Pocket Money

Published on 13 September 2025 at 11:56

Military Mom Life: Pocket Money Boot Camp

Hello, lovely readers.

Today we’re storming straight into another battlefield of parenting—pocket money. Because let’s be honest, half the time we’re handing out coins like malfunctioning ATMs, and what do we get back? Kids who think “money” means mom’s purse is bottomless and “luxuries” grow on trees. Not anymore. Welcome to my house, where pocket money is earned, tracked, and deducted faster than a dodgy bank charge.

I’m Done Being a Free Cash Machine

Yep, I’ve been that mom. The one throwing fivers around for no reason—“Here, buy sweets, knock yourself out.” But guess what? It’s no favour. It’s turning my tiny humans into freeloaders with snack addictions. Enough, I say! The new motto: Earn it, respect it, or lose it.

Time to Bring the Military Vibes

At my house, pocket money is pay for service. Want your monthly allowance? You’d better complete your missions. Want to keep it all? Don’t get sloppy, soldier.

Deductions apply for:

Unfinished homework (school is your primary assignment).
Detentions (a.k.a. dishonourable conduct).
Bedrooms resembling toxic waste zones.
Chores left undone.

Rewards apply for:

Doing all the right things without me blowing my whistle.

Meet the Troops (Financial Edition)

14-year-old: The eldest. Thinks Wi-Fi is a human right. Sorry, mate—it’s a paid-for luxury in my boot camp. £40 a month IF you earn it. Waste it on fizzy pop and snacks in week one? Enjoy a long month of regret.
13-year-old: Daydreamer extraordinaire. If aliens ever needed Earth’s laziest representative, he’s the man. Money slips through his fingers faster than socks slip under his bed.
9-year-old Daughter: Professional drama queen. Every pound she earns is likely to be blown on craft supplies, slime, or something shiny. I don’t mind—at least she earned it.
7-year-old: Soldier-in-training. Learning the hard way that pocket money isn’t just “pity change” but a reward for effort.
3-year-old: Too young for wages, but already plotting how to steal everyone else’s coins. Fagin’s dream apprentice.

Here’s the Deal

The eldest two can earn up to £40 a month, but luxuries are on them. Snacks, fizzy pop, trips out with friends—all covered by their own budget. No more crying at me for extras. No more “M0m, pleeease.” Welcome to reality, kids. If you want it, you earn it. If you blow it, you live with it.

The Funny Side

Watching their faces when I deduct £2 for an unmade bed is better than Netflix. The outrage! The betrayal! You’d think I’d stolen their future. But the speed at which they suddenly tidy up? Olympic-worthy.

My Bright (and Slightly Madness-Inducing) Hopes

That one day they’ll secretly admit: “Thanks, Mom, for teaching us the value of money (and for not caving when we wanted that third bottle of Fanta).” Until then, I’ll keep running this operation with the precision of a drill sergeant and the humour of someone clinging to caffeine and sarcasm.