When They Tell Just That Bit Too Much
I'm reading a book called That's My Boy, by Jenni Murray. JM is British, has an OBE, is a patron of the Family Planning Association and hosts The Women's Hour on Radio 4. She's right up there on my list of esteemed women.
I spotted her tome about raising happy and confident sons and decided it was worth a read. She's written the book so earnestly and chattily, so it's good value, but every now and then Jenni is unintentionally hilarious and I just can't take her seriously.
On boys turning laddish:
"I've never insisted a poster (of a naked woman) was taken down and only asked that any magazines or pictures should be put away so as not to offend my sensibilities or that of our cleaner..."
On toilet training:
"I have to say, we never had any problems with potty training, but we did have the live-in help of Jeanne, our properly trained nanny who never became anxious about anything, as far as I can recall."
On the subject of marital break down:
"The grass is so rarely greener on the other side and our boys' sense of well-being and security is surely more important than having a new love affair or resolving who washes the kitchen floor."
On co-sleeping with children:
"This carried on (the boys climbing into bed with them) until they were both around three or four and eventually led to David (JM's life partner) setting himself up in a spare room and we have, very comfortably I should add, and with mutual agreement, had our own rooms ever since."
I read this last one out loud to Hubbs and he fell down laughing. He has gleaned from this book that the way to raise a confident and happy son is to have a live-in nanny, a cleaner, and a large house with at least four bedrooms.
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