraction is the key skill in any such drama.
The Ultimate Carrot – technology is a great bribe motivator for children.
“Yes, I’ll get you an iPhone/Nintendo DS”
You have unavoidably been put in a situation where you have to take your child to a business appointment. Child has been heavily bribed to behave nicely, to the extent where you have promised him/her the ultimate prize, the current obsession – whether it be a Barbie, bike or iPhone; Nintendo DS, Wii, or PlayStation – so that they do not cause you embarrassment and ruin your meeting. Of course, you have no intention of buying child said much-desired toy or gadget yet (you’ve agreed in principle), but they don’t know that, do they? After the event, if the child kept his/her end of the bargain, the time frame of the reward fulfillment will be expanded to next birthday or Christmas. “Yes, well, I never specified exactly when I would get you it, did I?”
“If you’re Not Good, you won’t be geting any of these.”
“If you don’t do what I say, no presents”
It’s the last few weeks before a much anticipated gift-rich event – birthday, Christmas or other major festival. Your children are hyped with anticipation to the point of driving you mad – ignoring every request, command, suggestion and other attempt to control their general insanity. “Right, that’s it, if you do that one more time, there will be NO PRESENTS.” A look of horror spreads over their adorable countenances, as dreams of all those toys and games, so long desired, crumple and disappear.
You know perfectly well that you would never do such a cruel thing to your little darlings. But they don’t – and they always fall for the threat (take my word for it). However with tidying up, “Do it now, or the toys go in the bin” – as threatened with remarkable frequency in my house (by my husband) – no longer works now, as the kids are wised up to the fact that Mummy would never allow it. A Spanish friend told me about an old schoolmate of hers, whose kids are astonishingly obedient. My friend (who has three under 6, including 3-year-old twins, and is no slouch when it comes to discipline) asked her ex-school friend how she did it. Simple: the threat had indeed been carried out, and toys disposed of. Yes, really. Harsh, not to mention wasteful (I hope they found new owners), but effective.
By contrast to these lies, damned lies, I confess that I am brutally honest with my children on some subjects and in some situations. I have ensured, for example, they are fully aware of the fact that their (maternal, British) grandparents are getting on and will not be around for ever. I have warned my daughter against her current obsession, getting a kitten, seeing that one of our dogs has a strong hunting instinct and loves pouncing on small animals and playing with them in a not-entirely-friendly manner. He could well treat a baby cat in the same way as the rodents who are sometimes foolish enough to venture into our parcela: with no mercy. Basically, I told her it would be very sad for everyone concerned, especially her and the kitty, if small feline came to a sticky end.
Right: I’ve laid bare some of my parenting inadequacies tricks. Why not let us in on yours? How do you keep mayhem at bay in your house? Or are you one of those sickening wonderful families where no one ever shouts or argues, and everyone does what they’re told first time? Do you have a radical strategy like my friend’s ex-school chum?
* Please don’t try to find this flavour, as I made it up. Although I van vouch for the general fabulousness of Tyrell’s vegetable crisps.
This made me laugh… I think I have used all of those on occasion! My worst one however is probably “you can’t eat those, they are far too rich and you will get a tummy ache and be sick” – it is creme egg season after all, and in this house they are as rare as hen’s teeth! 😀
What about the mini ones? They’re not quite as sickness-inducing. One of the most popular requests when asking people what they want me to get them from England. Get your next visitor to load up, then you can hand them out as Very Special Rewards. I know I’m going to bring back plenty on my next trip – I may even give a few to the kids 😉
That’s a very good idea Fiona, thank you. Although I fear I might eat all of those myself too! 😀