Time goes so fast.
It is a truth I tell to my eye bags in the mirror most mornings.
Inside I am still 19 and full of resilience with the enviable quality of being able to sleep on someone's floor and bounce up the next morning looking refreshed and bright-eyed, rather than walking like a lame John Wayne with piles, while clicking dislocated shoulder and hip joints back into place before brewing half a litre of espresso to combat the painful lack of sleep and telephone ordering an electric bed with memory foam mattress and pillow from the 24hr 'Orthopaedic Channel'.
One minute, I'm getting married, the next, my 7 year old bridesmaid from 1992 is planning her own wedding next year. I am officially old. I may cry at the wedding. (note to self - up the Prozac before September.). Anyway, time does indeed fly, and the older we get - the faster its little wings seem to beat.
One of the reasons I have been thinking a lot about time lately, is my children, namely the oldest two, who seem to have 'grown up' all of a sudden. I seem to have adapted okay to this phenomenon with my 15 yr old daughter even though none of her girl friends seems to have a 'sensible' curfew and she's always the first one in her group going home. She understands it's because I worry about her and think that the world's a scary place. I'm sure her friends think I'm mad.
So sue me.
She's lucky I don't follow her around wearing dark glasses and a false moustache, rapidly hiding in bushes when she turns round. My daughter is highly aware that things could be worse (She's very gateful for the invention of the mobile phone, without it, I could easily be stalking her.).
My son, however, is, has always been, and will always be, convinced that he is at the nadir of his own existence. The success of life for my son, is based on the amount of wool he can pull over his parents' eyes. At the age of 15, our uncanny knack to predict his next move (after having years of experience) is ticking him off. It's just not 'cool' for a fifteen year old to be that transparent. I realized too, that the time has come when I need to change 'how' I speak to him. I've always had to be very blunt with my son - euphemisms or sensitive suggestion have never really worked. Mainly because his constant 'Why?'s always reduced any 'sensitive suggestions' down to the wire and I have had to get to the point. Bluntly. For example;
'Maybe you should have a shower love'
'But I had one last month...'
'Yes I know that love - you should really shower every day...'
'Why?'
'Because it's usual to.'
*Getting exasperated and shouting, 'But why have I got to have one NOW?'
*squirming a bit, 'Because you need one.'
'BUT WHY???'
'Because you do.'
'BUT WHY???'
Hours of wasted time and energy later, I decided just to tell him that he needs to shower because he smells bad. Fullstop. We avoid all of that and cut to the chase. The trouble is at 13, he appreciated the bluntness. At 15, he's becoming sensitive to it and I need to respect that.
We have just had a talk about this. That sounds so reasonable, but really, it was an argument that peaked at the statement, made by my son and heir that I, his mother who has an almost 'psychic' gift of knowing when a lie is being told, is 'a right, bloody pain'. 'If you want us to get on, then get off my case.' - I think Reggie Kray said something similar as they carted him off to prison.
Resisting the urge to say, 'The only case I'll be 'on', my darlin', will be the one full of your clothes when you're zipping it up, on the day you leave home.', I calmed him down and we discussed the use of 'codewords', when he's inappropriate or hyperactive, to lessen his embarrassment at me 'getting on his case' in public.
I am trying to be positive. I really am. It's just that, I know that when our son is hyper and talking at six million miles an hour, without pausing and without actually ever finishing a sentence, he just doesn't listen. Unless I punch him in the face with a comedy boxing glove to break his flow, he won't hear me. It'll be that or he'll forget that we ever talked about using codewords and he'll think I'm just being bizarre... But for the sake of helping him to maintain his 'coolness', I am going with it.
So,if you see someone with a false moustache and shades, frantically chasing an adolescent male down the street, as he sings along to his MP3 player with abandon while swinging round lamp posts, and they're shouting over and over again 'The Red Mackerel is Flying Over the Blue Danube Tonight son', you'll know it's me...
miércoles, 21 de septiembre de 2011
sábado, 18 de junio de 2011
sonburn
Rodney from 'Only Fools and Horses - Tea for Three'
I see the humour in a lot of things. I cry a lot when I'm scared or sad or angry at injustice. Then there are the times when I do both...
It's been quite a week for me - a 'rollercoaster' of emotions doesn't even begin to describe it.
But these times happen.
There are days when my son's problems don't affect our lives much - we've become so adapted to adapting that life ticks on in its own peculiar way. But sometimes, his symptoms, when applied to new situations, smack me around the face, reminding me of my complacency in thinking I'd got everything under control.
New situations, such as school trips - the 'overnight' variety - fill me with dread. I hope I don't show that, I certainly try not to. Instead I just focus my anxiety on preparation and planning.
I checked he had everything, 3 times, 'remember to take your medication as soon as you get up', 'brush your teeth morning and night', 'charge your phone so we can pack it in the morning' - you get the picture. Now, the thing about my son is if we aren't explicit with our instructions, then he won't apply logical reasoning, for example 'will you brush your teeth' has to be 'will you brush your teeth for at least 2 minutes at the bathroom sink', otherwise he will wander around aimlessly holding the toothhbrush, watching it vibrate in his hand for 10 seconds, put it in his mouth for a further 10 seconds, turn it off and say 'I've finished'.
Anyway, the point is, he needs explicit instructions. This is obviously something I need to remember ALL of the time, as now, we get to the thrust of my blog and the reason for including the photo of Rodney Trotter - those of you who've seen the classic episode where, due to Del fiddling with the sunbed controls, Rodney gets badly sunburned, will know just how red he looks. Del tells him he shouldn't wear the white suit he has on because he looks like a 'swan vesta'. A similarly frightening sight greeted me on my number one son's return from a 2 day excursion only an hour away from where we live in Spain. Excited about seeing him, relieved he was coming home, wanting to hear that he had had a positive experience, I did not want my first reaction to be negative, but 'shock' made it so. My son, who had a new tube of factor 50 suncream with him, wasn't told by me the night before to make sure he applied it first thing and obviously being 15, wasn't told, by teachers, to put it on at the time - so he didn't.
He glowed with a luminescence that bordered both the beautiful and the frightening, as we wrestled with the urge to take him to A and E for first degree burns. 2 days and 3 litres of 'aftersun' later, he has now lost his glow and most of the pain. We found his tube of suncream - it was almost empty, apparently he had let other people use it.
The pathos of it, how vulnerable he is, the urge to protect him - all these things break my heart. It was my fault. I can remember 99 things but when I forget one thing or when I don't see something coming when I should have, I get cross at myself, at my own inadequacy. So, thank God for comedy shows - where life's not so serious and people are always getting it wrong and it's okay.
In fact, comedy shows should be available on prescription.
That and sun cream
sábado, 11 de junio de 2011
Yeah, but is it art??
Sorry for the delay in posting but it's that time of the year again.
I spent 6 hours constructing some kind of rabbit biscuit barrel, hairdryering every layer of papier maché for speed, spending 15 euros on resources (grumbling to myself - 'I could've bought one for that) and neglecting the healthy food regime of the kids, throwing them a 'KitKat' to share for lunch while avoiding throwing up on the aforesaid work of art as I nursed an increasingly bad migraine.
'But Why?' I hear you ask.
The last minute rush to make sure my number one son passes the year.
This was art. We've done a few weeks of tutoring him too. He's already failed maths and can't afford to fail any more subjects. If he does, he repeats the year, which is de-motivating, humiliating and a waste of time for someone like my son who doesn't see the point of doing most things once, let alone twice.
If it was left to him, he would have given in something resembling this -
Take one rabbit.
Put it in a cornflake's box.
Reverse a tractor over it.
Wrap it in about 3km of sellotape and.......... 'Tadah!'.
In fact, when I saw it the night before it had to be given in and before I knew it was meant to actually resemble something, I thought it was;
a) a metaphorical physical expression of his inner turmoil,
b) the new Damien Hirst or
c)rubbish
I cried a bit inside at the pathos of this 'creation'.
After looking at my son, with a plaintive expression which communicated the single word 'Why?', he just shrugged his shoulders and mumbled with adolescent world weariness - 'I can't do it.'
'But what is it meant to be, son?'
Due to my inability to decipher the abstract construction in front of me which apparently had taken him 6 hours (although, we later found out that 5 hours 55 minutes of that was spent playing with plasticine), he kicked the sideboard and flapped his arms in frustration, yelling,
'SEE - I KNOW IT'S NO GOOD'
So, I rescued him. For the sake of him getting through school. When he saw the end result, he kissed me and, as chuffed as buttons, took it into school.
He got a '7'.
Can you believe that? A '7'???? After all that effort??? It had floppy ears and buck teeth and everything.
I'm gutted.
At least it's a pass.
I'm beginning to wonder if the original 'Rabbit Incarcerated in Crumpled Cornflakes Box and Wrapped in a Never-Ending Stream of 'Sellotape'' wouldn't have got a better mark....
I spent 6 hours constructing some kind of rabbit biscuit barrel, hairdryering every layer of papier maché for speed, spending 15 euros on resources (grumbling to myself - 'I could've bought one for that) and neglecting the healthy food regime of the kids, throwing them a 'KitKat' to share for lunch while avoiding throwing up on the aforesaid work of art as I nursed an increasingly bad migraine.
'But Why?' I hear you ask.
The last minute rush to make sure my number one son passes the year.
This was art. We've done a few weeks of tutoring him too. He's already failed maths and can't afford to fail any more subjects. If he does, he repeats the year, which is de-motivating, humiliating and a waste of time for someone like my son who doesn't see the point of doing most things once, let alone twice.
If it was left to him, he would have given in something resembling this -
Take one rabbit.
Put it in a cornflake's box.
Reverse a tractor over it.
Wrap it in about 3km of sellotape and.......... 'Tadah!'.
In fact, when I saw it the night before it had to be given in and before I knew it was meant to actually resemble something, I thought it was;
a) a metaphorical physical expression of his inner turmoil,
b) the new Damien Hirst or
c)rubbish
I cried a bit inside at the pathos of this 'creation'.
After looking at my son, with a plaintive expression which communicated the single word 'Why?', he just shrugged his shoulders and mumbled with adolescent world weariness - 'I can't do it.'
'But what is it meant to be, son?'
Due to my inability to decipher the abstract construction in front of me which apparently had taken him 6 hours (although, we later found out that 5 hours 55 minutes of that was spent playing with plasticine), he kicked the sideboard and flapped his arms in frustration, yelling,
'SEE - I KNOW IT'S NO GOOD'
So, I rescued him. For the sake of him getting through school. When he saw the end result, he kissed me and, as chuffed as buttons, took it into school.
He got a '7'.
Can you believe that? A '7'???? After all that effort??? It had floppy ears and buck teeth and everything.
I'm gutted.
At least it's a pass.
I'm beginning to wonder if the original 'Rabbit Incarcerated in Crumpled Cornflakes Box and Wrapped in a Never-Ending Stream of 'Sellotape'' wouldn't have got a better mark....
martes, 10 de mayo de 2011
Frozen Peas and Indignation
This morning I decided to boycott the local supermarket.
I have arrived at this point after a catalogue of misdemeanours. I am a wheelchair user and I am utterly sick and tired of having to ask for assistance from sulky staff when it is a question of getting round the damn shop.
It's not a big thing in the scheme of things, I'm not homeless or widowed or alone or having to scavenge for food to feed my kids. I know I'm fortunate. I don't get down about my illness often, it's just that when little things keep happening they become systemic and lack of disabilty awareness in people around me eats into my energy and self-esteem. I am a lone angry person harbouring a grudge and really I wanted to make a big placard saying 'Heellooo!!' and maybe hit the manager over the head with it while chaining myself to the trolley park in protest. Instead I, naughtily and stroppily (not that anyone was an audience to my righteous anger), backed out of their one-way entry system as the entrance - yet again - was blocked by crates of fruit. I was in a bad mood already, probably due to the fact that chocolate should be free on the National Health System - but it's not (potential vote winning policy there...).
I can only get into 4 shops in my town - 2 are bars (there must be a god - make mine a double), one lovely stationery shop which last year installed a ramp and an automatic door and the afore-mentioned supermarket which offers a depressingly challenging experience at the best of times. As you root through produce checking the 'eat by' dates, scouring for signs of mould on cheese and meat and potential salmonella and botulism and as you keep your eyes peeled for open boxes where the contents have been taken in a cunning attempt to beat the alarm system (the funniest is when you can follow the trail of open cakes, open drinks and open crisps and realise that someone's eaten a meal there - brave souls!), you realise that these experiences make you question your own optimism. I realise that I'm always waiting for the supermarket to get better... in fact, I probably spend my life waiting for things to get better, meanwhile life and the 'eat by' dates in the supermarket are both expiring rapidly. So, I'm taking charge. I've given it plenty of chances to improve and now it's just one insult too far - I can't even get in the shop to suffer it. It's like being annoyed when you can't be tortured due to lack of diability awareness and the 'rack' isn't situated on a hydraulic bed to facilitate transferring.
'What if I WANNA be tortured??'
Anyway I have told the kids that if we can't buy it from the freezer shop (which luckily sells bread... and cake), then we aint eating it. I am empowering myself and taking the moral highground while simultaneously sucking on a frozen pea.
And it tastes good.
I have arrived at this point after a catalogue of misdemeanours. I am a wheelchair user and I am utterly sick and tired of having to ask for assistance from sulky staff when it is a question of getting round the damn shop.
It's not a big thing in the scheme of things, I'm not homeless or widowed or alone or having to scavenge for food to feed my kids. I know I'm fortunate. I don't get down about my illness often, it's just that when little things keep happening they become systemic and lack of disabilty awareness in people around me eats into my energy and self-esteem. I am a lone angry person harbouring a grudge and really I wanted to make a big placard saying 'Heellooo!!' and maybe hit the manager over the head with it while chaining myself to the trolley park in protest. Instead I, naughtily and stroppily (not that anyone was an audience to my righteous anger), backed out of their one-way entry system as the entrance - yet again - was blocked by crates of fruit. I was in a bad mood already, probably due to the fact that chocolate should be free on the National Health System - but it's not (potential vote winning policy there...).
I can only get into 4 shops in my town - 2 are bars (there must be a god - make mine a double), one lovely stationery shop which last year installed a ramp and an automatic door and the afore-mentioned supermarket which offers a depressingly challenging experience at the best of times. As you root through produce checking the 'eat by' dates, scouring for signs of mould on cheese and meat and potential salmonella and botulism and as you keep your eyes peeled for open boxes where the contents have been taken in a cunning attempt to beat the alarm system (the funniest is when you can follow the trail of open cakes, open drinks and open crisps and realise that someone's eaten a meal there - brave souls!), you realise that these experiences make you question your own optimism. I realise that I'm always waiting for the supermarket to get better... in fact, I probably spend my life waiting for things to get better, meanwhile life and the 'eat by' dates in the supermarket are both expiring rapidly. So, I'm taking charge. I've given it plenty of chances to improve and now it's just one insult too far - I can't even get in the shop to suffer it. It's like being annoyed when you can't be tortured due to lack of diability awareness and the 'rack' isn't situated on a hydraulic bed to facilitate transferring.
'What if I WANNA be tortured??'
Anyway I have told the kids that if we can't buy it from the freezer shop (which luckily sells bread... and cake), then we aint eating it. I am empowering myself and taking the moral highground while simultaneously sucking on a frozen pea.
And it tastes good.
martes, 3 de mayo de 2011
The monotony of love
'To bother persistently with trivial complaints' - To nag.
I never did want to be classed as a 'nagger', but it seems to be a role I'm slipping into with ease which is a tad worrying because the next stage up from nagging mother is tyrannical mother-in-law and I don't know if I have the energy for that - let alone the inclination... but...
Every day is like the film 'Groundhog Day'.
My son wakes up every day with his memory seemingly completely wiped from the day before, which is a trait I would love. As I'm still stinging from a heated conversation the day before about the merits of putting clothes in the washing basket rather than leaving them to amass on the bedroom floor for so long that they form a small uprising, grow legs and walk to the washing machine of their own accord to escape the pungent aroma of festering underwear and clothes, he is blithely re-starting life stuffing the cutlery down the sides of the settee (again) as he un-stacks the dishwasher not wanting to sort out the knives and forks into their particular spaces in the sideboard drawer.
'Aah! I hear you say, 'why doesn't she just give him two sets of underwear and clothes, so he is forced, by mere clothing deprivation, to put them in the wash?'
Those of you with children like my beautiful but challenging son will be knowingly scoffing at that concept. I tried it, proud of myself for being so clever, only to be outwitted by the latest member of the ‘Guiness Book of Records’ in achieving the longest amount of time the same pair of underpants has been worn by one person – my boy, who thought that spraying his clothes with air freshener cleaned and sanitised them at the same time. If only...
Nagging, lists, notes, contracts of behaviour, self-esteem sessions, counselling sessions, bribery, affirmation, punishment... threats of uploading a photo of his bedroom to Facebook - I have spent years reinforcing every day basic rules hoping that one day some will sink in. And some have. But mostly every day, even now at 15 years old, involves standing over him as he brushes his teeth, washes, does his homework, etcetera, etcetera. I don't mind doing it so much now, 'nagging' scarily rolls off me automatically with less exasperation. Now that we have a diagnosis, I understand him more. Working against us is the unreasonableness of adolescence which doesn't help. In some ways I'm glad we didn't get the diagnoses of ADHD and PDD-NOS earlier because, who knows, we may have given up and just accepted his behaviour as typical instead of constantly reinforcing basic concepts. We just keep going, trying not to keep score - there's no merit in counting - it would just overwhelm me. Every day, the monotony of 'nagging' is only relieved by knowing this one thing; behind every 'nag' there is a subliminal 'I love you so much - I want to help you to grow to your full potential and if that means me constantly reinforcing basic rules, then so be it but I'm not giving up on you.'.
I 'really' tell him I love him most days, scared he'll forget that he is loved in his 'Groundhog Day' world.
I realise that I tell him that I love him through 'nagging' about 30 times a day.
But who's counting?
I never did want to be classed as a 'nagger', but it seems to be a role I'm slipping into with ease which is a tad worrying because the next stage up from nagging mother is tyrannical mother-in-law and I don't know if I have the energy for that - let alone the inclination... but...
Every day is like the film 'Groundhog Day'.
My son wakes up every day with his memory seemingly completely wiped from the day before, which is a trait I would love. As I'm still stinging from a heated conversation the day before about the merits of putting clothes in the washing basket rather than leaving them to amass on the bedroom floor for so long that they form a small uprising, grow legs and walk to the washing machine of their own accord to escape the pungent aroma of festering underwear and clothes, he is blithely re-starting life stuffing the cutlery down the sides of the settee (again) as he un-stacks the dishwasher not wanting to sort out the knives and forks into their particular spaces in the sideboard drawer.
'Aah! I hear you say, 'why doesn't she just give him two sets of underwear and clothes, so he is forced, by mere clothing deprivation, to put them in the wash?'
Those of you with children like my beautiful but challenging son will be knowingly scoffing at that concept. I tried it, proud of myself for being so clever, only to be outwitted by the latest member of the ‘Guiness Book of Records’ in achieving the longest amount of time the same pair of underpants has been worn by one person – my boy, who thought that spraying his clothes with air freshener cleaned and sanitised them at the same time. If only...
Nagging, lists, notes, contracts of behaviour, self-esteem sessions, counselling sessions, bribery, affirmation, punishment... threats of uploading a photo of his bedroom to Facebook - I have spent years reinforcing every day basic rules hoping that one day some will sink in. And some have. But mostly every day, even now at 15 years old, involves standing over him as he brushes his teeth, washes, does his homework, etcetera, etcetera. I don't mind doing it so much now, 'nagging' scarily rolls off me automatically with less exasperation. Now that we have a diagnosis, I understand him more. Working against us is the unreasonableness of adolescence which doesn't help. In some ways I'm glad we didn't get the diagnoses of ADHD and PDD-NOS earlier because, who knows, we may have given up and just accepted his behaviour as typical instead of constantly reinforcing basic concepts. We just keep going, trying not to keep score - there's no merit in counting - it would just overwhelm me. Every day, the monotony of 'nagging' is only relieved by knowing this one thing; behind every 'nag' there is a subliminal 'I love you so much - I want to help you to grow to your full potential and if that means me constantly reinforcing basic rules, then so be it but I'm not giving up on you.'.
I 'really' tell him I love him most days, scared he'll forget that he is loved in his 'Groundhog Day' world.
I realise that I tell him that I love him through 'nagging' about 30 times a day.
But who's counting?
miércoles, 9 de marzo de 2011
Dysfunctional? Look at your car...
'I don't ever want to go out with you again... so don't ask me.' - serious teenage rant after day trip to Barcelona'.
When do you stop forcing your teenage children to go on family excursions with you?
They would say 'now.'
We want them to come, but more than that, we want them to enjoy being together. Part of me knows that the reality of a family trip will not live up to my aspirations of being like the Waltons but without the gingham.
I blame the car.
Things really are stacked against us from the off regarding a happy day out. Having a moody teenage son who is built like Hagrid doesn't help, combine that fact with our car, which is probably the smallest family car you can get without going to a car dealer in Oompa Loompa land and which is only a 3-door hatchback. The main reason for buying a tiny car with no access for the passengers at the back was to discourage them from opening the doors at high speed and throwing themselves out, shouting 'Nooooooo! We're not with them...'.
Normally the kids have to endure their parents' singing as we drive along. We make sure it's loud and raucous so they can't drown us out with their MP3s.
After half an hour of precision packing to get them in the back of the car, (A tricky procedure as we have to strategically position our car-sickness prone teenage daughter and our anxiety ridden 9 yr-old, who really does not want to be vomited on, which results in our clinically depressed Hagrid having to sit in the middle with his feet propped up and his knees up by his ears, bemoaning the fact that he doesn't suffer from an ailment which would ensure his place in a 'window seat'.) and 2 minutes of being 'on the road', they are forced to endure our latest rendition of a Lady Gaga song but with made-up words - normally about happy families or sulky teenagers. It's at this point, 'Hagrid' is made aware of the advantage of having your knees either side of your ears - muffling quality.
What a happy sight we make on the highways of Spain - in the front - parents oblivious, singing and swaying, happy and carefree. Pan to the back, where the squashed, deformed faces and desperate, open hands of bemused children are pressed against the windows with only enough room for them to write in the condensation from their breath on the glass - 'PLEASE ADOPT ME'...
When do you stop forcing your teenage children to go on family excursions with you?
They would say 'now.'
We want them to come, but more than that, we want them to enjoy being together. Part of me knows that the reality of a family trip will not live up to my aspirations of being like the Waltons but without the gingham.
I blame the car.
Things really are stacked against us from the off regarding a happy day out. Having a moody teenage son who is built like Hagrid doesn't help, combine that fact with our car, which is probably the smallest family car you can get without going to a car dealer in Oompa Loompa land and which is only a 3-door hatchback. The main reason for buying a tiny car with no access for the passengers at the back was to discourage them from opening the doors at high speed and throwing themselves out, shouting 'Nooooooo! We're not with them...'.
Normally the kids have to endure their parents' singing as we drive along. We make sure it's loud and raucous so they can't drown us out with their MP3s.
After half an hour of precision packing to get them in the back of the car, (A tricky procedure as we have to strategically position our car-sickness prone teenage daughter and our anxiety ridden 9 yr-old, who really does not want to be vomited on, which results in our clinically depressed Hagrid having to sit in the middle with his feet propped up and his knees up by his ears, bemoaning the fact that he doesn't suffer from an ailment which would ensure his place in a 'window seat'.) and 2 minutes of being 'on the road', they are forced to endure our latest rendition of a Lady Gaga song but with made-up words - normally about happy families or sulky teenagers. It's at this point, 'Hagrid' is made aware of the advantage of having your knees either side of your ears - muffling quality.
What a happy sight we make on the highways of Spain - in the front - parents oblivious, singing and swaying, happy and carefree. Pan to the back, where the squashed, deformed faces and desperate, open hands of bemused children are pressed against the windows with only enough room for them to write in the condensation from their breath on the glass - 'PLEASE ADOPT ME'...
lunes, 21 de febrero de 2011
Pebbles and Ripples
"Can we all just calm down here a minute please....?"
These were the fateful words uttered, with full patronising accompaniment of palms outstretched, patting the air in front of her as if guiding in a Hawker Harrier on an aircraft carrier, by my 15 year old daughter, in response to me raising my voice, at the third time of asking her to look for her mobile phone charger as she had no alarm and the cockerel we'd hired to wake her at the crack of dawn, was slowly losing the ability to crow as it was being intoxicated by her brother's trainer whiff.
I almost choked on my Prozac.
These words did something to me. I found it hilarious, infuriating, saddening, shaming and condescending - all at the same time, in a micro-second. I looked at her, unable to speak. The old chestnut; 'I would never have spoken to my mom in that way...' rang through my head. Although that kind of confidence to express herself is great, I'm beginning to feel like living with teenagers who are not afraid to speak their mind is not good for a parent's self-esteem. Their free expression can come at the expense of feeling good as a parent especially when the children are acting like 'critical parents' and are questioning how you are and what you do. In fact, sometimes it's like being a kid again.
My son is prone to hurling insults freely and the usual howls of 'you don't understand me...', 'You're bad parents...', 'Leave me alone...' and 'I'm ringing Social Services if you don't give me my Playstation' have slowly, mainly due to their repetition and therefore induced compassion fatigue, lost their impact on me. I suppose in the same way as my 'nagging' him to 'cut his nails' has less impact than donning an Edward Scissorhands outfit and, while he rem sleeps at 3 a.m in the morning, sticking a pointed finger up his nostril and bellowing menacingly 'CUT YOUR NAILS'....
However, when I am on the receiving end of my adolescent daughter's wrath and/or condescencion (the latter being worse), it's like a blow below the belt.
'Calm down'??
'Calm down'????
This from the girl who could wind up The Dalai Lama - in fact I'd pay good money to see them in a 'head to head', with my darling daughter jumping up and down, flapping her arms and screaming hysterically while his holiness calmly reassures her that when her brother 'does the finger' at her, it is merely a reflection of his 'inner turmoil' and not a 'let's wind up my sister 'cos it's fun watching her whirl like a Dervish' move. It's like throwing a pebble in a pond - his 'finger', in this case, is the pebble, her reactions are the ripples. As his holiness asks her sagely if she really wants to be a 'ripple', I can see her now - scrunching up her face, shrugging her shoulders, raising her hands questioningly and glaring at me; 'Ripple?? What is he on about??' Buddhist metaphor is lost on the disaffected...
The trouble is teenagers don't know what it's like to live with them... It's probably similar to living with parents when you're a teenager. Pebbles and ripples. Pebbles and ripples.
"Calm down"?
I'd love to.
These were the fateful words uttered, with full patronising accompaniment of palms outstretched, patting the air in front of her as if guiding in a Hawker Harrier on an aircraft carrier, by my 15 year old daughter, in response to me raising my voice, at the third time of asking her to look for her mobile phone charger as she had no alarm and the cockerel we'd hired to wake her at the crack of dawn, was slowly losing the ability to crow as it was being intoxicated by her brother's trainer whiff.
I almost choked on my Prozac.
These words did something to me. I found it hilarious, infuriating, saddening, shaming and condescending - all at the same time, in a micro-second. I looked at her, unable to speak. The old chestnut; 'I would never have spoken to my mom in that way...' rang through my head. Although that kind of confidence to express herself is great, I'm beginning to feel like living with teenagers who are not afraid to speak their mind is not good for a parent's self-esteem. Their free expression can come at the expense of feeling good as a parent especially when the children are acting like 'critical parents' and are questioning how you are and what you do. In fact, sometimes it's like being a kid again.
My son is prone to hurling insults freely and the usual howls of 'you don't understand me...', 'You're bad parents...', 'Leave me alone...' and 'I'm ringing Social Services if you don't give me my Playstation' have slowly, mainly due to their repetition and therefore induced compassion fatigue, lost their impact on me. I suppose in the same way as my 'nagging' him to 'cut his nails' has less impact than donning an Edward Scissorhands outfit and, while he rem sleeps at 3 a.m in the morning, sticking a pointed finger up his nostril and bellowing menacingly 'CUT YOUR NAILS'....
However, when I am on the receiving end of my adolescent daughter's wrath and/or condescencion (the latter being worse), it's like a blow below the belt.
'Calm down'??
'Calm down'????
This from the girl who could wind up The Dalai Lama - in fact I'd pay good money to see them in a 'head to head', with my darling daughter jumping up and down, flapping her arms and screaming hysterically while his holiness calmly reassures her that when her brother 'does the finger' at her, it is merely a reflection of his 'inner turmoil' and not a 'let's wind up my sister 'cos it's fun watching her whirl like a Dervish' move. It's like throwing a pebble in a pond - his 'finger', in this case, is the pebble, her reactions are the ripples. As his holiness asks her sagely if she really wants to be a 'ripple', I can see her now - scrunching up her face, shrugging her shoulders, raising her hands questioningly and glaring at me; 'Ripple?? What is he on about??' Buddhist metaphor is lost on the disaffected...
The trouble is teenagers don't know what it's like to live with them... It's probably similar to living with parents when you're a teenager. Pebbles and ripples. Pebbles and ripples.
"Calm down"?
I'd love to.
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