My name is __ and I’m a Pushy Mum.

Hello.  My name is Ehmum* and I’m a Pushy Mum.

Actually, I don’t think I am but having spoken at length to, ooh, at least two other mums of Boy’s school friends, it seems I am.  When it comes to homework at any rate.  No, I don’t smack his fingers with a ruler as he runs them below his Stage 6 Oxford reading book (Stage 6, did you hear that? Top group, you know!) which is currently ‘In the garden’ [sic], starring the oddly-named Biff, Chip, Kipper and Floppy (guess which one’s the dog?  No?  I struggled with that one too.  It’s Floppy.  And Biff is a girl.  Go figure.).  Neither do I withhold food and/or other ‘treats’ for poorly-formed phonetics.  I do, however, get a bit arsey with him for scenarios such as this one:

Boy – “They.  Went.  Into.  The.  Garden.”
Pushy Mum – Really?  Now, tell me what you did half an hour ago with your football.
Boy – “I went into the garden.”
Pushy Mum – Did you?  You didn’t, “Go.  Into.  The.  Garden.”?
Boy – *laughs* No, Mummy, “I went into the garden”.
Pushy Mum – Well, say it that way when you read then.  Go on, try again.
Boy – “They went into the garden.”
Pushy Mum – Good stuff, mate!  You’ve got it!  High Five!!  (I know, I know.  I avoided it for so long, but that bloody High Five is just so damn useful as a physical ‘Gold-Star-and-a-VG’).

So.  He now understands what I mean when I ask him to read it as he’d speak it.  I know he can do it.  He knows he can do it.  He doesn’t do it and I ask him to try harder.  He tries harder, reads it more naturally and voilà!  Bob’s his and my uncle (which throws up any number of uncomfortable familial relationships more commonly found in my Highland homeland, but essentially means he’s got the hang of it).

So tell me, is that being pushy?

I don’t think I’m a pushy mum.  But that doesn’t mean I’m never going to push.



*Clearly it isn’t.