I may not be smart for another decade or two.
I was hoping to validate my intelligence with a chunk of paper from a reputable university in about 3 year’s time. Unfortunately this will only prove that I can suck up to the teachers at my “big school” according to one of the opinion generators that I fathered. And so it is that I find myself falling head first into the pit that is home to all the stupid parents.
I remember a time when I decided that my parents were idiots. It was when I was about 14 or 15. But things turned out OK. As I got older they somehow seemed to get smarter. And now that I’m 38 and my mum is 68 she seems to have almost caught up to me intellectually.
But kids are doing everything younger now than they did when I didn’t need to shave. “M” rated movies are laughed at by 8 year olds. Proper bras that function are needed by many 10 year olds. Teenage attitude is arriving at primary school.
School has been back for 2 days and already Mr11 has pulled out the tried and tested “You don’t know what its like.” Oh, but I do little man. The first of what I am sure will be many indicators that my knowledge, experience and opinions will carry less and less credibility as the will power and social pressures mount on my fledgling teenager. Hormones of a pre-teen mixed with the issues associated with a developmental problem. What chance do we stand as parents when the consulting paediatricians use the terms ASD and Asperger’s interchangeably. But the boy has a happy disposition and an 11 year foundation of love and trust in a stable home.
But there’s always left field.
Just as a little aside, and I do apologise for the delay, the pink princess had her arm out of plaster just before Christmas and there is nothing further to be done. And now the real reason for changing children halfway through this outpouring: The pink princess is about to turn 5. She spent the night at mums and at the reunion/debriefing a story emerged. Little Miss4 going on 40 is fully toilet trained. That is not to say she goes to the toilet on the toilet, but rather that she has complete control over her bladder and bowel functions and uses them almost as effectively as North Korea uses the threat of nuclear weapons.
Upon arriving at mum’s yesterday afternoon, and after spending a suitable period of time making a mess of the house, Nan suggested that Miss4 should go to the toilet.
You haven’t done a poo today.
Big girls who go to pre-school do poos on the toilet.
Just hop on the toilet and try.
And here’s the bit that caused my mother to literally bite through her bottom lip.
Hands on hips: Well, if you’re gunna hassle me, I’ll do it just to keep you happy.
This kid isn’t 5 yet. But she’s feisty. Her pre-school teachers commented on Monday that she was by far the most independent of the group this year. Fantastic, a 4 year old with teenage attitude.
And the oil on the water.
Mr7 plays the calming influence. He referees the fights. He administers the time clock on the allocation of video game time. He is often the only one that can find the remotes for the TV, DVD, stereo and video. And he’s the one that climbs into bed on a windy, cloudy Sunday morning and snuggles with his mother.
He is the complete anti-middle-child. And Mr independent. With school going back this week, he phoned the young lady that teaches him piano to remind her that lessons should resume this Thursday and that 4:30pm will still be OK this term. I was outside mowing the lawn at the time. Dad, remember you have to be back from your ride early on Saturday for swimming lessons. Dad, should I call to find out when chess club starts again for Mr11. He’s better organised that the whole rest of the family combined.
All I can hope for.
The manure will hit the propeller, that’s inevitable. But when it does we have an amazing safety net built around us. We have a strong circle of friends. The parents are all good parents, and good friends to each others kids. The kids are all really tight, and even though the 3 families go to 3 different schools they all invite each other to sleep overs and parties.
So I will spend the next 20 years trying to slip snippets of knowledge under their guard and trying to remain cool enough that they can talk to me when the fertiliser hits the turbine. I’m just wondering how to maintain maximum credibility and trust while still wielding the parental control stick. What else should I get pierced? What should my tattoo say? What kind of hat should I wear to hide my balding head?