Poor parenting techniques part 3

Different styles of discipline work with different children. It's all very well devising a 'supernanny' chain of consequences for poor behaviour but they have varying results depending on the temperament of your child.

For quite some time I struggled to find a way to get the lad to do what I was asking him as well as disciplining him when he'd done something wrong. Shutting him in his room enraged him. He would locate the toy capable of the worst level of destruction and thrash it against the walls, screaming at the top of his lungs. Enforcing a naughty step was tricky with the twins crawling all over the place. One day I tried the 'if you haven't brushed your teeth/turned off the TV/sat down at the table by the time I've counted to five then I'm going to take away your lego/Buzz Lightyear/favourite shoes.' It was an immediate winner. I thought it would probably only last a few weeks but it has been the number one form of getting the lad to do anything for a good year. He sometimes screams at me "don't count Mummy" but on the whole I have found the threat of confiscation to be a highly effective tool to bring about obedience. Not the most positive of parenting techniques but when needs must.....

As a result, the twins have learnt to count from an early age. On the downside, they can only count to 5 and they tend to shout with mounting volume and pregnant pauses between each number.

The art of shit parenting

I won't be winning any mothering awards this week. Yesterday I got the children ready to go out in the car. I told the lad to play in the front garden but not to get in the car. He, of course, got in the car and rearranged the dials, switches and indicators from the comfort of the driver's seat. I leant over the verranda which is at the top of a flight of stairs and overlooking the garden and bellowed at him. I had left the keys in the ignition from an earlier trip so was keen for him to make a smart exit. As he hopped out he smartly pushed the lock down and slammed the door. My rage put me at risk of a stroke and I screamed 'for fuck's sake Dusty'. Unfortunately my pulpit served its purpose well and carried my rage down the street so that everyone could get a lesson in how not to parent.

Rocket science

I have just spent a perfect hour with the lad. The twins were asleep, the husband is at Bunnings (NZ answer to B&Q) so the lad and I sat outside in the morning sunshine and painted each other's nails. He asked me to sit still and said that the pearlised pink nail polish he had chosen made him feel like we had rainbows in our hands. I damn near folded over inside with love for the little boy. A few months ago before I went back to England for nine weeks he was getting seriously difficult to deal with. The time at home with my parents was perfect as I got to spend lots of time with each of the children individually. My parents offer such an vast amount of support, never get annoyed with crying babies or toddlers and do such interesting things with them all as well as constant cuddling and chatting. Predictably this benefited the lad enormously so by the time we came back to NZ he had calmed down quite a bit. Recently he has been more tricky again. He is hard to discipline as he has an answer for everything (any of my close friends reading this will be scoffing in recognition of this clearly hereditary trait) and is unafraid of standing up for himself even in the face of a puce, boggled eyed, raging mother. Two days ago I spent a good hour making jigsaws with him, yesterday he helped me cook all morning and today we had more time together in the garden. There is no doubt that when I find time to direct all my attention at him he is miles happier and more amenable. It's not rocket science, we all know how it works.

The picture isn't relevant to the post - just one of me on Christmas Day. I love a bit of puerile humour.