Energy Vampirism
Over my childhood I was accused of a good many things by my mother. Not the usual accusations of "Did you hit/bite/break/steal/eat that thing and/or person?!", of which I was, almost always, actually guilty but of more amorphous crimes.
Laziness. This was more or less true. I mean, I could argue that her perception of laziness was simply a differing in opinion of the relative importance of various activities, a difference of opinion that led her to believe that those activities I believed to be important were not as important and vice versa. I could argue that but, seriously, who the fuck could be bothered?
Communism. I suspect this was more an attempt to imply that I wanted something for nothing, rather than an accusation of actual Communist party membership. It was the 80s and Rocky IV and Red Dawn (Go Wolverines!) were still telling us that Communists were bad, intent on invasion and/or beating Carl Weathers to death. In any event I don't remember harbouring any Communist tendencies, if for no other reason than in the small country town where I grew up it was the anarcho-capitalists that had the nicest cars and got all the chicks.
Homosexuality. This was just untrue. I mean sure, I get a funny butterflies feeling in my tummy whenever I see Gerard Butler but what right thinking man doesn't?
By far the most bizarre accusation, however, was that of energy vampirism. My mother essentially believed that I, deliberately and with malice aforethought, sucked her energy away and used it for my own unholy purposes. Even as a very small child I thought this was pretty fruity and unfair. The relative fruitiness and fairness of it does not stop it, unfortunately, from being absolutely true. Children are a parasitical race, possibly from outer space, that leech your energy away and use it for evil. I have proof.
Proof 1. Children start off quite small but end up big, conversely parents start off quite big but end up smaller. This proves that not only are they sucking your energy away but they're also using some form of alien matter-to-energy technology and actually eating your cells! One by one!
Proof 2. Parents are tired. A lot. The logic is impecable. Before children = not tired. After children = tired. Where does that youthful vim and vigor go?! The only possible answer: energy vampirism.
Proof 3. Grandparents love their grandchildren. Whilst it's terrible that an alien energy leech sucks your life force away what a vast relief it must be when some second alien energy leech starts sucking away the life force of that first alien energy leech! The enemy of your enemy is your friend! And that's why you give that enemies enemy drum kits and plastic chainsaws for its birthday.
Proof 4. The final and most irrefutable piece of proof. The tireder I am the louder my children are. They take my hard earned energy and convert it into shouting. QED.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Party down
I'm going to my first children's party this Saturday. I mean, not my first children's party, obviously. I went to heaps when I was a child myself because I was really popular and everyone wanted me at their party. Or, perhaps more correctly, I went to a succession of quite small country schools, so small in fact that you were generally expected to invite everyone in the school to your party and when you did your mum still didn't have to shell out for more than one bag of party poppers. Nor, I guess, do I mean my first children's party as an adult because I've been to heaps. Shit, words are hard. So many words to choose from, so many misunderstandings. Interpretive dance, now there's a serious form of communication. The dedication and commitment of dance bringing structure and meaning to communication, that's what we need more of. So, right, imagine I'm dancing. I'm dancing in such a manner as to convey the information that this Saturday I shall be taking my son to his first party and I too shall be attending this party. And then imagine I'm doing the running man because that shit never goes out of style. But I dancingly digress.
So my son received his first party invitation from a pre-school friend. Well, I say "friend" but who knows with three year olds. They make and shed friends like...a currently famous person sheds something humorous and/or topical. Yeah, that fast. But he's super excited and so, of course, I'll take him.
However.
However, I'm not sure, really, how this could in any way be worse. Let's count the ways this is going to be horrible, shall we?
1. No beer. Sure, the kid's turning four and this is Australia but still I have to assume that there's going to be no beer. Maybe light beer but jeeze, why bother.
2. I'm not going to know anybody. Now, I know there are people out there who enjoy meeting new people, who see a stranger as just a friend blah blah blah. I'm not one of these people. I'm 35 years old and the friends I have are perfectly sufficient for my needs. Sure, if a bunch of them died, through some kind of unlikely boardgame/lego poisoning event, I'd probably be forced to go out and get some new ones but for the moment I'm fine. So this turns events where I don't know anyone into some serious social torture. There's an easy way to remedy this torture, of course, but see point 1. Obviously, I'll know my son. But turning up to a party hoping a 3 year old will hang out with you? That's a bad sign.
3. No wine. At all, I'm guessing. Not a natty little Pinot Noir with a nauseating story of how the couple who brought it along found it in this simply delightful little town in Tasmania nor a $7 box of goon, purchased not only for it's efficient map to Inebriation Town but the vast array of amusing purposes to which the silver balloon can be put to on arrival. Neither of them.
4. Cake. Actually, I'm looking forward to cake. I hope there's angel cakes. Remember those? Little cup cakes with the top cut off and cream put on and then the top put back on to make little angel wings? Yeah? Did your mum make you those when you were a kid? No. Mine neither. Because they hated us. Say what you will about this generations helicopter parenting but if it comes with angel cakes then there should be more of it, I say. Well, I would say if my face wasn't stuffed with angel cake.
5. No spiritous libations. No neat little gin and tonic to ease you into the event and no "Only girls go home without having done some rum!" last minute mistake. No Vodka Martini to let you pretend to be James Bond and no Jamesons to let you pretend that you're an alcoholic but, like, an alcoholic from The Wire.
6. Pass the parcel. Sure, it's a great game. Sure, everyone gets a prize. But do you think they'll let a grown man play? A grown man who just so happens to be twelve times State Pass the Parcel champion? Who represented his country at no less than three World PtP ProAm matches? Balls they will. It's a criminal waste of talent is what it is.
But I'll take him. For two reasons. First, I don't want to be explaining to a psychiatrist in ten years time that the reason I turned my son into a social pariah is because I myself am a social pariah. The second reason is that I have this memory of being at a party when I was 4 or 5. We were playing Hide and Seek or some other gormless run til you puke and then run some more game. I ran into an empty room, either to hide or puke I don't recall, and found my dad sitting on his own. He seemed OK, at the time it didn't really seem weird at all, within the general context on adult weirdness. But in retrospect I can see it for what it probably was, a shy guy who didn't know anyone but who took his son to a party anyway. It brings the teensiest tear to the eye, doesn't it. That's because you're a girl. If they ever invent time travel I wouldn't mind going back to that day and to see my dad. And give the poor son of a bitch a beer...
So my son received his first party invitation from a pre-school friend. Well, I say "friend" but who knows with three year olds. They make and shed friends like...a currently famous person sheds something humorous and/or topical. Yeah, that fast. But he's super excited and so, of course, I'll take him.
However.
However, I'm not sure, really, how this could in any way be worse. Let's count the ways this is going to be horrible, shall we?
1. No beer. Sure, the kid's turning four and this is Australia but still I have to assume that there's going to be no beer. Maybe light beer but jeeze, why bother.
2. I'm not going to know anybody. Now, I know there are people out there who enjoy meeting new people, who see a stranger as just a friend blah blah blah. I'm not one of these people. I'm 35 years old and the friends I have are perfectly sufficient for my needs. Sure, if a bunch of them died, through some kind of unlikely boardgame/lego poisoning event, I'd probably be forced to go out and get some new ones but for the moment I'm fine. So this turns events where I don't know anyone into some serious social torture. There's an easy way to remedy this torture, of course, but see point 1. Obviously, I'll know my son. But turning up to a party hoping a 3 year old will hang out with you? That's a bad sign.
3. No wine. At all, I'm guessing. Not a natty little Pinot Noir with a nauseating story of how the couple who brought it along found it in this simply delightful little town in Tasmania nor a $7 box of goon, purchased not only for it's efficient map to Inebriation Town but the vast array of amusing purposes to which the silver balloon can be put to on arrival. Neither of them.
4. Cake. Actually, I'm looking forward to cake. I hope there's angel cakes. Remember those? Little cup cakes with the top cut off and cream put on and then the top put back on to make little angel wings? Yeah? Did your mum make you those when you were a kid? No. Mine neither. Because they hated us. Say what you will about this generations helicopter parenting but if it comes with angel cakes then there should be more of it, I say. Well, I would say if my face wasn't stuffed with angel cake.
5. No spiritous libations. No neat little gin and tonic to ease you into the event and no "Only girls go home without having done some rum!" last minute mistake. No Vodka Martini to let you pretend to be James Bond and no Jamesons to let you pretend that you're an alcoholic but, like, an alcoholic from The Wire.
6. Pass the parcel. Sure, it's a great game. Sure, everyone gets a prize. But do you think they'll let a grown man play? A grown man who just so happens to be twelve times State Pass the Parcel champion? Who represented his country at no less than three World PtP ProAm matches? Balls they will. It's a criminal waste of talent is what it is.
But I'll take him. For two reasons. First, I don't want to be explaining to a psychiatrist in ten years time that the reason I turned my son into a social pariah is because I myself am a social pariah. The second reason is that I have this memory of being at a party when I was 4 or 5. We were playing Hide and Seek or some other gormless run til you puke and then run some more game. I ran into an empty room, either to hide or puke I don't recall, and found my dad sitting on his own. He seemed OK, at the time it didn't really seem weird at all, within the general context on adult weirdness. But in retrospect I can see it for what it probably was, a shy guy who didn't know anyone but who took his son to a party anyway. It brings the teensiest tear to the eye, doesn't it. That's because you're a girl. If they ever invent time travel I wouldn't mind going back to that day and to see my dad. And give the poor son of a bitch a beer...
Friday, January 6, 2012
Parenting cliches: 1
Spelling things out
There are certain things that seem so connected with parenting in our collective conscious that they become cliche. They're so over-worked in sit-coms and stand-up routines and movies in which parents inexplicably let Vin Diesel babysit their children that they seem unreal, a tv trope rather than a reality. One of these, for me at least, is parents spelling things out so their kids don't know what they're talking about. The classic, of course, is the elaborate and raised eye-brow accompanied spelling out of 'sex'. This is usually followed by the tv child not only understanding what the parents are talking about but also displaying a humorously abundant knowledge of the subject. Laugh track, go to commercial. TV parenting rather than reality.
Except, of course, it isn't. Now, I've never had the need to spell out 'sex' in front of my children. I like to think of myself being as red-blooded, beer drinking, pie eating, car-wheel kicking, blokie-bloke man's man as the next manly man (well...as manly as the next manly man with a semi-humorous blog mostly about parenting, I guess). And I don't shy away from talking about sex if the need arises but I've never found myself in a situation where I'm surrounded by children and yet somehow the need to discuss sex is so pressing that I'm forced to spell out the word, rather than wait for the children to smash and burn their way off into another room. But perhaps that's just because I'm middle class and repressed.
What I do find myself spelling out are words that I know are going to start chain reactions. Words that, due to their innate hilarity or connection to desirable things, are going to cause more trouble for me than they are worth actually saying. Saying the word 'bum', for example would cause such a spectacular bum-storm...Spectacular bum-storm...Where do I know that phrase from? Buggrit, I'm going to have to Google it, now. Ah, of course, Spectacular Bum Storm won best and fairest in the 1994 German Adult Movie Industry Awards (GAMIA) joining other such seminal works as Das Tits and Nice Frankfurt. Anyway. Saying a word like 'bum' would have it echoed back to you in greater and greater gales of hilarity for a number of hours. As the madness mounted you'd forget the reason for human speech let alone the reason why you mentioned the word in the first place. So you spell it out.
Codes can be useful too but only for a short period of time. Rather than have our children explode from the pressure of just the idea of a couple of McDonalds chips, my wife and I referred to it as "the Scottish restaurant". Coz it's got Mc at the front, see? Scottish...Whatever. Anyway, it took our kids about two days to bust that particular enigma and even less for "the place with the big yellow letter" and "the clown shop". So now we just refer to it as "McDon...NO YOU CANNOT HAVE CHIPS!". Parenting: You have to be adaptable.
There are certain things that seem so connected with parenting in our collective conscious that they become cliche. They're so over-worked in sit-coms and stand-up routines and movies in which parents inexplicably let Vin Diesel babysit their children that they seem unreal, a tv trope rather than a reality. One of these, for me at least, is parents spelling things out so their kids don't know what they're talking about. The classic, of course, is the elaborate and raised eye-brow accompanied spelling out of 'sex'. This is usually followed by the tv child not only understanding what the parents are talking about but also displaying a humorously abundant knowledge of the subject. Laugh track, go to commercial. TV parenting rather than reality.
Except, of course, it isn't. Now, I've never had the need to spell out 'sex' in front of my children. I like to think of myself being as red-blooded, beer drinking, pie eating, car-wheel kicking, blokie-bloke man's man as the next manly man (well...as manly as the next manly man with a semi-humorous blog mostly about parenting, I guess). And I don't shy away from talking about sex if the need arises but I've never found myself in a situation where I'm surrounded by children and yet somehow the need to discuss sex is so pressing that I'm forced to spell out the word, rather than wait for the children to smash and burn their way off into another room. But perhaps that's just because I'm middle class and repressed.
What I do find myself spelling out are words that I know are going to start chain reactions. Words that, due to their innate hilarity or connection to desirable things, are going to cause more trouble for me than they are worth actually saying. Saying the word 'bum', for example would cause such a spectacular bum-storm...Spectacular bum-storm...Where do I know that phrase from? Buggrit, I'm going to have to Google it, now. Ah, of course, Spectacular Bum Storm won best and fairest in the 1994 German Adult Movie Industry Awards (GAMIA) joining other such seminal works as Das Tits and Nice Frankfurt. Anyway. Saying a word like 'bum' would have it echoed back to you in greater and greater gales of hilarity for a number of hours. As the madness mounted you'd forget the reason for human speech let alone the reason why you mentioned the word in the first place. So you spell it out.
Codes can be useful too but only for a short period of time. Rather than have our children explode from the pressure of just the idea of a couple of McDonalds chips, my wife and I referred to it as "the Scottish restaurant". Coz it's got Mc at the front, see? Scottish...Whatever. Anyway, it took our kids about two days to bust that particular enigma and even less for "the place with the big yellow letter" and "the clown shop". So now we just refer to it as "McDon...NO YOU CANNOT HAVE CHIPS!". Parenting: You have to be adaptable.
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