Like Mother, Like Daughter?

The Husband often talks about how the kids have inherited both the very best of us and the very worst of us. Obviously the worst being mainly from him, but I like to play along by suggesting that The Tweenager gets his stubbornness from me and, erm, perhaps The Toddler's self-centredness might be a teenie bit me too.

But I have to admit that The Tomboy's not so favourable characteristic seems to be definitely me, without a doubt. You see when I was little I had a short stint in hospital because I kept wetting myself. I was five. This was much to the horror of my mother (whose pride probably ended there) although still to this day she reckons I was potty trained at six months.
Anyway, The Tomboy will not ever never go for a wee. In the way that a camel can store water, The Tomboy can store wee for days and days. Just in case she is stranded in a desert and needs an emergency drink perhaps. Apparently the kidneys of the camel are very efficient at retaining water too and urine comes out gloopy. Which is interesting because when The Tomboy does eventually do a wee, it resembles a thick syrup.

In the morning when everybody in the world heads immediately for the toilet, The Tomboy insists that she does not need a wee. This enrages The Husband, not because she doesn't do anything, but because I ask and ask and ask "Has she done a wee yet? Has she done a wee?"
Normal practice is for me to drop her at school without so much as a tiny tinkle.
When I pick her up at 3.15pm, The Tomboy is always looking rather peaky but strangely seems to be quite vigorous in her movements. I say "Did you do a wee today? Do you need a wee?" and she always shakes her head.
At home, the dancing continues and she often sits funny on a chair. Anyone can tell that she is just bursting for a wee and yet she makes no move towards the bathroom.
At about 4.30pm, usually when I want her to switch off the telly and do a bit of homework, she will shriek "I need a wee!!! I need a wee!!!" at which point she dashes to the loo as if her life depends on it. And it probably does.

I have talked and questioned and even threatened The Tomboy. I have told her that if she doesn't do a wee then she will have to go to hospital like mummy did. I have explained that if she holds it in then her tummy will likely explode. None of this is making any difference.

I don't think she is ill. I think it is pretty much the same reason why I ended up in hospital for bladder checks at age five. The hospital were very quick to discover that my wetting was down to the fact that I just couldn't be bothered to go for a wee. The Husband reckons my laziness obviously started then from childhood and unfortunately The Tomboy is heading the same way. And that's certainly not in the direction of the toilet.

The Talk

The Husband has introduced something more scarier than the special love. It is worthy of a Stephen King type title so I have called it The Talk. It is when he catches me unawares and starts quizzing me about what I am doing in life, when am I getting a job and what the hell am I spending his money on.

The Husband is not interested in excuses. He says he deals in fact not fiction. He does not see that it is hard enough just being me. He cares not for my blog. The Husband can sometimes be a w**ker.

The Talk always comes when I least expect it. Like when I am just about to dry my hair or put a coffee on. And most often when I am sending a text. The Talk always starts the same way. The Husband's tone is softly softly as he says "So have you been thinking about getting a job?". At which point I feel a shiver pass over me and realise there is no way to escape, and believe me, I have tried. Even the special love does not trump The Talk.

Oh The Husband is good, he is very good. He should have been a lawyer in the OJ Simpson case. He can find faults and loopholes in every sentence I say. So much so that the kids are even thinking that I should go back to work. And damn that survey in America that said your children are not effected by a mother who works.

The Talk almost always ends in tears as I have been questioned and argued with and cross-examined within an inch of my life. My tears are tears of gratitude that it is over. I am a victim of The Talk Syndrome, which resembles Stockholm Syndrome in that I am in love with my Captor and express positive feelings towards him that are so crazy in light of the trauma he has put me through. When he is not giving me The Talk, I mistake his lack of pressure as an act of kindness.

Unfortunately The Talk is here to stay. Until I sort my life out or get divorced. In the meantime, does anyone know of a support group for victims of The Talk?

When Parental Controls Are Needed

I have been loving The Tweenager lately. For about a week he has been my favourite. Which doesn't happen very often. No I haven't had a lobotomy, we have just been bonding for once. It's totally to do with the fact that his gangsta attitude is laying dormant and he has been sweet & funny & cuddly. He has let me kiss him, count his freckles and hold his hand. And I've been loving it and savouring it because he is nearly 8 so it's probably the last time that I will ever have this time with him.

His change in behaviour is all down to a game on my laptop called Bin Weevils. Bin Weevils is a kids online virtual game where you can create your own virtual pet, play games and chat to friends. Now I know I am pretty much anti computer games but this is, at least, semi educational and it gives me two hours a day peace. Plus if The Tweenager gets his daily fix, he rewards me with love. I even earned extra Tweenager points by buying him a card in Sainsburys which lets him get into extra rooms. It was a fiver but it's cheaper than the thousands it will cost me in future therapy otherwise.

So it's all been going swimmingly - that is, until today. The Tweenager counts the seconds until 9.30am when he is allowed on Bin Weevils for an hour. However this morning he was unable to log on. His account, we've been informed, has been permanently blocked due to bad behaviour. Neither of us could understand this. It's not like he's been playing Call Of Duty. I said to him what could this mean to which he shrugged his shoulders. There then unravelled a series of revelations that's worthy of a Miss Marple episode.
9.30am: The Tweenager denies all knowledge
9.37am: The Tweenager tells me that he can type in words so the Bin Weevil grows a speech bubble and appears to speak these words
9.46am: The Tweenager mentions that his friend may have suggested they type in something not appropriate
9.53am: The Tweenager admits that his friend told him a few naughty words
10.01am: The Tweenager reveals that his friend told him some swear words and The Tweenager typed these words in for his Bin Weevil to speak.

I'm unsure what to do as I've already written a cross email to Mr Bin Weevil complaining that my son's account has been blocked and I look like an idiot now. Plus I'm going to have to exercise some kind of punishment by banning all computer access for the next 24hours. Which means I don't get to watch crap telly while he plays games. And I can't get hold of The Husband to transfer the role of Disciplining Parent onto him.

It appears The Tweenager's gangsta attitude hasn't been dormant after all.
It maybe hasn't been directed at me, but it's certainly been appearing online.