Screwing up your kids, so you don't have to.

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Don’t be a dummy…

Dear Parenting Guru,

We are having terrible trouble getting our son to stop using a dummy.

He won’t go to bed without it, and he often has it in for much of the day.

I am worried not only that his teeth will be damaged, but also that he might be teased about it at school.

He is fourteen.

Between clenched teeth,

David.

Dear David.

Much research has been done into the effects of dummies on children’s development, but one fact is rarely mentioned, and it is one of the most important of all; dummies keep children quiet.

There we are desperately trying to teach them to talk, and then minute they do we wish they’d shut up. Far from taking dummies away from children we should be encouraging them in more adults. Politicians are an obvious start. From there it’s a gradual rolling-out procedure all the way from so-called ‘celebrities’ to husbands.

See if you can patent it now. I’m happy to split the profits.

When your son has something he really needs to say, he’ll take that dummy out. You mark my clearly spoken words.

Best,

PG.

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Mrs Butt-Crack’s Valentine’s Day…

Dear P.G.

I want to try and do something romantic with my husband this Valentine’s Day.

With two children under the age of five, it feels like years since we did anything like that, and I don’t even know where to start.

Do you have any suggestions as to how we might rekindle a little ‘amour’ with little ones in the house?

With roses,

Valerie,

Dear Valerie,

I am very impressed that you can remember what romance is, let alone bravely wishing to attempt its rekindling.

You are not alone in being in a romance-free zone; for most of us it dies instantly with the cutting of the umbilical cord. I think midwives really ought to point this out, and check that we’re OK with this before proceeding. It feels very much left in the smallprint, to me.

I remember one Valentine’s Day I attempted to seduce my then husband by cooking his dinner wearing nothing but a saucy apron and 9-inch heels, forgetting that our six-year-old son had a friend for a sleepover…and that they weren’t asleep yet.

School concerts were very awkward after that for years, and I know for a fact that I was called Mrs Butt-Crack by the whole of Year 4.

Truly, you are much better off putting the money you would have spent on roses and champagne into your Emergency Bank Account for when you need to go to Paris instantly to find amour in the arms of a Gauloise-smoking photographer, or similar.

And don’t, whatever you do, watch a romantic film together; nobody at your delicate stage in life needs such a stark reminder of what they are missing.

Kindest romantic regards,

P.G.

Filed under valentines day love romance buttcrack roses wine paris

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New Year, same old shit.

Dear Parenting Guru,

With the imminent arrival of a New Year, I thought this might be a good time to make some positive changes to my life.

Number One on my list is to try and be a better parent.

I wondered if you might have any tips to help me achieve this?

Hopefully,

Lynne.

Dear Lynne.

Don’t be ridiculous.

The New Year is a time for self-loathing, depression, regret, influenza, and hating thin people.

It is most certainly not an opportunity to fiddle about with anything as foolhardy as trying to be a better parent.

That way yet more misery lies, waiting to slay the last shreds of hope that cower in a pool of their own urine, deep in the putrid recesses of your drunk, over-fed soul.

Much more positive would be to accept failure where all aspects of parenting are concerned, and celebrate it by polishing off those Christmas chocolates you found behind the living room curtains.

New Year. Same old shit.

Keep it real, my friend.

Encouragingly, P.G.

(I am also available for Life Coaching and Positive Thinking techniques, if you are interested.)

4 notes &

Little accidents…

Dear Parenting Guru,

I’m having a nightmare potty training my son.

For the last two months I’ve done nothing but mop up his ‘little accidents’ and we still seem absolutely nowhere nearer to dry-pants Heaven.

Can you offer ANY advice to help me through this horrendous, messy stage??

I don’t want to live in a house that smells like a French ski resort any more.

Susan, in Bristol.

Dear Susan.

There is no such thing as potty training.

There is only what I call the Extreme Bum Discomfort and Shame method of bladder-control education.

The problems all started with disposable nappies;

while very useful when you’re off camping for a week in Norfolk and need something to absorb your tears, they have been the death of potty training, removing, as they do, all incentive for your child not to empty his bowels into his best M&S Y-fronts before CBeebies even starts.

A child can have the same disposable nappy on for a week and fill it with more urine than you’ll find on the side of the average English pub after closing time, and still feel as dry as a nun’s crotch.

Truly, disposables are to potty training as pubs are to alcoholics.

I suggest you switch to re-usables immediately.

Even the best ones are akin to having a horsehair mattress wedged between your thighs, and a single drop of liquid swells it up so much that your child has to walk with his legs three feet apart;

this is especially challenging when each leg is only six inches long.

The humiliation in the local ball pit is such that I give it 24 hours until he’s in superdry Superman pants.

Kindly,

P.G.

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She speaks!

Dear Parenting Guru,

Our 18-month-old daughter has recently started to talk.

We were so happy about passing this huge milestone, until it turned out that she has a thick Welsh accent.

What can we do?!

Jane and Peter, Peterborough.

Dear Jane and Peter,

I’m sorry to hear your devastating news. Sadly, this does occasionally happen.

My nephew, born to my sister who has lived her entire life in Oxfordshire, speaks only in broad Glaswegian.

She daren’t let him out on a Friday night in case he gets into a fight, and it was a nightmare explaining to the health visitor why he would only take Irn Bru in his bottle.

(Accents are not genetic, so I wouldn’t worry if you’ve had a Welsh plumber in the last few years, Peter.)

I would suggest moving to Surrey, or sending her to Bedales immediately.

The world can never have too many plummy girls in thick eye-liner, loafers and alice-bands, working in PR.

Or take her to a rugby match in Cardiff and leave her there. She is sure to be well looked after by those who can understand her.

Pob lwc! (Ask your daughter to translate this, if you’re having trouble…)

PG.

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On the bottle.

Dear PG,

My 15-year-old daughter wants to be allowed to start drinking alcohol.

I’m not sure how to introduce her to it in a safe, mature way.

What would your advice be?

Jeanine.

Dear Jeanine.

When a 15-year-old child tells her parents she ‘wants to be allowed to start drinking alcohol’ it’s a sure sign that she’s been necking vodka in her bedroom for the last three years.

When I was growing up the accepted method of alcohol introduction was to beat children with a large leather slipper the moment they mentioned it, while quaffing copious quantities of ale oneself.

This worked perfectly well until some do-gooder mentioned children’s ‘Rights’, whatever they are, and it’s been a social disaster since then.

Thankfully all responsibility was taken out of our hands with the invention of alcopops, which are basically fermented Slush Puppies and contain at least one of our children’s 5-a-day, so their degree of Badness is very hard to quantify.

I suggest you send your daughter out with a twenty pound note to buy as much alcohol as she can and don’t let her back in the house until all of the beer/wine/ /vodka/cider/rum/gin/Cava/sherry has been pumped out of her stomach by the nearest A&E unit.

Then offer her a nice glass of Malibu for breakfast.

That should do the trick.

PG.

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For crying out loud.

Dear PG.

My two-year-old son cries a lot at night, and it’s exhausting us all.

There is a lot of conflicting advice about controlled crying, comforting, never leaving children to cry, and so on;

what would you advise?

Exhausted,

Elaine.

Dear Elaine.

I would suggest you make a quick trip to B&Q this weekend and staple-gun about three feet of the thickest loft insulation you can buy to the floor, walls, door and ceiling of the room in which your son sleeps – or doesn’t, as seems to be the problem.

I can almost guarantee that the moment you do this his night-time crying will cease.

Truly, it’s miraculous. It must be something clever they put in the foam these days.

This method should see you through nicely until he’s tall enough to reach the door handle, at which point you could invest in a soothing bolt on the outside of the door.

Anyway, by this stage he’ll be able to make himself a cheese toastie and play on the X-Box all night, leaving you to your much-needed shut-eye.

Good luck with it. Sssshhhhhh.

PG.

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Columns and inches…

NEWSFLASH

I have recently learned that I am to become a newspaper column, starting in September.

This is excellent news, as I do so LOVE a good column, especially if it has enough inches.

Thank you for all your beautiful, kind words; especially the ones I made up. I couldn’t have got here without you, or my good friend Mr P Grigio.

Do keep your letters and questions coming, to

letters@dearparentingguru.com.

From September I shall be answering them all, and continuing to give you my most excellent advice on how not to kill your children too quickly.

I love you all, but especially those of you who love me back and send me Valium in the post.

À bientôt!

P.G.

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Sex death

Dear Parenting Guru,

My husband and I have a problem with our sex life;

our teenage daughter’s bedroom is next to ours, and we have recently learned that she can hear us having sex late at night. She has expressed her deepest displeasure about ‘all those DISGUSTING noises; God, it’s like someone’s dying in there or something’.

This is, of course, rather embarrassing for us all, but an active sex life is an important part of a marriage and I don’t see why we should stop just because our children are old enough to know what’s going on, and find it awkward.

Can you advise please?

Helena

Dear Helena,

I’m afraid you lost me at ‘sex life’.

What is this thing, of which you speak?

I haven’t had a sex life for fifteen years; twenty if you count my first marriage as well as this one.

When we did indulge in some early sex death, the only noises were those of me sobbing and my ex-husband shouting ‘Oh Sarah!’, whoever she was.

The only sex life married people with children should have is with themselves, in front of a mirror, preferably after a bottle of Chablis.

As for ‘active sex life’, these days the buzz is all about being ‘pro-active’. Where ‘pro’ means ‘not’.

Carry on as you are, but I would advise you not tell anyone else about your ecstasy dilemma.

You may end up with no friends at all.

Kindest regards,

P.G.

4 notes &

Masterchef…

Dear Parenting Guru,

My 6-year-old daughter always complains that I don’t cook exciting enough food.

But by the time I get home from work, all I have the time or energy to make is pasta.

Can you suggest any quick solutions that might keep her happy, and me sane?

best,

Jane.

Dear Jane,

Your daughter has clearly been watching far too much Masterchef.

Truly, I think the programme is sponsored by the makers of Valium, and those responsible for reducing the International Raspberry Coulis Lake.

The stress it causes in kitchens up and down the Land, where people were previously perfectly happy on jacket potatoes and Angel Delight, thank you very much, is immeasurable.

This kind of la-di-dah culinary snobbery needs to be snuffed out as soon as possible if she is to survive her college years, where pasta is considered an exotic departure from Pot Noodle.

It might also be worth pointing out to her that pasta comes from Italy, the Land that brought us romance, most modern languages, Isabella Rossellini, the Romans, Gucci and Cornettos.

Thus, there is nothing whatsoever wrong with pasta.

The myriad variations of pasta dishes are nothing short of mind-blowing. Here is a small selection, that has kept my children going for fifteen years;

Pasta and cheese

Pasta and beans

Pasta and beans and cheese.

Pasta and ham.

Pasta and ham and cheese.

Pasta and peas.

Pasta and ketchup.

Pasta and cheese and ketchup.

Pasta and Pesto.

Pasta and butter.

Pasta and cheese and ham and beans and ketchup and Pesto and butter and Nutella.

The above represents almost two weeks of taste bud partying.
At the end of a fortnight, just start again from the top.

If she complains, shout ‘WHODOYOUTHINKYOUARE, DARLING? JAMIE BLOODY OLIVER??’ at her.

Speaking to Childline will be far more interesting than arguing over the pasta.

All the best,

PG.