Well, it's been a couple of years since I wrote a post. It is certainly not due to having too much peace and quiet in my life and, therefore, nothing to write about!
My daughter is now 18 and has been in tertiary education for almost a year. She will receive a diploma in a couple of weeks and received a scholarship halfway through her course for being the highest-ranking Humanities student at the college where she is studying. Her hard work and passion has earned her a place in 2nd year Architecture in 2016. Her father and I could not be more proud than we are.
Today she starts a summer job in a building company as an office junior and I wish for her every success as she deserves it.
She is still a teenager, however. She is learning to feel empathy and learning to control her emotions. She is learning to stand on her own two feet and take fledgling leaps closer and closer to the edge.
* * *
My son has one more year of secondary schooling to go and things have been...eventful...since I last wrote.
He did go on to a new state school (a local high school with small numbers of students in a low-socio-economic area) and it was great for his self-esteem and education. He was accepted into their basketball specialist programme and developed a love of fitness and began body-building. He made wonderful new friends from all over the place who always have his back, so to speak, if there is an issue with bullying. He is still victimised on occasion for his choice of hair, clothes, etc but I don't think of it any more so much as 'bullying'; it's more like he's a target. But he is strong and he stands up for himself, even if it means physically-defending himself against assault.
He is back at the catholic school he started at and, whilst there are still major issues there on a monthly basis of some kind, he is better and better at dealing with them as they arise. His physique helps in this and his strong mental attitude. He also understands that he needs psychological strategies from a councellor in order to build his resilience and to circumnavigate possible trouble when it rears it head.
All these things have brought us closer together as a family, however. We are all there for each other even if the lessons are sometimes tough and hard to swallow.
* * *
Being part of a strong family is not anything to do with being perfect. We, as a family, have many problems we need to deal with on a daily basis (many of which get shoved under the carpet until ignoring them becomes impossible). We are here and that, to me any way, is what counts the most: we owe a lot of money and our finances are in disarray; I work way too hard and retreat from my responsibilities way too often; I let the kids get away with way too much they should have been picked up on years ago; and we bicker and carry on over the smallest things like the length of showers, who's got dibs on the one bathroom we own, and how my skills with handling the family's money really sucks the big one.
But we are here for each other and we love each other. And that is all I can see that truly counts.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Thursday, March 14, 2013
My work IN PRINT!
I have had a little bit of my writing published in Mark Rawden's "I Am Mine" which is now available on Amazon.
http://www.amazon.com/
I Am Mine by Mark Rawden
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
I enjoyed the research and synopses that went into each section of this extensive book about people's belief-systems and faith (or lack thereof) in a supernatural power. I loved the different and opposing voices and the shared humanity that came through in each chapter and each testimony. I found myself really identifying with some of the writers as well as rolling my eyes and chuckling at some people's totally wacky and far-our beliefs.
I found author Mark Rawden's sense of humour to be gentle, enjoyable and a really nice addition and link between each section. I truly couldn't put it down because I wanted to read what the next person had to say.
I would recommend this book for people who enjoy learning more about people's ideas of religion or lack of religion and their personal meanings and journeys behind their decisions.
View all my reviews
In my next post I will explain why I have not been on here in so long!
http://www.amazon.com/
I Am Mine by Mark RawdenMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
I enjoyed the research and synopses that went into each section of this extensive book about people's belief-systems and faith (or lack thereof) in a supernatural power. I loved the different and opposing voices and the shared humanity that came through in each chapter and each testimony. I found myself really identifying with some of the writers as well as rolling my eyes and chuckling at some people's totally wacky and far-our beliefs.
I found author Mark Rawden's sense of humour to be gentle, enjoyable and a really nice addition and link between each section. I truly couldn't put it down because I wanted to read what the next person had to say.
I would recommend this book for people who enjoy learning more about people's ideas of religion or lack of religion and their personal meanings and journeys behind their decisions.
View all my reviews
In my next post I will explain why I have not been on here in so long!
Thursday, December 6, 2012
An interesting post-post - only 4 months late!
I don't have what I think of as 'regular readers'. There may be some out there but I don't know who they are. I have a few friends who read my blog but generally when I sit down to write, I write for myself and hope there are others who see the world as I do.
It's been four or more months since I posted last. This is a bit of a shame but I am not going to waste time feeling guilty - there were reasons. Probably not very good ones but sheer laziness and procrastination are still reasons.
I was for a time, more and more, home-schooling my son. For anyone who reads my blog knows, many of the posts are about his struggles to fit in and be accepted and mine to have the strength and wisdom to help him. It's been harder than usual as I am working most days and I had to leave him work to complete at home with his father (who was not working at the time but fixing up the house and being a stay-at-home parent).
He did most of the work I set some of the time and I tried to convince myself that he was doing more than the kids at school (he probably was because the Year 8s at his school do very little real, quantifiable work from what I can gather - and I am there every day as a teacher so I do see what goes on). But, it weighed heavily on my mind and my tofu-heart because I just didn't know what to try next.
If someone could just have said to me, "Look, he will be okay. Just trust yourself and your husband and you will see." I would have heaved a sigh of relief. But telling myself that day in and day out only worked temporarily. So this is how I was feeling and this is the dilemma I was carrying when a 'friend' of mine decided to tell me 'The Truth'.
When she casually dropped the word 'instigator' it registered in my brain as INSTIGATOR! That's my brain and I have to deal with it. But that's what I heard in my mind. And the physiological reaction began. Whilst I did indeed have it out with her, I am physically made weak and fragile by confrontation - any type really. I don't mean to say that I cannot stand up for myself or that I am shy and vulnerable and can't be strong. Much of my strength lies in my patience and ability to bide my time in many ways; and I certainly am rather opinionated and reasonably forceful if I feel the situation necessitates it. And in things that don't matter too much I am calm and clear in my thinking and reacting - but there are triggers or buttons that, if pressed or pushed or even tinkered with, make me almost crazy with, not just anxiety, but cold sweats, stomach pains, raised heart-rate, nausea and even pressure to my skull as if my brain is swelling! I fall down fast into a well of despair and find myself unable to function properly for several days. The word 'instigator' did this to me.
A little word cannot have so much power except what I invest in it. Very true. But it's a word that also means nasty, bullying, calculating, unkind, hurtful, provocative, initiating and starter - as in 'firestarter'. And I felt the flames of those words - those connotations - fiercely enough because the person saying them (in that one little word 'instigator') was speaking about my son. And I know all mothers think their children are innocent and don't want to believe that their sons can be bullies too - but I know he is none of these things and I felt the burn of unfairness singe my heart. Am I overusing the metaphor? Not if you were standing in my shoes that day. I had had enough.
When I asked her what she meant she said she was 'angry' at me for taking my son out of the private school that her boys still attend - the one she and her husband make them attend even though they would like to go somewhere different. I was struck dumb for several seconds. I said, "You're angry with me??! For doing what I think is right for my child? For taking him away from a situation that was not good for him?"
"Yes," she said. "For sending him to a new school where I believe he is worse off that he was before."
"But that's my (and my husband's) choice! What has it got to do with you?"
"It has made it harder on us."
(WHAT?)
"Let me get this straight. You are angry for taking him out of the school because it makes it harder on you? Am I getting this right?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Our boys want to leave too but we choose to send them back into hell every day of the week. They want to know why your son can leave and they can't."
(WOW.)
And then I understood. She wasn't mad at us for the sake of our son. I don't think she could particularly care less. She was inconvenienced by our choice and had probably had arguments with her husband over the situation and he stood his ground and she had to deal with it. So she took it out on me. She claimed, of course, to be worried about him. But I realised then, and I believe now, that this was not truly the case.
Obviously I told her that our decisions regarding the welfare of our son were nobody's business but our own and that being a friend did not give her license to give such advice unsolicited - nor was I going to accept it gracefully. I told her that I would not think of judging her and telling her my opinions about her child-rearing. Nobody walks in our shoes and I had better things to occupy my mind anyway than other people's problems.
As you can see, I am not over it yet. Her telling me that friendship meant being able to tell each other what we think only prompted the response in me that, no, indeed it's probably more a sign of friendship that we learn to keep quiet. Nothing destroys a friendship quicker than opening one's mouth without having first considered one's response and the real reasons for responding. She suggested then that I write a list of the all the things she is allowed to discuss with me so she knows. Sarcasm didn't help the situation and neither did her idea that I needed to go home and think about why I had reacted the way I did.
I knew exactly why.
It's been four or more months since I posted last. This is a bit of a shame but I am not going to waste time feeling guilty - there were reasons. Probably not very good ones but sheer laziness and procrastination are still reasons.
I was for a time, more and more, home-schooling my son. For anyone who reads my blog knows, many of the posts are about his struggles to fit in and be accepted and mine to have the strength and wisdom to help him. It's been harder than usual as I am working most days and I had to leave him work to complete at home with his father (who was not working at the time but fixing up the house and being a stay-at-home parent).
He did most of the work I set some of the time and I tried to convince myself that he was doing more than the kids at school (he probably was because the Year 8s at his school do very little real, quantifiable work from what I can gather - and I am there every day as a teacher so I do see what goes on). But, it weighed heavily on my mind and my tofu-heart because I just didn't know what to try next.
If someone could just have said to me, "Look, he will be okay. Just trust yourself and your husband and you will see." I would have heaved a sigh of relief. But telling myself that day in and day out only worked temporarily. So this is how I was feeling and this is the dilemma I was carrying when a 'friend' of mine decided to tell me 'The Truth'.
* * *
When she casually dropped the word 'instigator' it registered in my brain as INSTIGATOR! That's my brain and I have to deal with it. But that's what I heard in my mind. And the physiological reaction began. Whilst I did indeed have it out with her, I am physically made weak and fragile by confrontation - any type really. I don't mean to say that I cannot stand up for myself or that I am shy and vulnerable and can't be strong. Much of my strength lies in my patience and ability to bide my time in many ways; and I certainly am rather opinionated and reasonably forceful if I feel the situation necessitates it. And in things that don't matter too much I am calm and clear in my thinking and reacting - but there are triggers or buttons that, if pressed or pushed or even tinkered with, make me almost crazy with, not just anxiety, but cold sweats, stomach pains, raised heart-rate, nausea and even pressure to my skull as if my brain is swelling! I fall down fast into a well of despair and find myself unable to function properly for several days. The word 'instigator' did this to me.
A little word cannot have so much power except what I invest in it. Very true. But it's a word that also means nasty, bullying, calculating, unkind, hurtful, provocative, initiating and starter - as in 'firestarter'. And I felt the flames of those words - those connotations - fiercely enough because the person saying them (in that one little word 'instigator') was speaking about my son. And I know all mothers think their children are innocent and don't want to believe that their sons can be bullies too - but I know he is none of these things and I felt the burn of unfairness singe my heart. Am I overusing the metaphor? Not if you were standing in my shoes that day. I had had enough.
When I asked her what she meant she said she was 'angry' at me for taking my son out of the private school that her boys still attend - the one she and her husband make them attend even though they would like to go somewhere different. I was struck dumb for several seconds. I said, "You're angry with me??! For doing what I think is right for my child? For taking him away from a situation that was not good for him?"
"Yes," she said. "For sending him to a new school where I believe he is worse off that he was before."
"But that's my (and my husband's) choice! What has it got to do with you?"
"It has made it harder on us."
(WHAT?)
"Let me get this straight. You are angry for taking him out of the school because it makes it harder on you? Am I getting this right?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Our boys want to leave too but we choose to send them back into hell every day of the week. They want to know why your son can leave and they can't."
(WOW.)
And then I understood. She wasn't mad at us for the sake of our son. I don't think she could particularly care less. She was inconvenienced by our choice and had probably had arguments with her husband over the situation and he stood his ground and she had to deal with it. So she took it out on me. She claimed, of course, to be worried about him. But I realised then, and I believe now, that this was not truly the case.
Obviously I told her that our decisions regarding the welfare of our son were nobody's business but our own and that being a friend did not give her license to give such advice unsolicited - nor was I going to accept it gracefully. I told her that I would not think of judging her and telling her my opinions about her child-rearing. Nobody walks in our shoes and I had better things to occupy my mind anyway than other people's problems.
As you can see, I am not over it yet. Her telling me that friendship meant being able to tell each other what we think only prompted the response in me that, no, indeed it's probably more a sign of friendship that we learn to keep quiet. Nothing destroys a friendship quicker than opening one's mouth without having first considered one's response and the real reasons for responding. She suggested then that I write a list of the all the things she is allowed to discuss with me so she knows. Sarcasm didn't help the situation and neither did her idea that I needed to go home and think about why I had reacted the way I did.
I knew exactly why.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
My favourite author, Joyce Carol Oates, whose work is so prolific that I can’t keep up with reading all she has written, says in the voice of Judd Mulvaney “…I believe in uttering the truth, even if it hurts. Particularly if it hurts.”
And so do I. But I don’t mean about other people – their truth is theirs alone to utter. I mean about myself. In truth-telling there is strength and in pain there is strength. And who is to challenge my truths? They are mine, after all. They don’t belong to others, therefore they are unique. “The truth as you see it…?” asks Jerry Seinfeld ironically of George Constanza. Yes. As I see it.
What, for me, constitutes that truth (does the word need quotation marks? Post-modernist theorists would say it does)? My truth is a muddle of literary quotations, philosophical musings, moments of original insight (I am hopeful but realistic on this point), images like a photo album swirling through space and time, colours that have warmth and coolness and vibration, sensations and emotions that seem to be felt less in the brain than in the centre of my body like a pulsating, thinking, memorising organ. Science theorises that it is not just our brain matter that holds memory, but also our heart, liver and kidneys and other soft tissue – what about our skin? Our skin sees everything.
My skin sees (feels?) my fervent attitude to my life: my children, my loved-ones, my beliefs. My skin witnessed my birth and will witness my death. It will still exist, only in some other way, as it enters the ovens and is scattered in nature. You may ask why I have these thoughts – or even how I can offer up such searing truths. So many of us do not want to think about our own mortality and would rather never come across a passage which shines light on such a subject. But I don’t mind.
But for me it negates denial. It helps me re-double my efforts to see everything as good and right in its imperfection. It reminds me. My shadowed truths remind me of the light.
His enemies lurk in school life mainly. He is harassed every day – called a faggot, homo, cunt –and threatened with violence whenever he retaliates or stops ignoring the taunts and tells them quietly to fuck off. Just as I would do. Then they hit him and get their friends to mob him. He carries a knife on the weekends just in case, although this is something I am extremely nervous about. He carries his phone wherever he goes in case he needs help. The kids from school hang out around the township where we live and so he must remain ever vigilant. I worry about him a whole lot less on the weekends and holidays, however, than I do when he attends school. This is an irony that I cannot get over. I have worked in high schools all of my career and the students’ safety is expected to be top priority. I also believed it was and that I assisted in making it that way. Now I see it from a whole new perspective. Now I am not objective educator – I am parent. And my son is sometimes safe – more often not.
Every day we arrive at school and he tells me he loves me. Like a talisman it hangs between us. But my support is tenuous at best as I must let him go to the care of others. Others who don’t know him inside like I do; who just see the often surly, sleepy-eyed boy who needs to begin shaving very soon; who hides behind his hair and his swagger and his silver fleshy piercing; who hides a tofu-heart softer than mine – like Japanese silken tofu that melts as you touch it, that is more liquid than solid.
But we keep going. Day after day. And hope every morning that this will be the day when he comes homes smiling and looks forward to tomorrow. Today will see the turning point. The watershed.When everyone will recognise him as I do and want to celebrate it. I am a mix of naivety and experience; trust and realism. Overall I choose to see the good in every thing and every one. But it means getting up every day and starting over. Some days are harder than others but I am not alone.
Judd also says in We Were the Mulvaneys, “…this document isn’t a confession…but a family album. The kind my mom never kept, absolute truth-telling. The kind no one’s mom keeps…an album of memory and conjecture and yearning.”
Well I keep just such an album. And it is very likely “the great and only work of [my] life.”
And so do I. But I don’t mean about other people – their truth is theirs alone to utter. I mean about myself. In truth-telling there is strength and in pain there is strength. And who is to challenge my truths? They are mine, after all. They don’t belong to others, therefore they are unique. “The truth as you see it…?” asks Jerry Seinfeld ironically of George Constanza. Yes. As I see it.
What, for me, constitutes that truth (does the word need quotation marks? Post-modernist theorists would say it does)? My truth is a muddle of literary quotations, philosophical musings, moments of original insight (I am hopeful but realistic on this point), images like a photo album swirling through space and time, colours that have warmth and coolness and vibration, sensations and emotions that seem to be felt less in the brain than in the centre of my body like a pulsating, thinking, memorising organ. Science theorises that it is not just our brain matter that holds memory, but also our heart, liver and kidneys and other soft tissue – what about our skin? Our skin sees everything.
My skin sees (feels?) my fervent attitude to my life: my children, my loved-ones, my beliefs. My skin witnessed my birth and will witness my death. It will still exist, only in some other way, as it enters the ovens and is scattered in nature. You may ask why I have these thoughts – or even how I can offer up such searing truths. So many of us do not want to think about our own mortality and would rather never come across a passage which shines light on such a subject. But I don’t mind.
But for me it negates denial. It helps me re-double my efforts to see everything as good and right in its imperfection. It reminds me. My shadowed truths remind me of the light.
* * *
This past three weeks has seen intense emotions contrasted with moments of sleepy, dreamy, lazy peace. My son was able, finally after a term at school fraught with problems to do with power-plays between boys, to relax and be himself and not have to apologise for that. To be able to sleep in as long as he liked and eat when he wished and hang out with his mates. He has wonderful mates. But he also has enemies.His enemies lurk in school life mainly. He is harassed every day – called a faggot, homo, cunt –and threatened with violence whenever he retaliates or stops ignoring the taunts and tells them quietly to fuck off. Just as I would do. Then they hit him and get their friends to mob him. He carries a knife on the weekends just in case, although this is something I am extremely nervous about. He carries his phone wherever he goes in case he needs help. The kids from school hang out around the township where we live and so he must remain ever vigilant. I worry about him a whole lot less on the weekends and holidays, however, than I do when he attends school. This is an irony that I cannot get over. I have worked in high schools all of my career and the students’ safety is expected to be top priority. I also believed it was and that I assisted in making it that way. Now I see it from a whole new perspective. Now I am not objective educator – I am parent. And my son is sometimes safe – more often not.
Every day we arrive at school and he tells me he loves me. Like a talisman it hangs between us. But my support is tenuous at best as I must let him go to the care of others. Others who don’t know him inside like I do; who just see the often surly, sleepy-eyed boy who needs to begin shaving very soon; who hides behind his hair and his swagger and his silver fleshy piercing; who hides a tofu-heart softer than mine – like Japanese silken tofu that melts as you touch it, that is more liquid than solid.
But we keep going. Day after day. And hope every morning that this will be the day when he comes homes smiling and looks forward to tomorrow. Today will see the turning point. The watershed.When everyone will recognise him as I do and want to celebrate it. I am a mix of naivety and experience; trust and realism. Overall I choose to see the good in every thing and every one. But it means getting up every day and starting over. Some days are harder than others but I am not alone.
Judd also says in We Were the Mulvaneys, “…this document isn’t a confession…but a family album. The kind my mom never kept, absolute truth-telling. The kind no one’s mom keeps…an album of memory and conjecture and yearning.”
Well I keep just such an album. And it is very likely “the great and only work of [my] life.”
Monday, July 2, 2012
Adultescence: an enabler's view
The newly-coined term for the period of a child's life when his or her parents continue to support and clean up after them, even after they have grown up, is 'adultescence'.
My name is Tofu-Hearted Mother and I am an adultescent-enabler. But I'm on the twelve-step programme.
To be honest, I would deny that I am an enabler until I was blue in the face if you asked me in person. I do not like to believe that I am anywhere near a 'helicopter parent', much less do I like to think of myself as a 'jet-powered turbo model' parent who can't stop interfering in her children's lives . I would much rather see myself as 'nurturing' and 'supportive'; but then I read the following in the New Yorker and was a little embarrassed at how close to my circumstances it sounded!
"In the L.A. families observed, no child routinely performed household chores without being instructed to. Often, the kids had to be begged to attempt the simplest tasks; often, they still refused. In one fairly typical encounter, a father asked his eight-year-old son five times to please go take a bath or a shower. After the fifth plea went unheeded, the father picked the boy up and carried him into the bathroom. A few minutes later, the kid, still unwashed, wandered into another room to play a video game.
In another representative encounter, an eight-year-old girl sat down at the dining table. Finding that no silverware had been laid out for her, she demanded, “How am I supposed to eat?” Although the girl clearly knew where the silverware was kept, her father got up to get it for her." (Sound familiar?)
Now, I have to admit, some of those are a little too close for comfort. I have been known to do more for my kids than, say, some of the parents of the kids I teach. Or friends of mine do for their kids. But I want to be a good parent! Is that so wrong? Well, maybe it is. But it's all so confusing. Am I a bad mother because I work hard to support my family physically, emotionally and financially? Or would I be a better mother if I ignored them more, did little for them, stopped watching their sporting matches and spent more of the family money on my hair and nails? Why is it all so difficult to believe in yourself as a parent? That I am being the very best parent I know how to be and I am reflectively and (I hope) intelligently putting that into action? But do I do too much? And what is the reason that I sometimes clean up, do the dishes, fold the washing, take the kids to the bus stop in the car, and even help finish the homework? When I know that I should be making them do it themselves? When I know I am enabling their laziness? Well, at least I am not the only one who comes across the "it's easier to do it yourself" mantra of parenting:
"Not long ago, [...] my husband and I gave [the kids] a new job: unloading the grocery bags from the car. One evening when I came home from the store, it was raining. Carrying two or three bags, the youngest, Aaron, who is thirteen, tried to jump over a puddle. There was a loud crash. After I’d retrieved what food could be salvaged from a Molotov cocktail of broken glass and mango juice, I decided that Aaron needed another, more vigorous lesson in responsibility. Now, in addition to unloading groceries, he would also have the task of taking out the garbage. On one of his first forays, he neglected to close the lid on the pail tightly enough, and it attracted a bear. The next morning, as I was gathering up the used tissues, ant-filled raisin boxes, and slimy Saran Wrap scattered across the yard, I decided that I didn’t have time to let my kids help out around the house."
And it IS easier to do it yourself! And I'm pretty sure that women from previous decades who didn't work outside the home had more energy to put into motivating and disciplining their children and checking up on the progress of the chore given. There is so much frustration and annoyance in kids being kids that I do - I admit - give in and do it all myself. It's easier and more peaceful for my frazzled brain. It's not that my children won't do jobs or help around the house; it's just that they are normal teenagers and have to be told several times before they get up and do it. And it's the shattering of the peace I hate. As a school-teacher I work all day with reluctant teens and I am firm with my discipline. When I get home I would rather the meditative physical job of doing the household chores myself than the messy and anxiety-producing nagging for someone else to take responsibility.
So I am an enabler of adultescence. And whilst I may be somewhere on the scale between one and twelve of the programme, I am still 'off the wagon', so to speak. If you look again, that's me running along behind, waving my arms and swearing, trying to catch up and finally make that leap on board with all the other good parents.
http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/books/2012/07/02/120702crbo_books_kolbert?currentPage=1
My name is Tofu-Hearted Mother and I am an adultescent-enabler. But I'm on the twelve-step programme.
To be honest, I would deny that I am an enabler until I was blue in the face if you asked me in person. I do not like to believe that I am anywhere near a 'helicopter parent', much less do I like to think of myself as a 'jet-powered turbo model' parent who can't stop interfering in her children's lives . I would much rather see myself as 'nurturing' and 'supportive'; but then I read the following in the New Yorker and was a little embarrassed at how close to my circumstances it sounded!
"In the L.A. families observed, no child routinely performed household chores without being instructed to. Often, the kids had to be begged to attempt the simplest tasks; often, they still refused. In one fairly typical encounter, a father asked his eight-year-old son five times to please go take a bath or a shower. After the fifth plea went unheeded, the father picked the boy up and carried him into the bathroom. A few minutes later, the kid, still unwashed, wandered into another room to play a video game.
In another representative encounter, an eight-year-old girl sat down at the dining table. Finding that no silverware had been laid out for her, she demanded, “How am I supposed to eat?” Although the girl clearly knew where the silverware was kept, her father got up to get it for her." (Sound familiar?)
Now, I have to admit, some of those are a little too close for comfort. I have been known to do more for my kids than, say, some of the parents of the kids I teach. Or friends of mine do for their kids. But I want to be a good parent! Is that so wrong? Well, maybe it is. But it's all so confusing. Am I a bad mother because I work hard to support my family physically, emotionally and financially? Or would I be a better mother if I ignored them more, did little for them, stopped watching their sporting matches and spent more of the family money on my hair and nails? Why is it all so difficult to believe in yourself as a parent? That I am being the very best parent I know how to be and I am reflectively and (I hope) intelligently putting that into action? But do I do too much? And what is the reason that I sometimes clean up, do the dishes, fold the washing, take the kids to the bus stop in the car, and even help finish the homework? When I know that I should be making them do it themselves? When I know I am enabling their laziness? Well, at least I am not the only one who comes across the "it's easier to do it yourself" mantra of parenting:
"Not long ago, [...] my husband and I gave [the kids] a new job: unloading the grocery bags from the car. One evening when I came home from the store, it was raining. Carrying two or three bags, the youngest, Aaron, who is thirteen, tried to jump over a puddle. There was a loud crash. After I’d retrieved what food could be salvaged from a Molotov cocktail of broken glass and mango juice, I decided that Aaron needed another, more vigorous lesson in responsibility. Now, in addition to unloading groceries, he would also have the task of taking out the garbage. On one of his first forays, he neglected to close the lid on the pail tightly enough, and it attracted a bear. The next morning, as I was gathering up the used tissues, ant-filled raisin boxes, and slimy Saran Wrap scattered across the yard, I decided that I didn’t have time to let my kids help out around the house."
And it IS easier to do it yourself! And I'm pretty sure that women from previous decades who didn't work outside the home had more energy to put into motivating and disciplining their children and checking up on the progress of the chore given. There is so much frustration and annoyance in kids being kids that I do - I admit - give in and do it all myself. It's easier and more peaceful for my frazzled brain. It's not that my children won't do jobs or help around the house; it's just that they are normal teenagers and have to be told several times before they get up and do it. And it's the shattering of the peace I hate. As a school-teacher I work all day with reluctant teens and I am firm with my discipline. When I get home I would rather the meditative physical job of doing the household chores myself than the messy and anxiety-producing nagging for someone else to take responsibility.
So I am an enabler of adultescence. And whilst I may be somewhere on the scale between one and twelve of the programme, I am still 'off the wagon', so to speak. If you look again, that's me running along behind, waving my arms and swearing, trying to catch up and finally make that leap on board with all the other good parents.
http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/books/2012/07/02/120702crbo_books_kolbert?currentPage=1
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
"...you and I in all our ordinariness.."
"We are going to die" is an unusual first sentence for a favourite quote but, like the hapless Alvy Singer in Annie Hall, who says "I'm obsessed with uh, with death, I think. Big - big subject with me, yeah.", I too am quite taken with the theme. Of course Woody Allen's Alvy goes on to say that he's 'pessimistic' about life and that life in general is divided up into two categories - "the horrible and the miserable". I don't necessarily agree, but then I am a relatively lucky member of the human race, so I'm not sure my opinion counts as much as others.
"We are going to die..." is the first bit of one of my favourite quotes and I love it because it sounds depressing, but is deceptively so. The quote goes on to read "..., and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the sand grains of the Sahara. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the possible people allowed by our DNA so massively outnumbers the set of actual people. (And here's my favourite part) In the teeth of these stupifying odds it is you and I, in all our ordinariness, that are here."
Well, I do not for one minute think that the author of those words is in any way 'ordinary' but he does, however, speak for me and for most of us. Professor Richard Dawkins wrote this in his beautiful and influential work Unweaving the Rainbow (the title of which alludes to a Keats poem) and I underlined this part straight away. I drank it up, like Keat's hemlock, and let the words and sounds and images run down my throat until I was lulled by them. I love them because they comfort me. I don't like the inspirational quote nearly as much as the confronting one - the one that makes you stop and re-read it, and then re-read it again. "We are going to die" reads better to me than any Hallmark card. It's the sort of thing I think about when I should be doing other things.
And I love 'ordinariness'. I am ordinary in all my neuroses and rituals and idiosyncracies - and in my striving to be anything other than ordinary.
My husband is ordinary in his habits and personality disorder (!) and his Germanic handling of all things do with life.
My daughter is ordinary in her 15 year-old self-obsessed notions of the world and her helio-centric place in it; in her beautiful colt-slim legs, chocolate-brown eyes and over-straightened hair.
And my son wishes he were ordinary, and most of the time he is just that - in his anxieties about his place in the world, in his opinions, his compassions and his vulnerable tofu-boy-heart. He is a little me walking around in a 13 year-old boy's body and even that, with its strange connotations, is still ordinary.
I love the fact that one day I am going to die. And I mean this in just the way that Dawkins suggests it - I am one of the lucky ones. I got to be born in the first place. I got to love and laugh and hurt and feel pain; I got to cry and adore and protect and sacrifice for. I got a chance at immortality through the genes that I will pass on and the lives I will, in tiny and probably insignificant ways, shape. And that, in itself, is enough to get me through the rough days.
"We are going to die..." is the first bit of one of my favourite quotes and I love it because it sounds depressing, but is deceptively so. The quote goes on to read "..., and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the sand grains of the Sahara. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the possible people allowed by our DNA so massively outnumbers the set of actual people. (And here's my favourite part) In the teeth of these stupifying odds it is you and I, in all our ordinariness, that are here."
Well, I do not for one minute think that the author of those words is in any way 'ordinary' but he does, however, speak for me and for most of us. Professor Richard Dawkins wrote this in his beautiful and influential work Unweaving the Rainbow (the title of which alludes to a Keats poem) and I underlined this part straight away. I drank it up, like Keat's hemlock, and let the words and sounds and images run down my throat until I was lulled by them. I love them because they comfort me. I don't like the inspirational quote nearly as much as the confronting one - the one that makes you stop and re-read it, and then re-read it again. "We are going to die" reads better to me than any Hallmark card. It's the sort of thing I think about when I should be doing other things.
And I love 'ordinariness'. I am ordinary in all my neuroses and rituals and idiosyncracies - and in my striving to be anything other than ordinary.
My husband is ordinary in his habits and personality disorder (!) and his Germanic handling of all things do with life.
My daughter is ordinary in her 15 year-old self-obsessed notions of the world and her helio-centric place in it; in her beautiful colt-slim legs, chocolate-brown eyes and over-straightened hair.
And my son wishes he were ordinary, and most of the time he is just that - in his anxieties about his place in the world, in his opinions, his compassions and his vulnerable tofu-boy-heart. He is a little me walking around in a 13 year-old boy's body and even that, with its strange connotations, is still ordinary.
I love the fact that one day I am going to die. And I mean this in just the way that Dawkins suggests it - I am one of the lucky ones. I got to be born in the first place. I got to love and laugh and hurt and feel pain; I got to cry and adore and protect and sacrifice for. I got a chance at immortality through the genes that I will pass on and the lives I will, in tiny and probably insignificant ways, shape. And that, in itself, is enough to get me through the rough days.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Ode to a Dead Nightingale
Last week I didn't know if I was ever going to get work again, and hence get paid (my slightly paranoid state of mind leads me down this path every now and again); and this week I have more work than I could have wished for. I find myself, once again, juggling both my professional work as a teacher with my life-work as a mother. It's never an easy balance at the best of times. Here's how the last 24 hours has worked out for me.
I couldn't attend my mother's birthday dinner last week with my family as I was away for my daughter's netball carnival. So I said to mum to bring my two gorgeous nieces over this Sunday (yesterday) to have lunch with us and extend her birthday celebrations. Not only did the girls not attend with my mum and step-father, but there continues a strained relationship between my mum and my brother (and therefore me too) which was the catalyst for them not coming and for my sharp and steady rise in anxiety levels. Then, after shopping for and organising the three courses, including a birthday cake with fresh produce from our neighbour's garden, a storm blew across the city and all the power went out in our little town (and therefore my oven) and I was left with no lights, no heating and uncooked cake, rosemary potatoes, pumpkin frittata and buttermilk bread.
I shifted gear (I'm quite good in the actual crisis - it's just I fall into a heap after it's all over) and began making what I could on the stove-top (which is gas). I first and foremost took a massive gulp of wine, sent my family to open the presents in another room, and got started on mashed potatoes, Mexican casserole, steamed pumpkin and an endive salad. I figured we'd have coffee and a Tim-Tam instead of cake.
So lunch worked quite well considering, but being an abnormally abnormal family (which is not intended to be a double negative implying normality), we didn't stay on the polite topics of football and the weather; we had an all out 'discussion' on the causes of both World Wars (my husband is German - "whatever you do, don't mention the war!"), plus the value of religion in the 21st century, and then (to round off) whether there is actually anything new being done in the world of fine art, and if so, what.
The electricity came on briefly and my cake got baked (orange and poppy seed with lashings of cream) and then went off again and is still not back on 27 hours later. I was happy to see the end of the family lunch yesterday (not an uncommon occurrence unfortunately) and, afterwards did the mass of dishes in tepid water and got out of the house as quickly as I could (leaving my daughter on her laptop running down the battery and my husband and son playing chess by candlelight) to go walking out in the wild and woolly weather to the local national park falls.
I often wander there in wet weather and perch on the rocks under an umbrella and contemplate my life and the universe. I also do my walking for exercise in this area, along the old railway line and heritage trail in the hills where we live. I find this place to be a natural retreat from the world and, like the Romantic poet Keats, my pains and sufferings are assuaged in the world of natural beauty. "Fade for away, dissolve, and quite forget/ What thou among the leave hast never known,/ The weariness the fever, and the fret". I would even like my ashes to be one day scattered here.
Well before I get too carried away, let me tell you yesterday IT DIDN'T WORK. The fever and the fret remained and, by the time I dragged my wet and sorry arse back to the car, I was denouncing, not just Keats, but his whole bloody Romantic philosophy of loving nature for its own sake and not for the sake of anything else. I wanted to throttle his nightingale and smash his sodding Grecian urn into a thousand pieces.
It didn't get any better when I arrived home. Still no power, house dark and cold and each kid wanting his/her eggs cooked (in the dark) in different ways - one scrambled and one fried fucking sunny-side up! And to top it off, I couldn't even read my book, Martin Amis' 1980s British classic "Money".We were all asleep by 9pm due to complete and utter boredom (yes, yes...a First-World problem if ever there was one) with no undies washed for the next day, no uniforms for the kids, and no hope in sight for a better day ahead.
I am Tofu-Hearted Mother (who feels like Rubbery-Favourless- Raw-Tofu-Mother at the moment) and this is my crappy story.
I couldn't attend my mother's birthday dinner last week with my family as I was away for my daughter's netball carnival. So I said to mum to bring my two gorgeous nieces over this Sunday (yesterday) to have lunch with us and extend her birthday celebrations. Not only did the girls not attend with my mum and step-father, but there continues a strained relationship between my mum and my brother (and therefore me too) which was the catalyst for them not coming and for my sharp and steady rise in anxiety levels. Then, after shopping for and organising the three courses, including a birthday cake with fresh produce from our neighbour's garden, a storm blew across the city and all the power went out in our little town (and therefore my oven) and I was left with no lights, no heating and uncooked cake, rosemary potatoes, pumpkin frittata and buttermilk bread.
I shifted gear (I'm quite good in the actual crisis - it's just I fall into a heap after it's all over) and began making what I could on the stove-top (which is gas). I first and foremost took a massive gulp of wine, sent my family to open the presents in another room, and got started on mashed potatoes, Mexican casserole, steamed pumpkin and an endive salad. I figured we'd have coffee and a Tim-Tam instead of cake.
So lunch worked quite well considering, but being an abnormally abnormal family (which is not intended to be a double negative implying normality), we didn't stay on the polite topics of football and the weather; we had an all out 'discussion' on the causes of both World Wars (my husband is German - "whatever you do, don't mention the war!"), plus the value of religion in the 21st century, and then (to round off) whether there is actually anything new being done in the world of fine art, and if so, what.
The electricity came on briefly and my cake got baked (orange and poppy seed with lashings of cream) and then went off again and is still not back on 27 hours later. I was happy to see the end of the family lunch yesterday (not an uncommon occurrence unfortunately) and, afterwards did the mass of dishes in tepid water and got out of the house as quickly as I could (leaving my daughter on her laptop running down the battery and my husband and son playing chess by candlelight) to go walking out in the wild and woolly weather to the local national park falls.
I often wander there in wet weather and perch on the rocks under an umbrella and contemplate my life and the universe. I also do my walking for exercise in this area, along the old railway line and heritage trail in the hills where we live. I find this place to be a natural retreat from the world and, like the Romantic poet Keats, my pains and sufferings are assuaged in the world of natural beauty. "Fade for away, dissolve, and quite forget/ What thou among the leave hast never known,/ The weariness the fever, and the fret". I would even like my ashes to be one day scattered here.
Well before I get too carried away, let me tell you yesterday IT DIDN'T WORK. The fever and the fret remained and, by the time I dragged my wet and sorry arse back to the car, I was denouncing, not just Keats, but his whole bloody Romantic philosophy of loving nature for its own sake and not for the sake of anything else. I wanted to throttle his nightingale and smash his sodding Grecian urn into a thousand pieces.
It didn't get any better when I arrived home. Still no power, house dark and cold and each kid wanting his/her eggs cooked (in the dark) in different ways - one scrambled and one fried fucking sunny-side up! And to top it off, I couldn't even read my book, Martin Amis' 1980s British classic "Money".We were all asleep by 9pm due to complete and utter boredom (yes, yes...a First-World problem if ever there was one) with no undies washed for the next day, no uniforms for the kids, and no hope in sight for a better day ahead.
I am Tofu-Hearted Mother (who feels like Rubbery-Favourless- Raw-Tofu-Mother at the moment) and this is my crappy story.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
This long weekend
This long weekend I will be spending my annual "Foundation Day" with my daughter and my dad at the Association Cup for Netball W.A.. My girl will play about 6 or 7 games over the course of the three days (depending upon whether her team gets into the final or not) and then she and I will spend the evenings at my dad's flat as he cooks her her favourite high-carb hot meals and spoils her silly with custard and mini Magnum ice-creams with crushed almond coating.
It's a weekend to which I always look forward, as the weather is always beautiful with winter sunshine and its carefree ambiance, on the side-lines screaming for our team, and wandering around between games drinking coffee and reading on the grass, holds a great pleasure for me. Things I would normally worry about are whisked away that weekend and there is just me, my daughter and my dad to think of. And there are things to look forward to every hour - whether it be a tense and energetic match or that lovely feeling of the sun withdrawing its heat and the chill of early winter evening setting in, or the coming small joy of knowing you will soon be under a hot shower with a glass of wine waiting and a warm bed with your 79 year-old father cooking contentedly in his kitchen just for us.
He's been planning the menu for this weekend for weeks, I'll let you know. He is a chemist (or was) and his planning of meals is legendary. He still thinks of recipes as 'formulas' - which they are! He used to cook for his 98 year-old mother before she spent her final year in the nursing home. He would label every container and freeze them in batches for single meals and bought her a microwave to heat them (which she never used, instead preferring to thaw naturally and then heat in a saucepan). He is a wonderful cook and his specialities are minestrone, creamy pasta, the finest cuts of steak and fish, and an array of colourful Bulgarian salads.
I have been reflecting on how very fortunate I am to have both my parents still living and very much in our lives. They have been divorced since I was nine (my father left the family home when I was six) and the years have been turbulent and angst-ridden much of the time, with long periods of estrangement and confusion between me and my father. But we have something now that is truly lovely. It took effort and time and patience and long nights up talking and opening up to one another. But it's been worth it. One of the great sadnesses of my life is that my brothers do not share that same love with our father that he and I do. It's taken me most of my 42 years to realise that I cannot do anything about that fact, but learning to understand it has proved much more difficult.
So this weekend, as every Foundation Day weekend in June, I will spend it with my girl and my dad and I will not take for granted that I have both a beautiful, intense but warm-hearted daughter to watch play a sport she loves and to cheer her on as only a Tofu-hearted mother can; but also a beautiful, sweet, loving father whom I adore and dearly love in return.
There may not be many of these weekends left in the future for us but I have this one. And I only too well know that, as Robert Frost knew, "[Life] lives less in the present /Than in the future always,
And less in both together /Than in the past. The present /Is too much for the senses,/ Too crowding, too confusing—/Too present to imagine."
But I will try regardless.
It's a weekend to which I always look forward, as the weather is always beautiful with winter sunshine and its carefree ambiance, on the side-lines screaming for our team, and wandering around between games drinking coffee and reading on the grass, holds a great pleasure for me. Things I would normally worry about are whisked away that weekend and there is just me, my daughter and my dad to think of. And there are things to look forward to every hour - whether it be a tense and energetic match or that lovely feeling of the sun withdrawing its heat and the chill of early winter evening setting in, or the coming small joy of knowing you will soon be under a hot shower with a glass of wine waiting and a warm bed with your 79 year-old father cooking contentedly in his kitchen just for us.
He's been planning the menu for this weekend for weeks, I'll let you know. He is a chemist (or was) and his planning of meals is legendary. He still thinks of recipes as 'formulas' - which they are! He used to cook for his 98 year-old mother before she spent her final year in the nursing home. He would label every container and freeze them in batches for single meals and bought her a microwave to heat them (which she never used, instead preferring to thaw naturally and then heat in a saucepan). He is a wonderful cook and his specialities are minestrone, creamy pasta, the finest cuts of steak and fish, and an array of colourful Bulgarian salads.
I have been reflecting on how very fortunate I am to have both my parents still living and very much in our lives. They have been divorced since I was nine (my father left the family home when I was six) and the years have been turbulent and angst-ridden much of the time, with long periods of estrangement and confusion between me and my father. But we have something now that is truly lovely. It took effort and time and patience and long nights up talking and opening up to one another. But it's been worth it. One of the great sadnesses of my life is that my brothers do not share that same love with our father that he and I do. It's taken me most of my 42 years to realise that I cannot do anything about that fact, but learning to understand it has proved much more difficult.
So this weekend, as every Foundation Day weekend in June, I will spend it with my girl and my dad and I will not take for granted that I have both a beautiful, intense but warm-hearted daughter to watch play a sport she loves and to cheer her on as only a Tofu-hearted mother can; but also a beautiful, sweet, loving father whom I adore and dearly love in return.
There may not be many of these weekends left in the future for us but I have this one. And I only too well know that, as Robert Frost knew, "[Life] lives less in the present /Than in the future always,
And less in both together /Than in the past. The present /Is too much for the senses,/ Too crowding, too confusing—/Too present to imagine."
But I will try regardless.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
With gratitude to Philip Roth...
When Philip Roth wrote the following, I dog-eared the page and did what I always do when I find a moving or resonating passage; I wrote it down in my own handwriting to truly 'feel' the words on the page and, hopefully, have them somehow or other seep into my brain-cells and my sub-conscious and allow me to become a better writer. But it was more than that. It serves as a perfect prologue to this post as, last Friday, I did almost the exact same thing as Roth's "Everyman" narrator; I sat by the bones of my ancestors and "listen[ed] to them when they spoke."
"They were just bones, bones in a box, but their bones were his bones, and he stood as close to the bones as he could, as though proximity might link him up with them and mitigate the isolation born of losing his future and reconnect him with all that had gone. For the next hour and a half, those bones were the things that mattered most. They were all that mattered despite the impingement of the neglected cemetery's environment of decay. Once he was with those bones he could not leave them, couldn't not talk to them when they spoke. Between him and those bones there was a great deal going on, far more than now transpired between him and those still clad in their flesh. The flesh melts away but the bones endure. The bones were the only solace to one who put no stock in the afterlife and knew without a doubt that God was a fiction and this was the only life he'd have."
My brother died the year before I was born, when he was five. This means I was conceived in grief. I think there must be something to that as I have had, not only an affinity with cemeteries all my conscious life, but also a deeper need to explore the unknown and unknowable. That is not to say I am a believer in pseudo-science or the paranormal. I am a firm skeptic and have come to the conclusion that, apart from perhaps a physical energy-exchange, there is no 'passing' (that awful American euphemism) on to some other consciousness or place. At least no more consciousness than could be found in the sky or a 265, 000 year-old piece of granite. I suppose the philosophy that most interests me is existentialism (and the anxiety with which it is related).
How does this relate to being Tofu-hearted mother? In many ways. Firstly, I seem to have an inherent understanding that life is short and what you make of it. This means that I don't, when I can help it, over-emphasise the trivial. To me, it's the big things that matter - family, love, friendship, compassion, courage, forgiveness, loyalty and generosity. Pettiness and greed make me physically ill and I will retreat from unnecessary anger, self-centredness and spite. This doesn't, however, mean I will shy from a fair fight or from one based on justice and fairness when I need to. Secondly, I will always apologise when I have been in the wrong. And, thirdly, but probably most importantly as it intersects with my role as a mother, is the need to feel (like Atticus explains to Scout) that I have stood in another's shoes and walked around in them.
When I sat at my brother's graveside last Friday, all I could think about was my children and how close both they and I are to the little boy who we never met. The ripples in the pond that spread from such a death as that of a five year-old, cannot be underestimated. And I was overwhelmed by the events of last week and how my son, at thirteen, is still so close to being that little boy he was at five and the fears and tiny disappointments any child feels as part of growing up. I wanted to protect him in the way I couldn't protect my brother. It sounds crazy, I know, but that's kind of how I have felt all my life. What a thing to carry! What an effect it has had!
Having seen the effects of a death on an entire extended family (and on me), I couldn't help but reflect on how special the childhoods of humans are. That innocence is far more than the cliche it has become - in fact, it is everything when you really look at it. I am constantly torn between wanting to protect my children and wanting to set them free to learn their own lessons. I do not believe I am an over-protective mother; nor am I one who wishes to prevent them from feeling pain. My own pain has made me who I am and I would not wish to change anything that has given me pain. But it's always a fine line between that and knowing when to stand back and allow them to take their own stand against the world.
Last week, my son was verbally and physically attacked (not too badly) and he stood his ground and the perpetrators were punished. Whilst my own anxiety over the exchange was a catalyst to a weekend of deep melancholy (as happens and I know will pass), he did learn a few things about himself that are indispensable: when to stand your ground and when to let something go; when to know that your own actions or words have helped cause your current predicament; and when to seek help and when to see it through alone. All these things were spinning through my mind in that cemetery, and over my weekend, but the questions in my mind can never be fully answered as they are essentially unanswerable. They change with each day and each situation. All any of us can do is fill that shadow between action and reaction with the best of ourselves. Whether he did that or not is unknown. But I am pretty sure he tried.
I suppose part of me, in having children, has seen the opportunity to have my brother with me in some sense. To have the time over and this time make it last. I have always felt I owed it to him to be the best parent I could be - mistakes and all. I was never there when he lived, but my children have the 'miracle' that is life and I want them to always know how lucky they are to even be here, let alone living the life they have.
Roth's Everyman also speaks of the "tenderness [being] out of control. As was the longing for everyone to be living. And to have it all all over again." I understand this only too well. And as I sat at that grave-side and ran my hand over the weeping headstone that bears my name, along with my brothers, I felt exactly this longing. And for the first time I recognised the completeness of such a 'longing' and both the universality of it and the inherent privateness of it. To have it all over again is exactly the gift I have been offered. And to not realise that, nor to rejoice in the opportunity, would mean to be undeserving of such a tender gift.
"They were just bones, bones in a box, but their bones were his bones, and he stood as close to the bones as he could, as though proximity might link him up with them and mitigate the isolation born of losing his future and reconnect him with all that had gone. For the next hour and a half, those bones were the things that mattered most. They were all that mattered despite the impingement of the neglected cemetery's environment of decay. Once he was with those bones he could not leave them, couldn't not talk to them when they spoke. Between him and those bones there was a great deal going on, far more than now transpired between him and those still clad in their flesh. The flesh melts away but the bones endure. The bones were the only solace to one who put no stock in the afterlife and knew without a doubt that God was a fiction and this was the only life he'd have."
My brother died the year before I was born, when he was five. This means I was conceived in grief. I think there must be something to that as I have had, not only an affinity with cemeteries all my conscious life, but also a deeper need to explore the unknown and unknowable. That is not to say I am a believer in pseudo-science or the paranormal. I am a firm skeptic and have come to the conclusion that, apart from perhaps a physical energy-exchange, there is no 'passing' (that awful American euphemism) on to some other consciousness or place. At least no more consciousness than could be found in the sky or a 265, 000 year-old piece of granite. I suppose the philosophy that most interests me is existentialism (and the anxiety with which it is related).
How does this relate to being Tofu-hearted mother? In many ways. Firstly, I seem to have an inherent understanding that life is short and what you make of it. This means that I don't, when I can help it, over-emphasise the trivial. To me, it's the big things that matter - family, love, friendship, compassion, courage, forgiveness, loyalty and generosity. Pettiness and greed make me physically ill and I will retreat from unnecessary anger, self-centredness and spite. This doesn't, however, mean I will shy from a fair fight or from one based on justice and fairness when I need to. Secondly, I will always apologise when I have been in the wrong. And, thirdly, but probably most importantly as it intersects with my role as a mother, is the need to feel (like Atticus explains to Scout) that I have stood in another's shoes and walked around in them.
When I sat at my brother's graveside last Friday, all I could think about was my children and how close both they and I are to the little boy who we never met. The ripples in the pond that spread from such a death as that of a five year-old, cannot be underestimated. And I was overwhelmed by the events of last week and how my son, at thirteen, is still so close to being that little boy he was at five and the fears and tiny disappointments any child feels as part of growing up. I wanted to protect him in the way I couldn't protect my brother. It sounds crazy, I know, but that's kind of how I have felt all my life. What a thing to carry! What an effect it has had!
Having seen the effects of a death on an entire extended family (and on me), I couldn't help but reflect on how special the childhoods of humans are. That innocence is far more than the cliche it has become - in fact, it is everything when you really look at it. I am constantly torn between wanting to protect my children and wanting to set them free to learn their own lessons. I do not believe I am an over-protective mother; nor am I one who wishes to prevent them from feeling pain. My own pain has made me who I am and I would not wish to change anything that has given me pain. But it's always a fine line between that and knowing when to stand back and allow them to take their own stand against the world.
Last week, my son was verbally and physically attacked (not too badly) and he stood his ground and the perpetrators were punished. Whilst my own anxiety over the exchange was a catalyst to a weekend of deep melancholy (as happens and I know will pass), he did learn a few things about himself that are indispensable: when to stand your ground and when to let something go; when to know that your own actions or words have helped cause your current predicament; and when to seek help and when to see it through alone. All these things were spinning through my mind in that cemetery, and over my weekend, but the questions in my mind can never be fully answered as they are essentially unanswerable. They change with each day and each situation. All any of us can do is fill that shadow between action and reaction with the best of ourselves. Whether he did that or not is unknown. But I am pretty sure he tried.
I suppose part of me, in having children, has seen the opportunity to have my brother with me in some sense. To have the time over and this time make it last. I have always felt I owed it to him to be the best parent I could be - mistakes and all. I was never there when he lived, but my children have the 'miracle' that is life and I want them to always know how lucky they are to even be here, let alone living the life they have.
Roth's Everyman also speaks of the "tenderness [being] out of control. As was the longing for everyone to be living. And to have it all all over again." I understand this only too well. And as I sat at that grave-side and ran my hand over the weeping headstone that bears my name, along with my brothers, I felt exactly this longing. And for the first time I recognised the completeness of such a 'longing' and both the universality of it and the inherent privateness of it. To have it all over again is exactly the gift I have been offered. And to not realise that, nor to rejoice in the opportunity, would mean to be undeserving of such a tender gift.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Save-a-Mate
The other day I wasn't working and so I took a trip back through memory lane to the place I used to live a few years ago when the kids were small. I wandered around the suburb and the new shops and passed our old house and saw all the changes that have happened in the area.
I drove past the kids' old primary school and the pre-primary centre and imagined my children when they were little, playing in the playground and finger-painting at the old playgroup they attended where I used to be president and occasional play-leader.
It was both melancholic and sweet to remember those moments when the children were so little that their arms were still squishy with baby-fat and their fair hair soft and wispy under my touch. It's bittersweet because they are teenagers now and I have to stop in my tracks and form the image of those memories in my head before they come to me consciously.
They come to me in my dreams, though. In my reminiscences, those days were carefree and sunny with a light breeze blowing softly on my skin whilst I walked with the kids in a double pram to the shops: whilst I sat in the front yard of our rented fibro cottage and watched them play in their little sand-pit or help them shape the vibrant fuchsia play-dough that I had cooked up earlier in the week.
Of course the days were not truly like that, but, in my memory, enough were to make this image the strongest one in my mind when I close my eyes and think back; or when, as I did on that work-free day last week, catch myself day-dreaming about times and moments passed.
It was with these honey-sweet memories in my head that I was called over by the Red Cross volunteer at the new shopping centre that was built on a park in my old neighbourhood. I knew I had no money to give to a new cause. My husband and I had recently given up sponsoring two children in Equador and Guatamala due to the high cost of living here in Australia and the financial needs of raising two teenagers. But I went over anyway to give my support to the young volunteer as, having volunteered my time for both Amnesty International and Greenpeace in my own youth, I felt that even verbal and emotional support was better than nothing (and the fact that my middle class guilt gets me every time).
It turns out it was a new initiative for rural areas (particuarly) that the Red Cross had set up called Save-a-Mate (S.A.M). It is for young people at risk of suicide, mental health issues, drugs and alcohol who need a friendly voice or a helping hand to get them through the tough times. It turns out that, not only is youth suicide at a shocking high - especially in rural towns and farms where there is little contact with means of support - but also that the help-lines that have been set up for kids to call are not being utilised nearly as much as the organisers of those help-lines would like. Kids are not phoning the support agencies and they are still hurting themselves regardless.
So the Save-a-Mate initiative allows youth workers and volunteers to ring these kids themselves to see how they are going and to help them in any number of ways. If you know of a friend who is in need of support, you can give the Red Cross their name and they will add them to their support list. Hopefully it will save lives and hearts. But, of course, as with all things, it takes money.
I ended up signing to give only a small portion of my monthly salary to S.A.M. but it's all I can afford at the moment. My own son has been through a hell of a time recently and he has loving, supportive parents, a warm house, nutritious food and lots of opportunity for cuddles and acceptance for the unique person he is. There are hundreds and thousands of teenagers and young adults in this country that have no one and nothing to rely on. And , if they do have a family and friends, they may be feeling as though they can't truly be themselves for the fear of having their humanity negated or their special sense of themselves and their place in the world no longer nurtured.
I am giving to S.A.M for that anonymous kid out there, in the privileged country I've grown up in, to feel accepted and loved - even if they never know where it's coming from.
I drove past the kids' old primary school and the pre-primary centre and imagined my children when they were little, playing in the playground and finger-painting at the old playgroup they attended where I used to be president and occasional play-leader.
It was both melancholic and sweet to remember those moments when the children were so little that their arms were still squishy with baby-fat and their fair hair soft and wispy under my touch. It's bittersweet because they are teenagers now and I have to stop in my tracks and form the image of those memories in my head before they come to me consciously.
They come to me in my dreams, though. In my reminiscences, those days were carefree and sunny with a light breeze blowing softly on my skin whilst I walked with the kids in a double pram to the shops: whilst I sat in the front yard of our rented fibro cottage and watched them play in their little sand-pit or help them shape the vibrant fuchsia play-dough that I had cooked up earlier in the week.
Of course the days were not truly like that, but, in my memory, enough were to make this image the strongest one in my mind when I close my eyes and think back; or when, as I did on that work-free day last week, catch myself day-dreaming about times and moments passed.
It was with these honey-sweet memories in my head that I was called over by the Red Cross volunteer at the new shopping centre that was built on a park in my old neighbourhood. I knew I had no money to give to a new cause. My husband and I had recently given up sponsoring two children in Equador and Guatamala due to the high cost of living here in Australia and the financial needs of raising two teenagers. But I went over anyway to give my support to the young volunteer as, having volunteered my time for both Amnesty International and Greenpeace in my own youth, I felt that even verbal and emotional support was better than nothing (and the fact that my middle class guilt gets me every time).
It turns out it was a new initiative for rural areas (particuarly) that the Red Cross had set up called Save-a-Mate (S.A.M). It is for young people at risk of suicide, mental health issues, drugs and alcohol who need a friendly voice or a helping hand to get them through the tough times. It turns out that, not only is youth suicide at a shocking high - especially in rural towns and farms where there is little contact with means of support - but also that the help-lines that have been set up for kids to call are not being utilised nearly as much as the organisers of those help-lines would like. Kids are not phoning the support agencies and they are still hurting themselves regardless.
So the Save-a-Mate initiative allows youth workers and volunteers to ring these kids themselves to see how they are going and to help them in any number of ways. If you know of a friend who is in need of support, you can give the Red Cross their name and they will add them to their support list. Hopefully it will save lives and hearts. But, of course, as with all things, it takes money.
I ended up signing to give only a small portion of my monthly salary to S.A.M. but it's all I can afford at the moment. My own son has been through a hell of a time recently and he has loving, supportive parents, a warm house, nutritious food and lots of opportunity for cuddles and acceptance for the unique person he is. There are hundreds and thousands of teenagers and young adults in this country that have no one and nothing to rely on. And , if they do have a family and friends, they may be feeling as though they can't truly be themselves for the fear of having their humanity negated or their special sense of themselves and their place in the world no longer nurtured.
I am giving to S.A.M for that anonymous kid out there, in the privileged country I've grown up in, to feel accepted and loved - even if they never know where it's coming from.
Friday, May 18, 2012
"Tomorrow, do thy worst, for I have lived today."
My son has just gone off to his fourth day at his new high-school. And he seems like a new kid.
He has somehow 'lightened' over the past three days and, even though it was difficult starting at a new school at 13 (and halfway through the term), he seems to be thriving there.
He has made new friends and re-connected with old ones. The girls seem to like him and he's having fun. He even enjoyed sport this week which is unusual for him. The class was small and more relaxed and no one was 'watching' him like he felt they were before. He has always hated being watched. As a little boy of three years, we took him to play a little soccer at our local oval with other three year-olds all kicking the ball and running amok. He hated it because everyone was 'watching' him. We couldn't understand it because, in truth, we were the only ones watching him; all the other parents only had eyes for their kids. But he wouldn't participate and so we let it go.
Funnily enough, in grade three, he took up netball! A sport that is often associated with girls was perfect for him because it is truly a team game; as you can't run with the ball but only pivot on one foot, you must rely on your other team-members to achieve a goal. He didn't care what the other boys said about him for playing a traditionally 'girls' game; he said, I just want to play. And play he did - until he turned 13 and wasn't allowed to play on a mixed team any more.
He also persevered with basketball but it was tough going as he's not a naturally aggressive person and likes to share. But he stuck at it throughout the summers (netball is a winter sport here in Australia) and gradually grew taller and stronger than most of his team-mates and started to thrive on the court and on the competition. It was wonderful to see the evolution of his abilities and his father and I were there to cheer him on every week.
But last year and this year at his old school, he was forced to swim and he hated it. He's never been a strong swimmer and getting into your bathers and thrashing around in front of kids who love to give you shit already, was not something that endeared him to the pool or the subject of Physical Education on the whole. He ended up not taking his bathers and getting detentions. And when he was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive and Tic Disorder, he became a little obsessed with being 'watched' again. He got all worked up over the sport aspect of school, although he still seemed to enjoy long jump. Teenagers find the whole idea of others looking at them problematic at the best of times; it's a natural and normal part of growing up and being obsessed with 'self'. But he took it further than most and it seemed to compound all his other fears and slipped over into his academics.
Anyway, this week has been great. He seems to have really come into his own. Having a relaxed uniform helps - no stupid tie or belt or blazer and no silly regulations about rolling up the sleeves etc. Also, no prayers or religion classes has also helped! He looks good in his new uniform but he looks relaxed and comfortable. He feels as though he can be himself for the first time in ages. He's doing well so far in the academic stream and, although he has had no homework as yet, I have every confidence that he will be more organised and more willing to complete his tasks without being hounded by me. Not that I am into 'hounding'; as a high school teacher myself and used to motivating teenagers to read and put pen to paper and think on a daily and hourly basis, I was never really into coming home to my little nest and having to motivate my own children! My patience was pretty-much used up from the day's efforts already.
So this has been, for now anyway, a story with a happy ending. Of course, being a teacher of language and literature and cultural and media studies, I know there is no such thing. Life goes on like a series of bumps and ditches - unlike a traditional narrative with its climax and denouement. But for now I am going to enjoy the fact that we won this little battle and that my husband and I have been the best parents we know how to be. That, of course, doesn't mean we are always good parents (I especially am not always a great mother - believe me!) But we will celebrate the fact that today we were. And that's all any of us can ever do.
To quote the Victorian novelist Samuel Butler, "Do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day's own trouble be sufficient for the day."
He has somehow 'lightened' over the past three days and, even though it was difficult starting at a new school at 13 (and halfway through the term), he seems to be thriving there.
He has made new friends and re-connected with old ones. The girls seem to like him and he's having fun. He even enjoyed sport this week which is unusual for him. The class was small and more relaxed and no one was 'watching' him like he felt they were before. He has always hated being watched. As a little boy of three years, we took him to play a little soccer at our local oval with other three year-olds all kicking the ball and running amok. He hated it because everyone was 'watching' him. We couldn't understand it because, in truth, we were the only ones watching him; all the other parents only had eyes for their kids. But he wouldn't participate and so we let it go.
Funnily enough, in grade three, he took up netball! A sport that is often associated with girls was perfect for him because it is truly a team game; as you can't run with the ball but only pivot on one foot, you must rely on your other team-members to achieve a goal. He didn't care what the other boys said about him for playing a traditionally 'girls' game; he said, I just want to play. And play he did - until he turned 13 and wasn't allowed to play on a mixed team any more.
He also persevered with basketball but it was tough going as he's not a naturally aggressive person and likes to share. But he stuck at it throughout the summers (netball is a winter sport here in Australia) and gradually grew taller and stronger than most of his team-mates and started to thrive on the court and on the competition. It was wonderful to see the evolution of his abilities and his father and I were there to cheer him on every week.
But last year and this year at his old school, he was forced to swim and he hated it. He's never been a strong swimmer and getting into your bathers and thrashing around in front of kids who love to give you shit already, was not something that endeared him to the pool or the subject of Physical Education on the whole. He ended up not taking his bathers and getting detentions. And when he was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive and Tic Disorder, he became a little obsessed with being 'watched' again. He got all worked up over the sport aspect of school, although he still seemed to enjoy long jump. Teenagers find the whole idea of others looking at them problematic at the best of times; it's a natural and normal part of growing up and being obsessed with 'self'. But he took it further than most and it seemed to compound all his other fears and slipped over into his academics.
Anyway, this week has been great. He seems to have really come into his own. Having a relaxed uniform helps - no stupid tie or belt or blazer and no silly regulations about rolling up the sleeves etc. Also, no prayers or religion classes has also helped! He looks good in his new uniform but he looks relaxed and comfortable. He feels as though he can be himself for the first time in ages. He's doing well so far in the academic stream and, although he has had no homework as yet, I have every confidence that he will be more organised and more willing to complete his tasks without being hounded by me. Not that I am into 'hounding'; as a high school teacher myself and used to motivating teenagers to read and put pen to paper and think on a daily and hourly basis, I was never really into coming home to my little nest and having to motivate my own children! My patience was pretty-much used up from the day's efforts already.
So this has been, for now anyway, a story with a happy ending. Of course, being a teacher of language and literature and cultural and media studies, I know there is no such thing. Life goes on like a series of bumps and ditches - unlike a traditional narrative with its climax and denouement. But for now I am going to enjoy the fact that we won this little battle and that my husband and I have been the best parents we know how to be. That, of course, doesn't mean we are always good parents (I especially am not always a great mother - believe me!) But we will celebrate the fact that today we were. And that's all any of us can ever do.
To quote the Victorian novelist Samuel Butler, "Do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day's own trouble be sufficient for the day."
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
The last 36 hours
It's been a rough road the last 36 hours. My son was hoping to change schools and we, as a family, had been working towards a smooth transition and a new start. But being Tofu-Hearted Mother, these things are always difficult.
Saturday night I had four boys over at my house and I made a huge meal of free-range pork chops, vegies, roasted potatoes and garlic bread - and a chocolate cake to finish. I bought a few packets of chips and let the boys out on the street (we live in a little village in the hills) to talk and ride around on their long-boards.
I set up the back room for them with the pull-out couch and mattresses and blankets and I felt a real sense of happiness that I was helping to make my son's life just that little bit easier by doing it. These were his good friends and all lovely boys who are caring and fun and a little alternative. One of the boys was a former student of mine and he goes to the school my son is starting at. The others are from various schools but they all love the same music and have the same ideas about life.
One of the boys has a gay father and the others are understanding and sensitive to this. They still rib each other about being 'gay', but they also know it's all just jokes. They showed interest in attending the next "Rally for Marriage Equality" in August and I said, if their parents were okay with it, I would take them.
On Sunday night, things changed. My son received a series of harassing face book posts calling him a 'fag' and a 'faggot' and threatening him and commenting on his 'twig-thin' body (which is far from the truth - he's actually quite muscular under that shirt!). These were received on my daughter's face book page and she was anxious and scared for him because one of the boys commenting was a supposed friend of hers.
We went into his room and he'd been crying silently for an hour and each of us sat with him while he cried and screamed and kicked and punched. We just held him and tried to comfort him as much as possible. He said he wanted to die and he was trying hard to hurt himself by physically punching and kicking the metal-frame bed and wall. It was scary stuff and my daughter (who turned 15 yesterday) was crying, shaking and traumatised. He accused her of not caring enough to help her - and, of course, this is not true. But he was lashing out at anyone and anything he could and, as often happens, the ones he loves the best are in the firing-line.
Eventually, I got him to take half a sedative so he could calm right down and go to sleep. This he did and then my daughter and I had to try to sleep ourselves.
The problem with cyber-bullying is - it comes home with you and enters your most private spaces. Anyone can come up with the answer "Well, turn it off!" but there is a part of me that rages against this idea as well because I ask "Why should he?". And, if I can make an analogy here, it's similar in my mind to saying to women, "Well, just stay off the streets at night if you don't want to get raped!" Yeah - give in to the bullies and the rapists and all will be fine.
So anyway, the whole family stayed home from school and work the next day to love and support our boy. He was embarrassed in the morning and explained that he'd over-reacted. And I am hoping that was the case. But a threat of self-harm has to be taken seriously even if it seems a bit over the top. Every day I read on the face book page "Stop Teenage Suicide" a list of teens who have killed themselves - and it doesn't matter if a kid is gay or not, most of the bullying and harassment is homophobic in its origin.
But know this: if you love your child, you must take these matters very seriously. Most of all just be there with no judgement and lots of courage to stand up for them. No. Matter. What.
Our kids don't need their problems swept under the carpet or trivialised. And we as their protectors must not let these little bastards get away with this harassment. Whether you phone the school and report them, as I did, or contact the police or their parents (if you know them), do it fast and gather as much printed evidence as you can. And flag them to face book so they also have a record.
Whatever you do, don't underestimate the reality of teenage suicide and don't underestimate the depth of your child's feelings - both anger and terror.
Love them through all of it - and watch them like a hawk (just don't let them know you are doing it).
Saturday night I had four boys over at my house and I made a huge meal of free-range pork chops, vegies, roasted potatoes and garlic bread - and a chocolate cake to finish. I bought a few packets of chips and let the boys out on the street (we live in a little village in the hills) to talk and ride around on their long-boards.
I set up the back room for them with the pull-out couch and mattresses and blankets and I felt a real sense of happiness that I was helping to make my son's life just that little bit easier by doing it. These were his good friends and all lovely boys who are caring and fun and a little alternative. One of the boys was a former student of mine and he goes to the school my son is starting at. The others are from various schools but they all love the same music and have the same ideas about life.
One of the boys has a gay father and the others are understanding and sensitive to this. They still rib each other about being 'gay', but they also know it's all just jokes. They showed interest in attending the next "Rally for Marriage Equality" in August and I said, if their parents were okay with it, I would take them.
On Sunday night, things changed. My son received a series of harassing face book posts calling him a 'fag' and a 'faggot' and threatening him and commenting on his 'twig-thin' body (which is far from the truth - he's actually quite muscular under that shirt!). These were received on my daughter's face book page and she was anxious and scared for him because one of the boys commenting was a supposed friend of hers.
We went into his room and he'd been crying silently for an hour and each of us sat with him while he cried and screamed and kicked and punched. We just held him and tried to comfort him as much as possible. He said he wanted to die and he was trying hard to hurt himself by physically punching and kicking the metal-frame bed and wall. It was scary stuff and my daughter (who turned 15 yesterday) was crying, shaking and traumatised. He accused her of not caring enough to help her - and, of course, this is not true. But he was lashing out at anyone and anything he could and, as often happens, the ones he loves the best are in the firing-line.
Eventually, I got him to take half a sedative so he could calm right down and go to sleep. This he did and then my daughter and I had to try to sleep ourselves.
The problem with cyber-bullying is - it comes home with you and enters your most private spaces. Anyone can come up with the answer "Well, turn it off!" but there is a part of me that rages against this idea as well because I ask "Why should he?". And, if I can make an analogy here, it's similar in my mind to saying to women, "Well, just stay off the streets at night if you don't want to get raped!" Yeah - give in to the bullies and the rapists and all will be fine.
So anyway, the whole family stayed home from school and work the next day to love and support our boy. He was embarrassed in the morning and explained that he'd over-reacted. And I am hoping that was the case. But a threat of self-harm has to be taken seriously even if it seems a bit over the top. Every day I read on the face book page "Stop Teenage Suicide" a list of teens who have killed themselves - and it doesn't matter if a kid is gay or not, most of the bullying and harassment is homophobic in its origin.
But know this: if you love your child, you must take these matters very seriously. Most of all just be there with no judgement and lots of courage to stand up for them. No. Matter. What.
Our kids don't need their problems swept under the carpet or trivialised. And we as their protectors must not let these little bastards get away with this harassment. Whether you phone the school and report them, as I did, or contact the police or their parents (if you know them), do it fast and gather as much printed evidence as you can. And flag them to face book so they also have a record.
Whatever you do, don't underestimate the reality of teenage suicide and don't underestimate the depth of your child's feelings - both anger and terror.
Love them through all of it - and watch them like a hawk (just don't let them know you are doing it).
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Buzzword: Bullying
I always cringe at the term 'bullying'; not because I think it doesn't exist but because the word seems to imply victimhood. Children can be and are the main victims of bullying because they lack power just by being kids. They are emotionally vulnerable and inexperienced in dealing with versions of social isolation and emotional cruelty. They go from being in a family where they are (hopefully) nurtured and protected to a certain degree, to having to deal with school and loneliness, other people's problems and attitudes on a daily basis.
It's hard to know where to turn when you are bullied as a child because no one but you is living it and, with social media, it follows you home and even into your bedroom and under the covers if you let it.
But adults are also bullied; except I refuse to believe adults are victims of it most of the time. You are only a victim if you let yourself be. As an adult, we have life experiences and strengths to make our way through the world; other people's values constantly impinging on our own, challenging us and changing us. You must find the centre core of yourself and hold true to that if you can. But that doesn't mean you don't also have to look at yourself and your own attitudes to others in a cold, harsh light: are you being weak and insecure and what do you need to do about it? Are you causing some of the problems you keep encountering and, if so, how can you learn to change? Are you being kind and generous to yourself and making the best choices in your behaviour, demeanour and responses to the situation? Or is this truly a matter of just being surrounded by arseholes who will never understand you?
My daughter has never felt the cold edge of isolation or cruelty; she seems to have missed out on such experiences in her years so far. And she's lucky. But, on the other hand, she hasn't learned first-hand what it means to feel such things and therefore has not the depth of compassion that others may have.
My son has experienced it all his school life; all the versions of bullying - physical, mental and emotional. But yet he remains a non-victim in many ways. I too have felt its knife-edge and I am certainly not a victim of it. I have it at my present work place every day I work there. Mine is a form of social isolation and being ignored. I hold my head high, knowing (after much soul-searching) that I have done nothing wrong except do my honest best and tell the truth. Sometimes that's all it takes. To tell the truth and have someone else resent it.
My doctor said to me once that, if a situation keeps occurring over and over but in differing scenarios and with different people, then we really must look to ourselves to find the problem. But if it happens only once and we deal with it as best we can without too many histrionics; just a calm, rational sense of self-awareness, then we can pretty much guarantee that it's not us, but someone who would like to gain control of us in some way.
As a high school teacher, I have been bullied only once by a group of girls who acted towards me like a pack of hungry hyenas. They surrounded me in a metaphorical way and took me by surprise. And, like hyenas, they had a system to bring done their prey. But I too found a system and it was stronger than theirs and they didn't succeed in breaking me. Instead I found a strength I didn't know I had, but more surprisingly, didn't know I needed.
The teen singer, Taylor Swift said, “If you're horrible to me, I'm going to write a song about it, and you won't like it. That's how I operate.” and I operate in that same way. I don't write songs but I do find my feet and I keep, in my own quiet way, coming back and just silently staying there - successful and happy and at ease in my own company - and there's nothing that gets a bully's back up more than that: silence, watchfullness and resilience. I find my own way to turn the situation around and I have all the patience (and stubbornness) in the world with which to do it.
Some may call that 'passive-aggression', (another buzz-word); I like to think of it a emotional intelligence. Something not many bullies have.
It's hard to know where to turn when you are bullied as a child because no one but you is living it and, with social media, it follows you home and even into your bedroom and under the covers if you let it.
But adults are also bullied; except I refuse to believe adults are victims of it most of the time. You are only a victim if you let yourself be. As an adult, we have life experiences and strengths to make our way through the world; other people's values constantly impinging on our own, challenging us and changing us. You must find the centre core of yourself and hold true to that if you can. But that doesn't mean you don't also have to look at yourself and your own attitudes to others in a cold, harsh light: are you being weak and insecure and what do you need to do about it? Are you causing some of the problems you keep encountering and, if so, how can you learn to change? Are you being kind and generous to yourself and making the best choices in your behaviour, demeanour and responses to the situation? Or is this truly a matter of just being surrounded by arseholes who will never understand you?
My daughter has never felt the cold edge of isolation or cruelty; she seems to have missed out on such experiences in her years so far. And she's lucky. But, on the other hand, she hasn't learned first-hand what it means to feel such things and therefore has not the depth of compassion that others may have.
My son has experienced it all his school life; all the versions of bullying - physical, mental and emotional. But yet he remains a non-victim in many ways. I too have felt its knife-edge and I am certainly not a victim of it. I have it at my present work place every day I work there. Mine is a form of social isolation and being ignored. I hold my head high, knowing (after much soul-searching) that I have done nothing wrong except do my honest best and tell the truth. Sometimes that's all it takes. To tell the truth and have someone else resent it.
My doctor said to me once that, if a situation keeps occurring over and over but in differing scenarios and with different people, then we really must look to ourselves to find the problem. But if it happens only once and we deal with it as best we can without too many histrionics; just a calm, rational sense of self-awareness, then we can pretty much guarantee that it's not us, but someone who would like to gain control of us in some way.
As a high school teacher, I have been bullied only once by a group of girls who acted towards me like a pack of hungry hyenas. They surrounded me in a metaphorical way and took me by surprise. And, like hyenas, they had a system to bring done their prey. But I too found a system and it was stronger than theirs and they didn't succeed in breaking me. Instead I found a strength I didn't know I had, but more surprisingly, didn't know I needed.
The teen singer, Taylor Swift said, “If you're horrible to me, I'm going to write a song about it, and you won't like it. That's how I operate.” and I operate in that same way. I don't write songs but I do find my feet and I keep, in my own quiet way, coming back and just silently staying there - successful and happy and at ease in my own company - and there's nothing that gets a bully's back up more than that: silence, watchfullness and resilience. I find my own way to turn the situation around and I have all the patience (and stubbornness) in the world with which to do it.
Some may call that 'passive-aggression', (another buzz-word); I like to think of it a emotional intelligence. Something not many bullies have.
Friday, May 4, 2012
My hurting tofu-heart
My son seems angry and reactive all the time lately. He's like a gun, fully loaded and ready to fire. Or a box of fire-crackers waiting unlit in their box - and a bushfire sweeping this way. Either that or I am the match. Or his father. Or his sister. All the people he loves best in the world. And the ones who love him through all of it.
He's thinking of changing schools but, to be honest, I'm not sure if it's going to do any good. That saying keeps coming into my mind: "Wherever you go. There you are!" There's much truth to that and I am just hoping he doesn't have to learn the hard way. But what other way is there? All the lessons are hard ones. They all cause us pain. They all leave an imprint like a bruise that turns yellow.
He was having a tour of the new school today (it happens to be the one I work at - or used to - the local high school) and so a colleague of mine took him around and showed him the various facilities and, particularly, the music auditorium and percussion suite (where he would have his lessons - he's a drummer). He was in his private school uniform but we all decided it would be best for him to take off his tie and blazer and pull out his shirt to take the tour, so he didn't draw unwanted attention to himself. When they were in the Design and Technology section (woodwork and metal work etc) some kid told my son to "pull up his pants". Now, he does wear them low (a look all adults detest, but it's something they have to go through) but, instead of ignoring this potential fellow-student, my boy gives him the finger (and probably told him to fuck off, although he didn't admit that)! I immediately thought NO. You can't start like this! But that's my fear coming into it. My fear that he will never find a safe place to land, a place where others will stop judging him all the time and gaining kudos from his inability (or complete lack of desire) to fit in.
I never fitted in at school. My whole early life was an elaborate exercise in fitting in. And I never cracked it. We come from a family of artists, teachers and scientists. We are often outspoken and opinionated but, conversely, sensitive and easily broken. We are a complex combination of optimism and melancholy; strength and susceptibility; fortitude and weakness. And my son is no different.
I often feel overwhelming injustice for that which I see happening around me which often serves to break me into defenceless pieces, rather than be a catalyst for action. I shy away from confrontation in all its forms but then I will spring without thinking to someone's defence. I will make rash decisions and have to live with the consequences. And often those consequences will require a greater amount of fearlessness to live with, and through, than the original decision.
But one thing, through all this, that I always require from myself is to be myself. I don't need to be like anyone else and neither does my boy. But that's taken a life-time to realise. He is only 13.
So my original reaction to his "inappropriate" finger sign to the boy who chose to comment without invitation, was NO!!! Don't do that. Keep it inside. Hide away your true feelings lest you get hurt more than you have already been. Don't let them see what you really feel. Ignore the bastards.
But that's the 'good' mother talking. The one with the brittle honey-comb heart. The one who always says and does the right things and doesn't upset anyone. The one who so badly wants her son to fit in that she'll say or do anything to make that happen. Even if it goes against her knowledge of what courage is.
And I am, whether I like it or not, tofu-hearted mother. And I will continue to cheer on my son regardless of his choices. Regardless of the fine messes he will inevitably get himself into. Regardless of my initial reaction to some of the things he does. He can put the finger up to the whole world if he so wishes. And he can say "fuck you" as well to the haters and the bitches and the cruelties of life. Because he's not me. He is himself. And he has courage and guts like I never had. And I am so proud of him. No. Matter. What.
And isn't that all any of us ever want?
He's thinking of changing schools but, to be honest, I'm not sure if it's going to do any good. That saying keeps coming into my mind: "Wherever you go. There you are!" There's much truth to that and I am just hoping he doesn't have to learn the hard way. But what other way is there? All the lessons are hard ones. They all cause us pain. They all leave an imprint like a bruise that turns yellow.
He was having a tour of the new school today (it happens to be the one I work at - or used to - the local high school) and so a colleague of mine took him around and showed him the various facilities and, particularly, the music auditorium and percussion suite (where he would have his lessons - he's a drummer). He was in his private school uniform but we all decided it would be best for him to take off his tie and blazer and pull out his shirt to take the tour, so he didn't draw unwanted attention to himself. When they were in the Design and Technology section (woodwork and metal work etc) some kid told my son to "pull up his pants". Now, he does wear them low (a look all adults detest, but it's something they have to go through) but, instead of ignoring this potential fellow-student, my boy gives him the finger (and probably told him to fuck off, although he didn't admit that)! I immediately thought NO. You can't start like this! But that's my fear coming into it. My fear that he will never find a safe place to land, a place where others will stop judging him all the time and gaining kudos from his inability (or complete lack of desire) to fit in.
I never fitted in at school. My whole early life was an elaborate exercise in fitting in. And I never cracked it. We come from a family of artists, teachers and scientists. We are often outspoken and opinionated but, conversely, sensitive and easily broken. We are a complex combination of optimism and melancholy; strength and susceptibility; fortitude and weakness. And my son is no different.
I often feel overwhelming injustice for that which I see happening around me which often serves to break me into defenceless pieces, rather than be a catalyst for action. I shy away from confrontation in all its forms but then I will spring without thinking to someone's defence. I will make rash decisions and have to live with the consequences. And often those consequences will require a greater amount of fearlessness to live with, and through, than the original decision.
But one thing, through all this, that I always require from myself is to be myself. I don't need to be like anyone else and neither does my boy. But that's taken a life-time to realise. He is only 13.
So my original reaction to his "inappropriate" finger sign to the boy who chose to comment without invitation, was NO!!! Don't do that. Keep it inside. Hide away your true feelings lest you get hurt more than you have already been. Don't let them see what you really feel. Ignore the bastards.
But that's the 'good' mother talking. The one with the brittle honey-comb heart. The one who always says and does the right things and doesn't upset anyone. The one who so badly wants her son to fit in that she'll say or do anything to make that happen. Even if it goes against her knowledge of what courage is.
And I am, whether I like it or not, tofu-hearted mother. And I will continue to cheer on my son regardless of his choices. Regardless of the fine messes he will inevitably get himself into. Regardless of my initial reaction to some of the things he does. He can put the finger up to the whole world if he so wishes. And he can say "fuck you" as well to the haters and the bitches and the cruelties of life. Because he's not me. He is himself. And he has courage and guts like I never had. And I am so proud of him. No. Matter. What.
And isn't that all any of us ever want?
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Back into it
I am back at work after the April school holidays, and hence, back at the helm of Tofu-Hearted Mother.
My boy (13) wanted desperately to get his hair dyed. He's been asking for a while now but, because I didn't allow my daughter to colour her hair until she was 14, I felt compelled to stick to the same rule. But he's not the same person as her, and the circumstances are different. He is tall and thin and has a thatch of shaggy blonde hair that he likes to grow as long as possible before he has breached the dress code of 'above the collar' at his school. He has a habit (a diagnosed compulsion actually) to flick his hair and was doing this up to 150 times or more a day a few months ago. It was causing him so much hassle as he was targeted at school by the students, and teachers assumed he was 'too cool for school' and that the flicking was some kind of affectation. It wasn't and isn't. He was beginning to count things and worry constantly about all sorts of problems that may or may not occur.
He's a good-looking boy - his hair had beautiful ash-blonde and darker streaks of all sorts of tones and his skin is reasonably clear for his age (and level of hormones!) and pale but soft. When he asked to colour his hair I couldn't figure out why. We had always brought him up to believe in himself and to like who he was and be proud of his differences and personal character. He used to amaze us with his resilience to things and to people's attitudes. If he was called 'gay', he would shrug and say, "I'm not, but it wouldn't matter if I was." He used to choreograph his own hip-hop dances and performed them in front of his whole primary school. He loved to draw and had a small obsession with Japanese animation and anything Asian. He was a huge Doctor Who fan, Star Wars fan and loved all the usual Harry Potter stuff. When he was a little boy (and as cute as a button) he loved to carry around his baby doll in the backpack we bought him for it; he would stop and feed the baby if we were on a walk.
After my husband's heart attack, things changed. My son lost something of that resilience that he had previously. He went into himself more and I couldn't get him to open up as much. He seemed so 'together' when his father was in a coma and during the trauma of those first few hours, days and weeks of recovery. I realised later that it was his own way of not adding to my worries - or his sister's. He told me, one awful night out on the grass when the medication was making my husband crazy, that he pretended he was was his favourite superhero (Rorschach from The Watchmen). He said, if he felt that he was about to fall apart or cry, then he took a breath and asked himself, what would Rorschach do? When I heard him tell me this, I realised that he was using that beautiful, resilient spirit of his to keep going. It almost broke my tofu-heart when he told me this, but I understood him that little bit better than before. And I had always felt a real closeness to my son as we seemed to be quite alike. I used to pretend I was Clint Eastwood when I was a teenager. Sounds crazy for a girl, but I grew up with two brothers.
Anyway, we not only let our boy dye his hair, but we relented to him getting his ear pierced as well. I'm not sure what compels him, but I know it's a confusing and complex need to be both different and to fit in - if that makes sense. No one said adolescence was easy and I remember my own only too well. I try so hard to understand him and have compassion for his hormonal confusion. We talked to him about his decisions and some of the decisions we had made as teenagers and how they defined us at the time. He opened up at the dinner table a few nights ago and said that his role model is a hip-hop artist known as Hopsin. He's not hugely famous but our son listens to his music when he is feeling anxious or angry or frustrated. It helps to calm him down and do what needs to be done.
He said he listened to Hopsin's music recently when he needed to build up the courage to hit the older boy (16) who had been bullying him and harming his social life for over a year. I had given him the go ahead to hit the kid after nothing else had worked and it seemed this situation would go on forever and my son would lose more and more of his confidence. The morning of the incident at school, I saw him shrink down in the car seat when we drove passed this kid who was on the footpath. I wanted to stop the car and get out myself and confront the shit, but, of course, I would do such a thing and so I drove on. I did pull up at the curb before we got to the school, though, and said to my boy that, if he wanted to punch this kid (and I know he did because he had mentioned it before and we had always said, no no, violence doesn't achieve anything...) that I wouldn't be angry with him. But, I said, you are going to have to think of every shitty thing he's done to you over the past year, remember every time he's yelled things at you or shown you up in front of his friends - and put every bit of that fury behind a punch that hurts him and that surprises him.
I would never have imagined that one day this tofu-hearted mother would be telling my beautiful, sweet-natured, gorgeous son, that I gave him permission to punch another human being. But I did.
And he did. Punch him, I mean. The school was very supportive and only gave him a day's suspension. I didn't punish him and we made sure that the situation didn't go any further. The school finally took notice and we got the problem resolved.
But we were proud of him as he stood his ground against a much bigger 16 year-old and did what he had to do to survive and save face. So, we let him dye his hair last week and we let him get his ear pierced. He said he wanted to look like his role-model, Hopsin - who he told me is against drugs and alcohol and the disrespect of women. I thought, well, there are certainly worse role-models in the world for my son.
And best part? The pharmacy was shut and the beauty parlours didn't do piercing - so I had to take him to the local tattoo parlour!! He almost crapped himself when she said she was going to use a needle instead of a gun. But he's really hard-core now (or so he thinks...)
My boy (13) wanted desperately to get his hair dyed. He's been asking for a while now but, because I didn't allow my daughter to colour her hair until she was 14, I felt compelled to stick to the same rule. But he's not the same person as her, and the circumstances are different. He is tall and thin and has a thatch of shaggy blonde hair that he likes to grow as long as possible before he has breached the dress code of 'above the collar' at his school. He has a habit (a diagnosed compulsion actually) to flick his hair and was doing this up to 150 times or more a day a few months ago. It was causing him so much hassle as he was targeted at school by the students, and teachers assumed he was 'too cool for school' and that the flicking was some kind of affectation. It wasn't and isn't. He was beginning to count things and worry constantly about all sorts of problems that may or may not occur.
He's a good-looking boy - his hair had beautiful ash-blonde and darker streaks of all sorts of tones and his skin is reasonably clear for his age (and level of hormones!) and pale but soft. When he asked to colour his hair I couldn't figure out why. We had always brought him up to believe in himself and to like who he was and be proud of his differences and personal character. He used to amaze us with his resilience to things and to people's attitudes. If he was called 'gay', he would shrug and say, "I'm not, but it wouldn't matter if I was." He used to choreograph his own hip-hop dances and performed them in front of his whole primary school. He loved to draw and had a small obsession with Japanese animation and anything Asian. He was a huge Doctor Who fan, Star Wars fan and loved all the usual Harry Potter stuff. When he was a little boy (and as cute as a button) he loved to carry around his baby doll in the backpack we bought him for it; he would stop and feed the baby if we were on a walk.
After my husband's heart attack, things changed. My son lost something of that resilience that he had previously. He went into himself more and I couldn't get him to open up as much. He seemed so 'together' when his father was in a coma and during the trauma of those first few hours, days and weeks of recovery. I realised later that it was his own way of not adding to my worries - or his sister's. He told me, one awful night out on the grass when the medication was making my husband crazy, that he pretended he was was his favourite superhero (Rorschach from The Watchmen). He said, if he felt that he was about to fall apart or cry, then he took a breath and asked himself, what would Rorschach do? When I heard him tell me this, I realised that he was using that beautiful, resilient spirit of his to keep going. It almost broke my tofu-heart when he told me this, but I understood him that little bit better than before. And I had always felt a real closeness to my son as we seemed to be quite alike. I used to pretend I was Clint Eastwood when I was a teenager. Sounds crazy for a girl, but I grew up with two brothers.
Anyway, we not only let our boy dye his hair, but we relented to him getting his ear pierced as well. I'm not sure what compels him, but I know it's a confusing and complex need to be both different and to fit in - if that makes sense. No one said adolescence was easy and I remember my own only too well. I try so hard to understand him and have compassion for his hormonal confusion. We talked to him about his decisions and some of the decisions we had made as teenagers and how they defined us at the time. He opened up at the dinner table a few nights ago and said that his role model is a hip-hop artist known as Hopsin. He's not hugely famous but our son listens to his music when he is feeling anxious or angry or frustrated. It helps to calm him down and do what needs to be done.
He said he listened to Hopsin's music recently when he needed to build up the courage to hit the older boy (16) who had been bullying him and harming his social life for over a year. I had given him the go ahead to hit the kid after nothing else had worked and it seemed this situation would go on forever and my son would lose more and more of his confidence. The morning of the incident at school, I saw him shrink down in the car seat when we drove passed this kid who was on the footpath. I wanted to stop the car and get out myself and confront the shit, but, of course, I would do such a thing and so I drove on. I did pull up at the curb before we got to the school, though, and said to my boy that, if he wanted to punch this kid (and I know he did because he had mentioned it before and we had always said, no no, violence doesn't achieve anything...) that I wouldn't be angry with him. But, I said, you are going to have to think of every shitty thing he's done to you over the past year, remember every time he's yelled things at you or shown you up in front of his friends - and put every bit of that fury behind a punch that hurts him and that surprises him.
I would never have imagined that one day this tofu-hearted mother would be telling my beautiful, sweet-natured, gorgeous son, that I gave him permission to punch another human being. But I did.
And he did. Punch him, I mean. The school was very supportive and only gave him a day's suspension. I didn't punish him and we made sure that the situation didn't go any further. The school finally took notice and we got the problem resolved.
But we were proud of him as he stood his ground against a much bigger 16 year-old and did what he had to do to survive and save face. So, we let him dye his hair last week and we let him get his ear pierced. He said he wanted to look like his role-model, Hopsin - who he told me is against drugs and alcohol and the disrespect of women. I thought, well, there are certainly worse role-models in the world for my son.
And best part? The pharmacy was shut and the beauty parlours didn't do piercing - so I had to take him to the local tattoo parlour!! He almost crapped himself when she said she was going to use a needle instead of a gun. But he's really hard-core now (or so he thinks...)
Monday, April 16, 2012
Quiet...ahhh :)
Our house is as quiet as a crypt this evening - and am I loving it, or what?
The kids, when they were young, always were encouraged to play in the lounge-room with all of us together. We bought and renovated our first home so that, whilst their bedrooms were nice little sanctuaries for them to be safe and play if they wished, they were welcome to be in the main part of the house with us whilst we cooked and watched telly etc. They usually took us up on it and enjoyed being all together in the same room. We always had our bedroom very close to the lounge-room so that we could always see or hear the children playing if we had a lie down or were reading.
It used to frustrate and sadden me when I heard adults saying that they bought their son/daughter an expensive Lego set or something that needed putting together and told the kid to go off and play - and they played with it for three minutes before wanting their parent's attention again. As if an expensive load of coloured plastic was going to, somehow, make up for time and patience and actually showing the child how to do something special with it.
My husband used to collect the extra large Lego for our kids - Duplo it's called - from second-hand stores and flea-markets. He'd bring it home and I'd wash every piece and dry them all and we'd add them to the boxes and crates-full we already had. Then he would sit down on the floor with the kids and build sky-scrapers and trains and trucks and, after a trip to Paris, the Eiffel Tower. The children learned valuable lessons in construction and creativity and they watched, in awe, as their Papa built these magical (and often working) structures. We would photograph them before eventually pulling them apart for the next creation.
Now our kids are teenagers. The last three nights we have spent hours laughing and watching together the outrageous British series The Inbetweeners. We all developed six-packs from laughing so hard and it was a wonderful 'bonding' experience (don't know if I like that word as it's over-used - but, you get my meaning) as we all got a bit closer to the forbidden topic of sex...I thought it was great that they wanted to watch it with us - their mum and dad! (If you've seen it, you'll know what I mean).
But tonight it's quiet in our house, like a crypt. My daughter (who turns 15 next month) is ensconced in her beautiful new bedroom (that she saved and paid for herself - over $2600) and my son (who is thirteen going on 17) is ensconced in his room listening to his music and playing games. It's slightly odd, this quiet and the feeling that my husband and I are premature and sudden empty-nesters. It won't last, of course, but it's good while it does last. And I say that with all the love that a tofu-hearted mother can muster. Because we have never allowed the kids to have TVs or computers or game consoles in their rooms prior to now. We always cringed a bit when we saw friends' children with TV etc in their bedrooms at a young age - as if they encouraged the kids to go and be quiet and fixate on the box. Not that we didn't encourage our own kids to be quiet sometimes; I often took an afternoon siesta when they were little or when I got home from work in the afternoon, later on when they were older. I insisted on quiet and solitude for about an hour a day. But they did it centrally in the house - not off in their own TV worlds or stuck on Play Stations. The most they were allowed to have was a Gameboy each and a Tamagotchi to look after. We tried to encourage reading (not always successful), playing outside, raising chickens, jigsaws and Lego. We certainly didn't mind a few movies or TV shows being consumed - I teach English and Media so it goes without saying that I was mindful of their ability to be critical viewers.
But tonight they are off in their own worlds. And they are old enough to choose that if they wish. I spent inordinate amounts of time in my room when I was 15 - reading, listening to music, writing - so I understand the need for solitude and the desire (sometimes overwhelming) to be private and alone.
I reckon we have brought them up to be themselves and to make good choices about their lives. I enjoy the fact that they have wide and varied interests and, even though it may be a sign of things to come, I am really enjoying the crypt-like silence that this lovely early-autumn evening is bringing with it. I love my kids - but I also hope there are a few more of these nights to come.
The kids, when they were young, always were encouraged to play in the lounge-room with all of us together. We bought and renovated our first home so that, whilst their bedrooms were nice little sanctuaries for them to be safe and play if they wished, they were welcome to be in the main part of the house with us whilst we cooked and watched telly etc. They usually took us up on it and enjoyed being all together in the same room. We always had our bedroom very close to the lounge-room so that we could always see or hear the children playing if we had a lie down or were reading.
It used to frustrate and sadden me when I heard adults saying that they bought their son/daughter an expensive Lego set or something that needed putting together and told the kid to go off and play - and they played with it for three minutes before wanting their parent's attention again. As if an expensive load of coloured plastic was going to, somehow, make up for time and patience and actually showing the child how to do something special with it.
My husband used to collect the extra large Lego for our kids - Duplo it's called - from second-hand stores and flea-markets. He'd bring it home and I'd wash every piece and dry them all and we'd add them to the boxes and crates-full we already had. Then he would sit down on the floor with the kids and build sky-scrapers and trains and trucks and, after a trip to Paris, the Eiffel Tower. The children learned valuable lessons in construction and creativity and they watched, in awe, as their Papa built these magical (and often working) structures. We would photograph them before eventually pulling them apart for the next creation.
Now our kids are teenagers. The last three nights we have spent hours laughing and watching together the outrageous British series The Inbetweeners. We all developed six-packs from laughing so hard and it was a wonderful 'bonding' experience (don't know if I like that word as it's over-used - but, you get my meaning) as we all got a bit closer to the forbidden topic of sex...I thought it was great that they wanted to watch it with us - their mum and dad! (If you've seen it, you'll know what I mean).
But tonight it's quiet in our house, like a crypt. My daughter (who turns 15 next month) is ensconced in her beautiful new bedroom (that she saved and paid for herself - over $2600) and my son (who is thirteen going on 17) is ensconced in his room listening to his music and playing games. It's slightly odd, this quiet and the feeling that my husband and I are premature and sudden empty-nesters. It won't last, of course, but it's good while it does last. And I say that with all the love that a tofu-hearted mother can muster. Because we have never allowed the kids to have TVs or computers or game consoles in their rooms prior to now. We always cringed a bit when we saw friends' children with TV etc in their bedrooms at a young age - as if they encouraged the kids to go and be quiet and fixate on the box. Not that we didn't encourage our own kids to be quiet sometimes; I often took an afternoon siesta when they were little or when I got home from work in the afternoon, later on when they were older. I insisted on quiet and solitude for about an hour a day. But they did it centrally in the house - not off in their own TV worlds or stuck on Play Stations. The most they were allowed to have was a Gameboy each and a Tamagotchi to look after. We tried to encourage reading (not always successful), playing outside, raising chickens, jigsaws and Lego. We certainly didn't mind a few movies or TV shows being consumed - I teach English and Media so it goes without saying that I was mindful of their ability to be critical viewers.
But tonight they are off in their own worlds. And they are old enough to choose that if they wish. I spent inordinate amounts of time in my room when I was 15 - reading, listening to music, writing - so I understand the need for solitude and the desire (sometimes overwhelming) to be private and alone.
I reckon we have brought them up to be themselves and to make good choices about their lives. I enjoy the fact that they have wide and varied interests and, even though it may be a sign of things to come, I am really enjoying the crypt-like silence that this lovely early-autumn evening is bringing with it. I love my kids - but I also hope there are a few more of these nights to come.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
The Inbetweeners
I wouldn't let my kids watch The Inbetweeners last year - and, if you have ever seen the show you'll know why. I was still a bit torn this year whether to take them to see the movie. I decided against it as it was rated MA and I wanted them to at least understand the characters first and so thought, perhaps, there would come a time to show them the series from beginning to end.
Turns out, they had already seen the movie at their friends' houses! That sort of thing used make me mad because I had not given any other person permission to show an M15 or MA film to my kids. It's not that I am big on censorship (I am very liberal - although my kids don't seem to think so - in comparison to everyone else's parents!) but I want to choose the time and place that we watch those kinds of things as a family. It takes something away from me as a mother when I can't be the one to decide where and when we watch something together. It's all about education.
The Inbetweeners is extremely crude and very rude and often hilariously disgusting. None of that bothers me as I know that comedy can, and probably should, cut pretty close to the bone if it's going to stay relevant. I let the kids watch Little Britain a couple of years ago and they were also allowed to watch M-rated South Park and Family Guy eps when they were young teenagers. But The Inbetweeners was a series I felt needed to wait a little longer in our household before I would give permission. The main reason for this is the characters are teenagers (hence the title) and I felt the crudeness of it was too extreme for my kids and they used words about sex and women which needed too much discussion before they would understand that it wasn't really sexist so much as highlighting the frustration and anxiety in being at that "in between" stage of life. We've all been there and that's why it's so funny. It's exaggerated, of course. But I didn't want the kids to have their minds blown by any it!
What I hadn't counted on was that they'd already watched the movie at someone else's house. So, this weekend, we sat down as a family, with my husband as well, and watched series 1 and 2 and the movie.
We laughed like we had never laughed before. Loud and uncontrolled. We rolled around in pain on the floor and had to pause the DVD to get over some parts. It was wonderful. It truly brought us together as a family. And those things can't happen if another family has shown it to your kids beforehand.
The kids thought it was going to be awkward watching it with their mum and dad (I know I would have been mortified watching anything like that with my mum or dad! Not that there was ever anything so crude on when I was a teenager - Benny Hill was about as crude as it got - awww, I love Benny Hill. R.I.P Benny) but it wasn't really awkward at all. It was great. It opened up discussion and they saw their parents as slightly more human than they were yesterday. It helps being a high school teacher, though. Not much shocks me anymore.
Turns out, they had already seen the movie at their friends' houses! That sort of thing used make me mad because I had not given any other person permission to show an M15 or MA film to my kids. It's not that I am big on censorship (I am very liberal - although my kids don't seem to think so - in comparison to everyone else's parents!) but I want to choose the time and place that we watch those kinds of things as a family. It takes something away from me as a mother when I can't be the one to decide where and when we watch something together. It's all about education.
The Inbetweeners is extremely crude and very rude and often hilariously disgusting. None of that bothers me as I know that comedy can, and probably should, cut pretty close to the bone if it's going to stay relevant. I let the kids watch Little Britain a couple of years ago and they were also allowed to watch M-rated South Park and Family Guy eps when they were young teenagers. But The Inbetweeners was a series I felt needed to wait a little longer in our household before I would give permission. The main reason for this is the characters are teenagers (hence the title) and I felt the crudeness of it was too extreme for my kids and they used words about sex and women which needed too much discussion before they would understand that it wasn't really sexist so much as highlighting the frustration and anxiety in being at that "in between" stage of life. We've all been there and that's why it's so funny. It's exaggerated, of course. But I didn't want the kids to have their minds blown by any it!
What I hadn't counted on was that they'd already watched the movie at someone else's house. So, this weekend, we sat down as a family, with my husband as well, and watched series 1 and 2 and the movie.
We laughed like we had never laughed before. Loud and uncontrolled. We rolled around in pain on the floor and had to pause the DVD to get over some parts. It was wonderful. It truly brought us together as a family. And those things can't happen if another family has shown it to your kids beforehand.
The kids thought it was going to be awkward watching it with their mum and dad (I know I would have been mortified watching anything like that with my mum or dad! Not that there was ever anything so crude on when I was a teenager - Benny Hill was about as crude as it got - awww, I love Benny Hill. R.I.P Benny) but it wasn't really awkward at all. It was great. It opened up discussion and they saw their parents as slightly more human than they were yesterday. It helps being a high school teacher, though. Not much shocks me anymore.
Friday, April 13, 2012
My 13 year-old niece...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rZDDjC8l54w&feature=share
I haven't got much to write today as I just received a link to my 13 year-old niece's You Tube Channel where she has performed and uploaded three of her songs. They're covers but she is damn good. She's even better in person and live. She has already been hired to play at people's 40ths and 50ths and here she is playing to a live audience in Denmark, Australia at the Transmission Lounge there. As a teenager and a singer she is utterly amazing...and she's my niece.
I haven't got much to write today as I just received a link to my 13 year-old niece's You Tube Channel where she has performed and uploaded three of her songs. They're covers but she is damn good. She's even better in person and live. She has already been hired to play at people's 40ths and 50ths and here she is playing to a live audience in Denmark, Australia at the Transmission Lounge there. As a teenager and a singer she is utterly amazing...and she's my niece.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Same Time, Next Year
I have a few favourite movies that I have recently been able to purchase on DVD. I was thrilled to find them after all these years and, mainly, because I thought - when my kids are old enough (particularly my daughter), I would love to sit down with them and re-watch these old films that inspired me in childhood.
When I was about 8 I was home sick in my mother's bed and she had a massive old telly in her room that was a luxury to be able to watch. I used to watch Sesame Street in there every morning and afternoon, but I sat on the floor at the foot of her bed. But when I was sick, I could lie under the covers and watch the midday movie on Channel 7. The telly was black and white but, so too were most of the movies. I will never forget that day when I was 8 as I was mesmerised by Tennessee Williams' play, The Glass Menagerie, produced for the screen with Jane Wyman and, it could have been, Spencer Tracy as Jim. Watching it formed that part of me that grew to love reading and writing and literature and art - but I particularly was intrigued and moved by the lilting and sensitive narrative style and structure of the play. It made sense to me. It was like music. I understood it implicitly and internally as though it was as natural as life itself.
I had a similar experience with another play made for film entitled Same Time, Next Year with Alan Alder and Ellyn Bursten. Have you heard of it? It's about a man and a woman who are both happily married to other people, who meet and, through circumstance, fall in love and choose to meet on the same weekend for one night every year. It doesn't sound like a story for a little girl (I think I was about 11 when I saw this one) but its beauty and simplicity lies in the innocence and sweetness of their relationship and how they come, ironically, to love each other's spouses and children without ever having met them. I weep and laugh whenever I see it again.
There were many other films that I wanted to watch and share with my children - ones as obscure as Charles Bronson's From Noon 'Til Three (which I possibly broke the world record for watching more times than any other person on the face of the earth!) and Clint Eastwood's Bronco Billy (ditto). Star Trek 4: The Return Home was also high on my list of 'must-sees' with my children,(especially when I was a self-confessed greenie - it's all about the whales, you see...). But the opportunity arose to watch Same Time, Next Year with my girl last Saturday night.
She didn't want to. She would much rather have watched repeats of How I Met Your Mother, but I put my whiny, guilt-inducing, cow-eyed foot down and she, reluctantly, gave in.
We weren't off to the best start and, I'm here to tell you, it didn't get better.
She didn't get the characters, the narrative, the humour or the dialogue (she studies high level English). She didn't get the historical references (she studies high level History) and she was asking when it was going to end way before the climactic scene and sweet, heart-warming ending.
Really what happened was that I lost a little bit of my heart that night. I had to grow up fast! I had to come to terms with the fact that my girl is nothing like me and doesn't have to be. As much as I'd like a little clone of me walking around the house and coo-ing over the same things, it's not going to happen. And nor should it. She is her own self: a driven, slightly mad, obsessive, over-achieving, mathematically-minded, sports-crazy, overly-sensitive perfectionist.
Tomorrow I have my old friend Linda coming over for lunch and guess what I am popping on the box? You guessed it. I reckon the movie might go down a treat for a lovely lady in her fifties. Just not with my daughter.
I'll try Bronco Billy next week...I used to know the dialogue by heart. I won't hold my breath that she'll be as enamoured.
When I was about 8 I was home sick in my mother's bed and she had a massive old telly in her room that was a luxury to be able to watch. I used to watch Sesame Street in there every morning and afternoon, but I sat on the floor at the foot of her bed. But when I was sick, I could lie under the covers and watch the midday movie on Channel 7. The telly was black and white but, so too were most of the movies. I will never forget that day when I was 8 as I was mesmerised by Tennessee Williams' play, The Glass Menagerie, produced for the screen with Jane Wyman and, it could have been, Spencer Tracy as Jim. Watching it formed that part of me that grew to love reading and writing and literature and art - but I particularly was intrigued and moved by the lilting and sensitive narrative style and structure of the play. It made sense to me. It was like music. I understood it implicitly and internally as though it was as natural as life itself.
I had a similar experience with another play made for film entitled Same Time, Next Year with Alan Alder and Ellyn Bursten. Have you heard of it? It's about a man and a woman who are both happily married to other people, who meet and, through circumstance, fall in love and choose to meet on the same weekend for one night every year. It doesn't sound like a story for a little girl (I think I was about 11 when I saw this one) but its beauty and simplicity lies in the innocence and sweetness of their relationship and how they come, ironically, to love each other's spouses and children without ever having met them. I weep and laugh whenever I see it again.
There were many other films that I wanted to watch and share with my children - ones as obscure as Charles Bronson's From Noon 'Til Three (which I possibly broke the world record for watching more times than any other person on the face of the earth!) and Clint Eastwood's Bronco Billy (ditto). Star Trek 4: The Return Home was also high on my list of 'must-sees' with my children,(especially when I was a self-confessed greenie - it's all about the whales, you see...). But the opportunity arose to watch Same Time, Next Year with my girl last Saturday night.
She didn't want to. She would much rather have watched repeats of How I Met Your Mother, but I put my whiny, guilt-inducing, cow-eyed foot down and she, reluctantly, gave in.
We weren't off to the best start and, I'm here to tell you, it didn't get better.
She didn't get the characters, the narrative, the humour or the dialogue (she studies high level English). She didn't get the historical references (she studies high level History) and she was asking when it was going to end way before the climactic scene and sweet, heart-warming ending.
Really what happened was that I lost a little bit of my heart that night. I had to grow up fast! I had to come to terms with the fact that my girl is nothing like me and doesn't have to be. As much as I'd like a little clone of me walking around the house and coo-ing over the same things, it's not going to happen. And nor should it. She is her own self: a driven, slightly mad, obsessive, over-achieving, mathematically-minded, sports-crazy, overly-sensitive perfectionist.
Tomorrow I have my old friend Linda coming over for lunch and guess what I am popping on the box? You guessed it. I reckon the movie might go down a treat for a lovely lady in her fifties. Just not with my daughter.
I'll try Bronco Billy next week...I used to know the dialogue by heart. I won't hold my breath that she'll be as enamoured.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Recovery
In the 15 years I have been raising my kids, I have had two severe bouts of depression - one just a few weeks ago. Throughout both experiences I never took my eye off the ball that is being a mum. They barely remember the first breakdown (6 years ago) but they sure remember this one. It was scary for them because they are cognisant of some of the problems that life brings with it; they know what it means to feel as though you are losing your mind. They both felt this way in different versions when their father had the heart attack. But they plodded through this with me and saw me come through it better and happier with them as my focus- and I think that makes them stronger and more resilient for their own futures to see their mother do this. And they saw their father support their mother in the way a loving, good man should. Not everyone (or even many) have this.
But now I am in 'remission' (or almost), I am revelling in all that it means to me to be a mother and a wife. I have stopped teaching full-time and started writing and reading again (some of the things that go when I am depressed are my ability to write and read anything; drink coffee or alcohol; drive a car or walk very far, even slowly. I can't talk on the phone or socialise in person; I can't hold up a conversation or smile or laugh or eat; I can't bear to wear jewellery or nice clothes; it's hard enough to get in the shower to wash my hair).
So, today I wanted to catalogue some of the things that I feel grateful for. I don't know 'who' I am grateful to - certainly medical science and certainly not any supernatural being - but I still feel a sense of gratitude for being alive and as lucky as I, most assuredly, am - living this life, now, here with these people.
- I am reading again and writing and dressing like I used to (no heels for change!!): floaty, sea-green or blue and lots of silver jewellery
- and cooking for my family and being a mum
- And loving myself sick
- I feel as though I have found myself again! I never thought I could step out of teaching and still be me - the me I'd forgotten. But, as my hand was forced, I can see it objectively now and my mind is free from 'stuff' - never being able to see a movie or a TV show without creating a whole programme in my mind (like a huge concept map) of how I might teach it is immensely liberating! I can watch trashy TV without feeling guilty about the marking I should be onto already, or forcing myself to think 'critically'. I can watch "The Bachelor" on Go and just sink into the mire of sludge that it is and feel completely okay with it
- I have space in my brain to think of things to write on my blog every day and the time to actually do it
- I have the energy to walk along the old train-line at dusk
- I have space in my brain to plan for my own writing in the future instead of always dissecting someone else's. I walked into Oxford Books today and bought three books for me (one entitled 'Hope' giving voice to teenagers on the margins of society, a new set of stories by my favourite Joyce Carol Oates, and last year's Man Booker winner, Philip Roth's "Nemesis"), a coffee-table book for our sun-room ("Sculptures By the Sea since 1979"), and a Lonely Planet book of London for my girl - and I came home and spent a good 2 or 3 minutes sniffing the covers and running the pages over my face!
- This morning I felt very lucky to be able to lie on my couch and sip coffee and watch the sheets blowing and drying softly in the breeze
OK...it COULD be the meds...but I would prefer to think it's all me
. I just haven't been acquainted with myself for awhile.
HELLO ME!! I've missed you.
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