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.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Things I am retroactively sorry to my parents for: 1
Walking slowly in front of them
This was a classic "parents are nuts" one for me when I was small. It drove mum bonkers while doing shopping and made dad insane pretty much anywhere but seemed especially severe while walking down the street. To me I was just walking. Sure, I may have been a bit aimless but I was 3 through 8! Stopping to smell the roses was the point of life...Or poke something with a stick...Or lick something...Or just generally meander for no reason...Also to be honest, I've always been fairly aimless naturally. But something about me wandering slowly in front of my parents while they skipped side-to-side trying to get around me made cartoon steam come out of their ears and non-cartoon expletives come out of their mouths.
And now, aged and encumbered with my own aimless children as I am I finally get it. It is utterly infuriating. Especially when carrying shopping down the hallway. But ESPECIALLY when you smell smoke/hear screams/hear the telephone ringing! But it's actually pretty bloody infuriating whenever it happens. Why are you walking so slowly?! Speed up! No don't look at me! Keep walking! No, don't turn around! No, don't try and look in the shopping bag! Yes I can _hear_ the phone ringing! No don't cry, for gods sake! No...Look...Fine, yes, I'm putting the shopping down and picking you up. There. Are we better now? Excellent. I'm sorry. What? Yes I can smell smoke too...
This was a classic "parents are nuts" one for me when I was small. It drove mum bonkers while doing shopping and made dad insane pretty much anywhere but seemed especially severe while walking down the street. To me I was just walking. Sure, I may have been a bit aimless but I was 3 through 8! Stopping to smell the roses was the point of life...Or poke something with a stick...Or lick something...Or just generally meander for no reason...Also to be honest, I've always been fairly aimless naturally. But something about me wandering slowly in front of my parents while they skipped side-to-side trying to get around me made cartoon steam come out of their ears and non-cartoon expletives come out of their mouths.
And now, aged and encumbered with my own aimless children as I am I finally get it. It is utterly infuriating. Especially when carrying shopping down the hallway. But ESPECIALLY when you smell smoke/hear screams/hear the telephone ringing! But it's actually pretty bloody infuriating whenever it happens. Why are you walking so slowly?! Speed up! No don't look at me! Keep walking! No, don't turn around! No, don't try and look in the shopping bag! Yes I can _hear_ the phone ringing! No don't cry, for gods sake! No...Look...Fine, yes, I'm putting the shopping down and picking you up. There. Are we better now? Excellent. I'm sorry. What? Yes I can smell smoke too...
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Things I'm perversely grateful to my children for: 3
Christmas
Unless you're one of those hugely pro-Christmas nutters with brandy sauce for blood and a "comical" santa hat that is pretty much surgically attached to your head for the entirety of December your relationship with Christmas probably passed through the following phases.
Phase 1: Childhood
You can wet yourself with excitement anywhere from about August onwards at the mere thought of Christmas morning. It doesn't matter what you receive on the day, it will still be enough to have you screaming with joy from approximately 4am til whenever the first toy breaks or runs out of batteries. Your first thought after Christmas will be how soon next Christmas is.
Phase 2: Later childhood
You start to be able to differentiate between good and crap presents. They're still generally OK but it becomes possibly for Santa to bring the wrong thing (No, a Machine Man is not "just the same" as a Transformer. It's just not. Not that I'm scarred. Not at all...). Even with this it's still fairly impossible to have a bad day because of added family, over-eating and the extra shit you can get away with because mum and dad have had a few beers at lunch. Your first thought after Christmas is over is whether you can swap your loot for something better once school goes back.
Phase 3: Teenage years
Christmas becomes a bit of a minefield. Presents become a bit more crap ("A young man such as yourself doesn't want toys anymore! So we bought you underpants!") just as your demands start to get a bit more...demanding ("It's just a car! One car! What's so greedy about wanting one car?!"). Hanging around with family seems pretty lame and you'd rather be doing practically anything else. First thought once Christmas is over is how you're going to spin it to your friends when school goes back so that it sounds even lamer than it was.
Phase 4: Young adult years
You spend each year extricating yourself a little further from your family Christmas until your mum no longer cries when you say you won't be home at all. Your reward for this is sitting around with your friends drinking and bored and making ludicrously complicated plans for New Years Eve. Christmas ceases to have any real importance to you and you get to be all snide and hip as shit about it, which frankly is pretty much what your 20s is all about.
Kids bring back some of the Christmas magic. Sure, you have to explain it to them. I tried the "If you be good Santa might bring you..." emotional bullying technique on my son only to be informed that the thing he wanted was readily available from any good toy store, the proprietor of which wouldn't care whether he'd been good or not. But their general level of excitement about practically every aspect of the day is infectious. Yes, presents are great. No, it doesn't matter that we don't have a chimney. No, you don't get to decide what your sister gets for Christmas. Why is Christmas all about snow when it's actually quite hot? Well, you see the earth tilts...
Anyway. It feels oddly as though your children have given you something back, something you didn't really realize that you missed. And this gift, this giving from child to parent, makes it even worse that I was given a Machine Man when I very specifically asked for a Transformer.
Unless you're one of those hugely pro-Christmas nutters with brandy sauce for blood and a "comical" santa hat that is pretty much surgically attached to your head for the entirety of December your relationship with Christmas probably passed through the following phases.
Phase 1: Childhood
You can wet yourself with excitement anywhere from about August onwards at the mere thought of Christmas morning. It doesn't matter what you receive on the day, it will still be enough to have you screaming with joy from approximately 4am til whenever the first toy breaks or runs out of batteries. Your first thought after Christmas will be how soon next Christmas is.
Phase 2: Later childhood
You start to be able to differentiate between good and crap presents. They're still generally OK but it becomes possibly for Santa to bring the wrong thing (No, a Machine Man is not "just the same" as a Transformer. It's just not. Not that I'm scarred. Not at all...). Even with this it's still fairly impossible to have a bad day because of added family, over-eating and the extra shit you can get away with because mum and dad have had a few beers at lunch. Your first thought after Christmas is over is whether you can swap your loot for something better once school goes back.
Phase 3: Teenage years
Christmas becomes a bit of a minefield. Presents become a bit more crap ("A young man such as yourself doesn't want toys anymore! So we bought you underpants!") just as your demands start to get a bit more...demanding ("It's just a car! One car! What's so greedy about wanting one car?!"). Hanging around with family seems pretty lame and you'd rather be doing practically anything else. First thought once Christmas is over is how you're going to spin it to your friends when school goes back so that it sounds even lamer than it was.
Phase 4: Young adult years
You spend each year extricating yourself a little further from your family Christmas until your mum no longer cries when you say you won't be home at all. Your reward for this is sitting around with your friends drinking and bored and making ludicrously complicated plans for New Years Eve. Christmas ceases to have any real importance to you and you get to be all snide and hip as shit about it, which frankly is pretty much what your 20s is all about.
Kids bring back some of the Christmas magic. Sure, you have to explain it to them. I tried the "If you be good Santa might bring you..." emotional bullying technique on my son only to be informed that the thing he wanted was readily available from any good toy store, the proprietor of which wouldn't care whether he'd been good or not. But their general level of excitement about practically every aspect of the day is infectious. Yes, presents are great. No, it doesn't matter that we don't have a chimney. No, you don't get to decide what your sister gets for Christmas. Why is Christmas all about snow when it's actually quite hot? Well, you see the earth tilts...
Anyway. It feels oddly as though your children have given you something back, something you didn't really realize that you missed. And this gift, this giving from child to parent, makes it even worse that I was given a Machine Man when I very specifically asked for a Transformer.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Children's literature
I should say at the outset that I believe that reading to children is important. Really important. Like 'if your kid can't recognise a hungry caterpillar at 40 paces by the time they're three you get a smack' important. That being said reading to kids is kind of brain shattering. Much like with their music kids are happy to have the same book read to them on very, very high repeat. And when I say "happy to" I mean "tantrum chuckingly demanding to". The problem with reading the same very short story again and again is that you start to notice problems with it. Inconsistencies and plot holes begin to niggle at you like a sore tooth. Tiny issues, by the 100th reading, eat at you until you simply have to write about it on the internet...
The one that is currently shitting me to tears is the Three Billy Goats Gruff. For those of you who had terrible parents that hated you and never read to you the story goes like this: There are three goats. They've eaten all the grass where they are. Just over a bridge is more grass but underneath the bridge is a troll who eats anyone crossing his bridge. Now, the goats know about the troll and this is important. But they've eaten all the grass on their side and they have to cross the bridge or starve. So they come up with a plan. And the plan is this: The littlest one goes first and the troll tries to eat him but the little one is all, like, "Nah, mate, nah, I'm little. Fatter goats are on their way. Wait for those guys" and then crosses the bridge. And then the second goat does the same. And then the third goat, the biggest goat comes along and smashes the troll. The end. You can see it, right? I'm not mad. There is a glaring issue here, at the planning stage. No?
How about if we investigate the planning meeting:
Big Billy Goat Gruff: We have to cross the bridge or we'll starve. Unfortunately, there's a troll. Fortunately, I can totally smash him so there's nothing to worry about.
Other Two Goats: Yay!
Big Billy Goat Gruff: So what we'll do, right, is this. Little Billy Goat Gruff you cross first.
Little Billy Goat Gruff: Righto. Wait...What?
BBGG: You go first.
LBGG: But...You just said you could smash him...
BBGG: Sure, sure. But you go first and you tell him, right, you tell him that there are bigger goats coming and he shouldn't bother with you.
LBGG: But...Why don't you just go first and smash him and then we'll follow you?
BBGG: But he won't eat you, see? Because he won't want to ruin his appetite with a little goat! See? Genius!
LBGG: Yes. Very clever. Not quite as clever as, say, you going first and smashing him and then me not really being in danger of being eaten at all though, is it?
BBGG: Fuck you. I'm the Big Billy Goat Gruff. Now push off.
The Big Billy Goat Gruff. What a bastard.
The one that is currently shitting me to tears is the Three Billy Goats Gruff. For those of you who had terrible parents that hated you and never read to you the story goes like this: There are three goats. They've eaten all the grass where they are. Just over a bridge is more grass but underneath the bridge is a troll who eats anyone crossing his bridge. Now, the goats know about the troll and this is important. But they've eaten all the grass on their side and they have to cross the bridge or starve. So they come up with a plan. And the plan is this: The littlest one goes first and the troll tries to eat him but the little one is all, like, "Nah, mate, nah, I'm little. Fatter goats are on their way. Wait for those guys" and then crosses the bridge. And then the second goat does the same. And then the third goat, the biggest goat comes along and smashes the troll. The end. You can see it, right? I'm not mad. There is a glaring issue here, at the planning stage. No?
How about if we investigate the planning meeting:
Big Billy Goat Gruff: We have to cross the bridge or we'll starve. Unfortunately, there's a troll. Fortunately, I can totally smash him so there's nothing to worry about.
Other Two Goats: Yay!
Big Billy Goat Gruff: So what we'll do, right, is this. Little Billy Goat Gruff you cross first.
Little Billy Goat Gruff: Righto. Wait...What?
BBGG: You go first.
LBGG: But...You just said you could smash him...
BBGG: Sure, sure. But you go first and you tell him, right, you tell him that there are bigger goats coming and he shouldn't bother with you.
LBGG: But...Why don't you just go first and smash him and then we'll follow you?
BBGG: But he won't eat you, see? Because he won't want to ruin his appetite with a little goat! See? Genius!
LBGG: Yes. Very clever. Not quite as clever as, say, you going first and smashing him and then me not really being in danger of being eaten at all though, is it?
BBGG: Fuck you. I'm the Big Billy Goat Gruff. Now push off.
The Big Billy Goat Gruff. What a bastard.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Confession
I have a confession, of sorts. I like Stephen King. I think he's excellent. His writing, especially his more recent stuff, has the feel of a master craftsman. Each word feels as though it is selected not at random (like, say, my writing) but carefully chosen from a tool chest, each a perfect and precise fit. When I read his work I envisage him not so much drunkenly mashing away at a computer keyboard (again, much like yours truly) but working like a boatsmith, planing long boards of exquisite wood and fitting them together, crafting a thing of beauty and utility. Of course, that boat builder would then have to fill his boat with murderous clowns and blood to make the simile really work but whatever...
The reason that this feels like a confession is that when I was growing up King was pretty much only read by, well, weird kids. Smoking at 13, sleeveless denim jackets, listening to Megadeth rather than Metallica, that sort of thing. When talking about the books they'd fix you with the crazy eye and you could see that they were astounded that someone would write books just for them. Finally, they were clearly saying, someone is putting down on paper all my deepest thoughts and most heartfelt desires, like running over policemen with lawnmowers. I tried to read Cujo when I was about 13 but it felt like drinking Jim Beam straight from the bottle, something that only bad kids did. Reading American Psycho by comparison felt positively urbane and sophisticated. Which all goes to show that even a poor, small town Australian boy is capable of being a literature snob...But unless he wants his ass kicked he'll keep it to himself.
The reason that this feels like a confession is that when I was growing up King was pretty much only read by, well, weird kids. Smoking at 13, sleeveless denim jackets, listening to Megadeth rather than Metallica, that sort of thing. When talking about the books they'd fix you with the crazy eye and you could see that they were astounded that someone would write books just for them. Finally, they were clearly saying, someone is putting down on paper all my deepest thoughts and most heartfelt desires, like running over policemen with lawnmowers. I tried to read Cujo when I was about 13 but it felt like drinking Jim Beam straight from the bottle, something that only bad kids did. Reading American Psycho by comparison felt positively urbane and sophisticated. Which all goes to show that even a poor, small town Australian boy is capable of being a literature snob...But unless he wants his ass kicked he'll keep it to himself.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Balance
It's been mentioned that I may not be painting the best possible picture of parenthood. I'll try, somehow, to redress the balance. Kids are awesome. More correctly your kids are awesome. Other people's kids look funny and smell weird...Don't get me wrong, your kids look funny and smell weird too...But it's the right kind of funny and an adorable kind of weird. Hmm. Nope still fairly negative. Let me start again.
Kids are...kids are like pulling your heart out of your chest, putting a mop of curls or a pair of Crocs on it and letting it run around. It's awesome because they're like this little embodiment of your love running about and farting. You can never really doubt that you're capable of love while you're looking at them. It's also rubbish because when you pull your heart out and let it run around bad things can happen to it. It can fall over and hurt itself. Or someone else's heart can run up to it and bite it. At that point you want to run up to the owner of _that_ heart and point out that their heart is a monster and they should be either a) ashamed of themselves or b) investing in some kind of muzzle. So. Where was I? Muzzling monster hearts...I seem to have gotten off track.
Kids are rad. They're the best possible evidence that you lived and loved and worked hard and believed in something and someone. Also, when they're a bit bigger, you can train them to get you beer from the fridge. And that, friends, is not nothing.
Kids are...kids are like pulling your heart out of your chest, putting a mop of curls or a pair of Crocs on it and letting it run around. It's awesome because they're like this little embodiment of your love running about and farting. You can never really doubt that you're capable of love while you're looking at them. It's also rubbish because when you pull your heart out and let it run around bad things can happen to it. It can fall over and hurt itself. Or someone else's heart can run up to it and bite it. At that point you want to run up to the owner of _that_ heart and point out that their heart is a monster and they should be either a) ashamed of themselves or b) investing in some kind of muzzle. So. Where was I? Muzzling monster hearts...I seem to have gotten off track.
Kids are rad. They're the best possible evidence that you lived and loved and worked hard and believed in something and someone. Also, when they're a bit bigger, you can train them to get you beer from the fridge. And that, friends, is not nothing.
Monday, November 14, 2011
You may be a parent if...
One of the many, many things that children take from you, that you don't really see coming, is time. What seemed like an utterly unending resource during your 20s (well, my 20s at least. Perhaps you did more with your 20s. Fine. I hope your success keeps you warm at night. It does? Well...fuck. No-one likes a smart-ass, you know. Especially not rich, successful, happy, smart-asses) is suddenly the most precious thing in the world. Whereas previously a successful weekend may have gone something like: sleep, sleep more, eat, sleep, drink, drink more, sleep, stand around for a bit, drink, sleep, now suddenly the apogee of success is if you manage to read the first two pages of the weekend paper. I don't mean to imply that children actually destroy your time (though I'm only saying that because my dissertation proving that that's _exactly_ what they do hasn't made it through peer review yet) it's just that they occupy it. They sit in your time like...like gas. Expanding to fill absolutely every single spare bit of space. Spare space in time? Mixed metaphor or Dr Who homage? You decide!
But that's what brings me to my "You may be a parent if..." because frankly if a resource is that rare you'll do some pretty crazy things to obtain it. Or protect what small amount you have left. Me, I let my children destroy things. Precious things. Things I like. I have sat and watched my daughter rub my CDs on the floor, rendering Rebirth of Cool (volume 2, the good one. No, that's not opinion, that's fact) unreadable forever more. And why? Because it gave me 3 minutes of peace to finish reading the aforementioned first two pages of the paper. I've lain in bed and heard my kids destroying the kitchen and rolled over and gone back to sleep because a little kitchen anarchy is a small price to pay for 15 minutes more sleep. All of these have seemed like perfectly reasonable deals at the time but I'm concerned that it's a slippery slope. How far will I go? A small cat-fire in exchange for an uninterrupted shower? One slightly murdered neighbour as the price for 20 minutes on the computer without a small person implying that the Playschool website may be more enjoyable than whatever I'm currently doing? An existential, planet-busting, humanity-destroying event of biblical proportions in exchange for sleeping in til 11am on a Saturday morning like I used to? Yes. Yes to all those. Damn you, yes.
But that's what brings me to my "You may be a parent if..." because frankly if a resource is that rare you'll do some pretty crazy things to obtain it. Or protect what small amount you have left. Me, I let my children destroy things. Precious things. Things I like. I have sat and watched my daughter rub my CDs on the floor, rendering Rebirth of Cool (volume 2, the good one. No, that's not opinion, that's fact) unreadable forever more. And why? Because it gave me 3 minutes of peace to finish reading the aforementioned first two pages of the paper. I've lain in bed and heard my kids destroying the kitchen and rolled over and gone back to sleep because a little kitchen anarchy is a small price to pay for 15 minutes more sleep. All of these have seemed like perfectly reasonable deals at the time but I'm concerned that it's a slippery slope. How far will I go? A small cat-fire in exchange for an uninterrupted shower? One slightly murdered neighbour as the price for 20 minutes on the computer without a small person implying that the Playschool website may be more enjoyable than whatever I'm currently doing? An existential, planet-busting, humanity-destroying event of biblical proportions in exchange for sleeping in til 11am on a Saturday morning like I used to? Yes. Yes to all those. Damn you, yes.
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