You can see how old this story is from the reference to Playstation 2! With kids I brought absolutely no natural mothering skills to the art. Didn't know how to carry a baby and walk, that was how it all began. I am so grateful for their presence in my life and how much they have taught me. So with that mixture of ignorance and gratitude here is a slice of parenting cake. Apologies to Daniel who will recognize the walk, the kitten, the game and the tears!
Children and Cattle Prods
My son was walking by my side and was complaining. Everyone at school had a Playstation 2, was the gist of his argument. This was our daily 45-minute walk and he my reluctant companion. It must be horrible to have all your brothers leave to go to university and your father go to China for a sabbatical year and be left with only your menopausal mother. Especially when she insisted on these forty-minute walks every now and then. I could tell that another grievance he had was why he should have the job of walking the Mother! As if life wasn’t bad enough. Usually the walks started off pretty badly with a reluctant Daniel storming along at my side, furious to have to be there, furious at the injustice of it and mainly furious because as a teenager hormones dictated his moods.
Once I got so angry at his complaints I told him to walk 50 metres behind me, as I didn’t want to have to listen to him, he had made me so angry. By the time we had both finished our 40-minute usual circuit in barely half an hour of stiff-necked angry silent marching, we were exhausted, both emotionally and mentally, and made the peace. Today’s complaining was only a reflex action. By the time we had reached the top of the hill he had already moved on to all that happened at school to annoy him. Another ten minutes and he was ready to talk about anything in a thoughtful and articulate manner. On these walks he can cope with dreams, wishes, regrets, family members, future plans, and it seems with every pace we get somewhere, whatever the topic. As if our feet beat out a fast rhythm forcing issues along to some satisfactory conclusion. I love the feeling of touching base with him and discovering more about exactly where he is at. But it is such a dynamic thing it actually alters both of us so that with each walk we are never quite the same. My motto in parenting is telling the truth. Sometimes it is easier to lie.
Like when they are around five years old and they ask you that dreaded question, “Will you die, Mum?” You want to tell them that you will always be there but it would be a lie. Hard to see the little face crumple as you tell them that yes you will, you definitely will die. Or when they say that they cannot make friends at school and come for advice. I have to point out that it was something I was awful at myself. I have a memory of being given a box of crisps to take to school to bribe people to talk to me – how cool is that! Or when they come with tales of bullies at school and I give my practical advice,” with bullies always make sure you hurt them, it doesn’t matter if you lose the fight you just have to hurt them enough that they don’t pick on you again.” Okay, not the best of advice but in my experience children are alone in the playground and have to face these things alone. The least they deserve is our honesty about how we coped even if they choose to do it differently. My eldest son responded to this piece of advice with a knowing nod, my middle son looked at me with horror as if violence could ever be the answer and the third? He just shook his head and examined me as if I had just crawled out from under a stone and was in need of medication.
I reckon children can cope with just about anything; any stupid dumb thing you say can be used and turned to their advantage. Just keep the channels open because chances are you will learn more from them than you ever manage to convey to them. Sometimes we play games.
People pass us by on our walk and I challenge him to come up with the story of their life. Neither of us have a clue of who these people are but that makes for a delicious blank canvas. The first time he tried he struggled. Two young women in a car passed us, one serious and the other smiling. He came up with an unlikely story of one having borrowed money from the other and now wanted it back. It was pretty feeble and yet the next one was about a rather elderly Greek man marching soldier like, eyes fixed hypnotically in front. Daniel whispered that his wife had died years earlier and he was retired and had a serious heart condition. His doctor had prescribed a daily walk for his health and yet all he could think about was the fact that he couldn’t seem to manage his finances. He’d run up huge debts on hospital bills and his daughter’s wedding and was too proud to admit to anyone that he was not only financially ruined but emotionally wrecked. His wife had been the quiet rock upon which he leant and whom he had protected and adored. Losing her had caused a real physical pain in his heart that never seemed to ease. As he walked he could still feel the stiff jabs of pain in his left side and wondered what on earth he was doing here going on without her. Daniel finished his story with, “and he doesn’t have a real friend in the whole world.” As the stiff old figure came wheezing past us, joints creaking and face red with effort, I wanted to grab him in a hug and tell him to sit down and talk. Instead I had to let him march right past and could only spectate in mute sympathy.
Watching Daniel’s face I knew he’d read my thoughts and he smirked, satisfied. He knew I wouldn’t be asking him to play that particular game again. The little swine! It’s when the blighters begin to outfox you that parenting becomes a downhill struggle. I am panting as we round the last bend and he has got his second wind and is off like a whippet. As we complete the circuit we once again pass the elderly man and he has a definite gray twinge to his face and is walking slower and unevenly. I cannot keep the distress from my face and Daniel is laughing at my softness. As we near the flat a kitten suddenly runs out under the wheels of a passing car and there is a sickening crunch. This is no glancing blow and the kitten lies a flattened furry bloody mess in the middle of the cold gray tarmac. My father’s failsafe road safety education for his grandchildren was to march them nearer a squashed mass and, pointing out the popped out eyes, say to the solemn 2/3 year old, “that could be you if you don’t watch these roads!!” So Daniel had been shown dozens of dead bodies over the years. Every road kill the call for yet another impromptu lecture on the importance of road safety for small children. Effective to the point of ruthlessness. And my children all thought the road safety lessons at school very watery and ineffective stuff compared to Granda’s colourful version.
I, however, cannot bear the sudden loss of life. One minute full of life and youthful playfulness and the next gone! I find my eyes filling with tears and sadness descends like a fog. What is this hormonal depression that hits like a brick in the face? Is this what life is, a short act of a play ruthlessly ended before it is even begun? What is the point of anything? To Daniel’s question, “Are you alright Mum?” I cannot immediately reply. My tears have started now and Daniel is desperate to solve this one but unable to find the solution.
My eldest son, Nason, used to be terrified of these parrots outside shops that they had in Ireland. It was a fake parrot inside a cage and periodically would squawk to attract passersby to put money in for a small prize. Every shop in the seaside resort seemed to have one on the pavement and no sooner did my son go past with his grandfather than it would squawk and send him into terrified screams. My father soon found a solution to dry his tears. He would attack the parrot with his umbrella and rattle its cage furiously. For some reason this always worked like a treat and Nason’s tears would clear up immediately. Shopkeepers did not appreciate this performance but my father’s intimidating presence ensured they stayed safely behind their counters. I’m not sure why but the vision of my father attacking these wretched birds reminded me of just how much he loves his grandchildren.
So much of this could have been me and No1 son, it's uncanny! I never found talking to him about death uncomfortable though. It's the darkness created around it that was so hard to bear for me as a child.
ReplyDeleteAlso when I knew of his being bullied, while telling him all the 'right' things, the killer instinct was ignited in me, much to his horror when he would rather it had been kept quiet.
Keep it coming please! xox