Parents

To say that parents cause trouble is akin to commenting on the religion of the Pope. The suggestion that parents are not always adequate has been around for centuries, though no-one has made this statement of the blindingly obvious more eloquently than Phillip Larkin . I’m struck though that Amy Chua’s recent book “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” manages to open up a whole new perspective on this (by now rather jaded) subject. In particular, for those of us who have disregarded Larkin’s advice not to have the knee-biters ourselves, Chua’s book helpfully signals open season on people who don’t share our own parenting style. The troubles with parents are clearly legion but Chua gets us to focus on the trouble with other parents.

In case you’ve been on holiday on Jupiter and missed the global phenomenon that is Amy Chua (and if you can’t be bothered reading her book) she helpfully summarises her arguments in a Wall Street Journal article. It’s a memoir of aspirational parenting taken to... well some would say extremes but I’m not here to judge (at least not for another few lines). The details are already becoming legendary: children compelled to practice piano and violin for hours on end, forbidden to come second in any subject, not allowed play-dates and even called “garbage” when disrespectful. All of this is justified within a framework of allegedly “Chinese” parenting (Chua is Chinese-American) set up as superior to the wussy western version. A sharp intake of breath has been heard all over Europe and North-America accompanied by speculation as to why book has attracted so much attention. (My favourite is the New Yorker take-down suggesting that the book’s success reflects American fear of China’s economic rise). In a town like Lewes, where you do occasionally wonder if it’s acceptable to stop breastfeeding before your child starts university, the shock is amplified through the megaphone of middle-class, right-on guilt.

The reasons for the enormous attention seem more mundane than geo-political considerations though. I’d suggest it’s because the trouble with parents is that, when they’re not worrying that they’re wrong, they are thinking that other parents are. Are there any parents who haven’t had at least a twinge of superiority? The person down the road has kids that are too wild or too quiet. Those parents push too hard or indulge the little brats. My kids go to bed at the right time but look at their lot: black rings under their eyes! For those of us who have raised our kids during the Gina Ford wars Amy Chua is late to the party. We’ve been slugging it out over routines versus demand led parenting for years. In some ways though the battle seems more important than the path you choose. After all having children is an awesome responsibility and, sometimes overwhelmingly demanding. Most of us struggle with parenting and there is nothing that boosts confidence more than a good snipe at others. Maybe a bit of moral superiority gets us through. We all need a crutch sometimes. Even tiger mothers.

Pretend Money

I paid for something with Lewes Pounds the other day. Not particularly noteworthy you’d think but actually it was the first time in the two years of its existence that I’d ever been asked for, or offered, the local lucre. To be honest I’d begun to wonder if it was still on the go (though now I come to think of it there is  still a rather forlorn looking stall at the Farmer’s market). However, Comedy at the Con (I highly recommend it) were offering 3 quid off the headline price so it seemed worth a trip to the Town Hall to buy some... Well is there a slang for Lewes Pounds? Given the absence of even a nickname as a marker of public consciousness I can’t help but wonder: what is the trouble with pretend money?

The arguments for the Pound are economic and environmental. The economic argument is that the money can only be spent locally thereby supporting local businesses who participate in the scheme. There are all sorts of questions posed by this and the evidence for such complementary currencies is not encouraging. It suggests that they have their best chance of catching on when physical money is scarce and large numbers of people really need a substitute. The Con Club, and anyone who offers a similar promotion, clearly can’t go on taking a hit forever so at some point meaningful use of local money comes down to a matter of whether enough people can be arsed with the extra hassle or not. The continuing novelty status of the LP suggests that most people can’t.  Local traders are really up against it when competing with big boys as the costs of core commodities costs can be kept lower due to economies of scale. There isn’t really any evidence that local currencies can do anything to challenge this trend.

It’s on the environmental arguments though that local currencies really become confused. The assumption is that keeping trade local will help the environment through reduced carbon emissions.  Alas this is not a straightforward case to make.  Sure, people walk to local shops but they also drive to them. Supermarkets often mean you have to drive, but then larger loads can mean fewer trips.  And since when do local traders have to stock local goods? Even corner shops have a global inventory.

It’s also worth considering if “locavorism” is quite as virtuous as all that. As well as being increasingly ripe for parody, a closer look suggests it offers no guarantees of reduced carbon footprints.  A vague notion of “localness” as a tool to combat environmental difficulties seems simplistic at best.

Clearly modern environmental problems are enormous and most of us may struggle to come up with a meaningful response. Initiatives like  the Lewes Pound  may have more piety value than practical effect. Of course, for as long as there are people willing put it out there the LP might possibly serve as another reminder of the crisis we’re in. Perhaps the trouble is though that it doesn’t do anything else.

John McGowan, 3rd Feb, 2011

Fairies

“Mummy, am I fat?” says my daughter, all of seven, regarding herself in the bath. She doesn’t know it yet but body fascism is my wife’s darkest fear. The thought of a little girl worrying about weight evokes a response like that of a vampire facing a crucifix or Lady Gaga being asked to wear a twinset.

“No darling you’re not, and it’s a silly thing to worry about”, my wife replies with admirable (though bogus) insouciance. After a couple of minutes of intense debate the crisis is over and worries about the Messages Kids Get Today are, at least temporarily, averted.

“You promise you’re telling me the total, absolute truth Mum?”

“Of course sweetheart. I’ll never lie to you when you ask me for the truth. Cross my heart and soak my sleeve in this bubble bath”.

I slip out of the room, failing to hear the scream of a gigantic hostage to fortune being abducted right beside me.

Halfway down the stairs the other shoe drops.

“Mum, tell me the truth. Are the fairies really coming?”

Long pause…

My son is already demanding story-time and milk but I am paralysed, watching my wife trying to make her mouth move.

In the last few months the Tooth Fairy has been working overtime at our house. Though we sometimes worry about encouraging this too much (and about the hyperinflation which seems to have occurred in the market for teeth) we also can’t help but find it charming. As long ago as the 1970 the psychoanalyst Bruno Bettelheim pronounced fairies officially OK. Believing in magic apparently helps “master the psychological problems of growing up-overcoming narcissistic disappointments, oedipal dilemmas, sibling rivalries; becoming able to relinquish childhood dependencies; gaining a feeling of selfhood and of self-worth, and a sense of moral obligation”. Belief in magic also provides an interesting insight in to children’s’ cognitive development. And of course they grow out of it (at least up to a point). I’ve realised now though that the trouble with fairies is actually that I might not be ready for the moment when they get the push.

The question is still hanging. My wife (and this is like watching someone downing but beyond help) takes a huge gulp of air and opts for truth.

There was a lot more. Like a car accident, you don’t need to know all the details. Santa was still intact by the end of it but that was about all. She seemed sad but accepting. We were given strict instructions not to eat the Tuc biscuit left for the fairies on the kitchen table. In the morning, we heard feet hammering down the stairs, then back up again.

“Mum, Dad, it’s still there. The fairies aren’t real!” Followed, finally, by tears. And I don’t just mean from my daughter.

So what do you do when your child asks, really asks, for the truth? Perhaps close your eyes, clap, and wish with all your heart that they’d waited till they were a bit older.


John McGowan, 27th January 2011

Porridge

It’s sometimes said that Lewes is a middle-class town. Can’t imagine why. The only time it seems anything less than gritty is with regard to children's nutrition. A son like mine, who subsists on chips and Coco Rocks, is a badge of shame. Luckily I also have a daughter  who prefers broccoli to burgers. She will choose porridge over other more processed, and multi-national profiting breakfast cereals. It’s a little remarked trend this, the rise of porridge as the right-on food de jour. It’s also bemusing to we Scots who had boiled oats forced down us from birth for the “guid roughage”. Suddenly porridge is a source of vitamins, and complex carbohydrates, and a food for athletes.

You might say that the trouble with porridge is the amount of spurtle and Brillo action attending the actual eating. But kids come with a microwave and a dishwasher these days so making and cleaning-up are no longer chores. No, the trouble with porridge is that no matter how much I trowel down, I always need another breakfast  an hour later. Research among friends suggests I am not alone in this temporary fulfilment. So what’s going on? Paula Radcliffe runs marathons on the stuff. How come everyone I know struggles to make it through the drive to work?

My first thought is that my portions are not big enough. I have about 60g of oatmeal. Might I simply be having more of other cereals? Careful weighing of Bran Flakes (‘What are you doing Daddy?’) squashes this hypothesis. 60g of Bran Flakes looks like something you’d tackle for an eating contest. Other possibilities require investigation. For example, do oats really give more sustained energy than, say, bread? Consideration of the glycemic index of oats (the rate at which foods release glucose into the blood) reveals it to be somewhat lower than bread or Shreddies or most of my other favoured breakfasts. Clearly porridge should last longer. A friend suggests I’m adding too much honey and crashing. Though this doesn’t seem entirely convincing I dutifully have my next bowl in the style of my Scottish youth (i.e. garnished only with salt and a homily on virtue as its own reward). It’s disgusting. And I’m still hungry shortly after.

After a week of experimentation the only remotely plausible explanation lies in that old hokum about roughage. Actually oats aren’t that great in the dietary-fibre stakes, coming above Corn Flakes but some way below most other cereals. As fibre is crucial to a sense of fullness it seems that porridge, while giving you energy, is wanting when it comes to feeling replete.

Despite all this I’ll go on eating porridge. It’s hot food on a cold morning and clearly there’s more to be said about its benefits. I’ll get into that sometime but for now, if you’ll excuse me, I just need a quick bowl of Coco Rocks.

John McGowan, 7th December 2010