One of my favourite blogs is Happy Homemaker UK. She's an American mom living in the south of England. She's just about to return to America, and I will miss her beautiful posts all about English life. If you want to feel good about England, scroll back through her blog, and see all the wonderful places you can go, and all the amazing things you can visit. I wonder, has she been in the pay of the British Tourist Authority?!
To me, she has exemplified the approach that I tried to maintain, when I was living in the US and this blog was called "Not wrong, just different". Her acceptance of, and fondness for, all things British is evident in all she writes. I've found it affirming, reading her posts over the years. Yes, Britain IS lovely, isn't it?
I haven't been blogging much lately. I've got busy with other things, and I do quite a lot of writing in my job, which makes me less inclined to write at home. I was interested to hear my job described as "Grant Writer" the other day. That's an American term, which I'd not heard this side of the Atlantic before. I like it. It's not technically accurate - the job is writing applications to get grants, not writing grants. However, it's good shorthand for what is involved, and "Application Writer" really doesn't have the right ring. The British equivalent is something like "Trusts Fundraiser", or you quite often see job title variations such as "Trusts Manager", which is all wrong, as you're not managing the trusts at all. You're trying to get money out of them. Sometimes it's "Trusts and Foundations Manager" which is a case of tautology, really. I mean, does anyone know what the difference between a Trust and a Foundation is? Incidentally, they're all called Foundations in the US.
Job titles are often ridiculous, though, aren't they? I mean, what does a "Knowledge Manager" do? I remember being quite shocked the first time I heard that a company had a "Human Resources" Department, rather than a "Personnel" Department. How could you treat people as just another category of resource? Rather telling, really.
Meanwhile (since this has developed into a rambly updating-you-about-my-life kind of a post, rather than one that is coherent in any way), 16-yo is starting GCSE's proper tomorrow. Two week of an inordinate number of exams. He had his Spanish oral a couple of weeks ago, and as he left the house, I said to Husband "We have a son who's doing GCSEs. How can that be?"
10-yo has decided she's going to start giving a small proportion of her pocket money to charity, and put another small proportion in a savings account. "I'm sure I'll need money when I'm old", she said. I was impressed. I mean, most of us hardly bother to think much about our pension before the age of 40, so to start at 10 seems very responsible. "I think it will be useful to have some money saved up for my gap year, don't you?" she continued. "Old" is a matter of perspective.
13-yo is trying a dairy-free, sugar-free diet, recommended by a homeopath, to combat his hay fever. What they call in America, "seasonal allergies". The sugar-free bit is hard to get round, though he's thrown himself with gusto into the deprivation of cakes/biscuits/chocolate that it involves - all credit to him. The dairy-free bit isn't too bad. You know why? Because I am a blogger, and I know that when you need advice on these kinds of things, blogs are great resources. Thank you, blogging world, for being so full of ideas on everything from how to organise a Harry Potter party for a 10 year old, to how to cook dairy-free toad in the hole.
I hope you feel you've caught up with my life! Rambling over. I'm off now to walk the dog, and buy white underarmour for cricket-loving son.
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Showing posts with label 16-yo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 16-yo. Show all posts
Monday, May 12, 2014
Thursday, February 6, 2014
How do you teach your child to talk to adults? It might depend on which side of the Atlantic you live.
There was a blog post that I wrote several years ago. I think I just wrote it in my head and never got it out onto my blog. I'd forgotten about it, but I've just been reminded of it at a parents' evening at school.
I wrote that post in the early days of my blog, when it was all about our experiences of newly arriving in America, spotting the differences, picking them up and analysing them, turning them this way and that way in words, trying to make best sense of them, enjoying some of them, lamenting others. While they were still differences.
That post was about a difference in the way that adults expect children to relate to them. It struck me that in America, children are drawn into a conversation with an adult in a more genuine way. I think in the UK, when two parents meet with children in tow, they will start by questioning the children, but it's usually fairly cursory, and everyone expects the conversation to move quickly on to the point where just the parents are engaging, and the children are standing listening. I know we've come a long way since the days when children were expected to be seen and not heard, but even so, when was the last time you asked a child not your own "How was your week-end?" and expected them to say anything other than "Good, thank you"? You don't really expect the child (and we're talking quite young children here, primary school age) to give you more than perhaps one fact about the week-end. You might have a quick dialogue about a trip or an event, but that would be all. You certainly don't expect them to reply "Good, thank you, and how was yours?"
That's the nub of it. This side of the Atlantic, children are questioned, and they reply. We don't then expect them to do the questioning. That's an adult role.
That was the thing I noticed when we first arrived in America. I would say "How are you?" to a child, and they would say it right back. And then sometimes, they'd even ask more questions.
"How are you, Little Johnny?"
"I'm good, and how are you, Mrs Manhattan?"
(Hiding surprise) "I'm good too, thanks."
"How was your week-end?"
(Consciously having to lower eyebrows) "It was fine thanks."
"Did you do anything nice?"
(Whoa...) "Um, well, I took the car to the service centre, and I did a bit of shopping. Otherwise we were just hanging out really. What about you?" (Let's get back to ME asking the questions here).
I wondered if it reflected an underlying difference in attitude. Do we Brits see children as children, whereas the Americans see them as little adults? I think that's probably taking it too far, but perhaps we Brits do have a child-speak, a way of conversing with children, that is fundamentally to do with us doing the talking, and them doing the polite replies. I was struck by the confidence with which a school child would be asking me about myself. Sometimes it came across as bumptiousness, and definitely at first it felt like a pleasantry too far! I'd be anticipating that the mother would laughingly interrupt the conversation, and steer it back to herself and me, but they didn't seem to. They let the child chatter on. Then I came to enjoy it. Why on earth shouldn't an individual converse on an equal footing, just because they are a different age to you? So long as it's respectfully done.
As I mentioned, this all came flooding back to me at a parents' evening. I was talking to 16-yo's tutor, and she said that one thing she really liked about him was that he would talk to her as if she was a person too. "Most of the pupils", she said, "will just answer your questions, but 16-yo will ask me how I am, and he'll ask as if he really means it, and wants to know."
"That's what living in America does for your children", I replied. Inwardly I smiled, at the thought of those small primary children, out there on the Great Plains, who taught me and my son that it's ok for children to converse too.
Meanwhile, these cartoons aren't completely relevant, but they did make me laugh while I was googling "cartoon about kids' conversation".
.
I wrote that post in the early days of my blog, when it was all about our experiences of newly arriving in America, spotting the differences, picking them up and analysing them, turning them this way and that way in words, trying to make best sense of them, enjoying some of them, lamenting others. While they were still differences.
That post was about a difference in the way that adults expect children to relate to them. It struck me that in America, children are drawn into a conversation with an adult in a more genuine way. I think in the UK, when two parents meet with children in tow, they will start by questioning the children, but it's usually fairly cursory, and everyone expects the conversation to move quickly on to the point where just the parents are engaging, and the children are standing listening. I know we've come a long way since the days when children were expected to be seen and not heard, but even so, when was the last time you asked a child not your own "How was your week-end?" and expected them to say anything other than "Good, thank you"? You don't really expect the child (and we're talking quite young children here, primary school age) to give you more than perhaps one fact about the week-end. You might have a quick dialogue about a trip or an event, but that would be all. You certainly don't expect them to reply "Good, thank you, and how was yours?"
That's the nub of it. This side of the Atlantic, children are questioned, and they reply. We don't then expect them to do the questioning. That's an adult role.
That was the thing I noticed when we first arrived in America. I would say "How are you?" to a child, and they would say it right back. And then sometimes, they'd even ask more questions.
"How are you, Little Johnny?"
"I'm good, and how are you, Mrs Manhattan?"
(Hiding surprise) "I'm good too, thanks."
"How was your week-end?"
(Consciously having to lower eyebrows) "It was fine thanks."
"Did you do anything nice?"
(Whoa...) "Um, well, I took the car to the service centre, and I did a bit of shopping. Otherwise we were just hanging out really. What about you?" (Let's get back to ME asking the questions here).
I wondered if it reflected an underlying difference in attitude. Do we Brits see children as children, whereas the Americans see them as little adults? I think that's probably taking it too far, but perhaps we Brits do have a child-speak, a way of conversing with children, that is fundamentally to do with us doing the talking, and them doing the polite replies. I was struck by the confidence with which a school child would be asking me about myself. Sometimes it came across as bumptiousness, and definitely at first it felt like a pleasantry too far! I'd be anticipating that the mother would laughingly interrupt the conversation, and steer it back to herself and me, but they didn't seem to. They let the child chatter on. Then I came to enjoy it. Why on earth shouldn't an individual converse on an equal footing, just because they are a different age to you? So long as it's respectfully done.
As I mentioned, this all came flooding back to me at a parents' evening. I was talking to 16-yo's tutor, and she said that one thing she really liked about him was that he would talk to her as if she was a person too. "Most of the pupils", she said, "will just answer your questions, but 16-yo will ask me how I am, and he'll ask as if he really means it, and wants to know."
"That's what living in America does for your children", I replied. Inwardly I smiled, at the thought of those small primary children, out there on the Great Plains, who taught me and my son that it's ok for children to converse too.
Meanwhile, these cartoons aren't completely relevant, but they did make me laugh while I was googling "cartoon about kids' conversation".
.
Monday, September 9, 2013
Driving Miss Iota: Part 3, in which I reach the crux of the matter
I don't like motorway driving either. In fact, it's motorway driving that makes me most anxious. Driving in town, any bumps you may have are likely to be fairly low impact (not always, I know, but usually). But on the motorway, it's a different story.
Last time I was driving on a motorway (a couple of weeks ago), I found myself feeling really quite agitated. This is not good, I thought. So I kept calm, breathed regularly and deeply, and the moment slowly passed. Then I started digging around in myself. Why is this becoming a problem? I was in a car crash 8 years ago. Is it something to do with that? The more I thought about it, and tried to get in touch with whatever goes on at my gut level, the more I realised that this isn't about me and my driving. It's about 16-yo.
You know those mothers who tell you, when you're short of sleep, up to your elbows in dirty nappies, and trying to settle a fractious baby while keeping a busy toddler amused at a table in a café, "just wait till they're teenagers"? You know them? Well, they do have a point.
I've spent years of my life, at a conscious level and at an unconscious level, waking and sleeping, keeping my children safe. It's part of the very fabric of my being. It's what I do. It's second nature, and third, and fourth, fifth, sixth. I protect them from harm.
I've supported their necks when picking them up, covered electric sockets, put kettles out of reach, used 5-point harnesses, understood what an isofix fitting is, purchased shin pads, strapped on helmets, and not let them put things round their necks. I've taught them how to cross a street, to walk carefully by the side of a swimming pool, to check the depth of water before diving in, not to talk to strangers, not to play with sharp knives, matches and electrical items. I've cut grapes into safely chewable halves, stopped them putting marbles in their mouths, moved furniture away from upstairs windows, kept plastic bags in a high cupboard, not left them alone in the bath, not allowed them to squash pillows over each other's faces, phoned GPs in the night, written my mobile number on their wrists, and held their hands when walking along pavements by busy traffic. Busy traffic. Whoa. Stop right there.
Now, it seems, I will soon need to stand back, while one of them takes control of a small metal box, which travels at speeds which can only be described as ludicrous when you think about the softness of the human body inside, and let him hurtle across the land in extremely close proximity to other small metal boxes, all of which are controlled by mere mortals, the majority of whom mean well but inevitably suffer from lapses in concentration and errors of judgment, and a small minority of whom are raving lunatics who can't tell the difference between the length of a car and the length of their own body appendages, if the distance between their front bumper and my back bumper in the outside lane of a motorway is anything to go by. It's a far cry from the 5-point harness.
I can sense that my recent anxiety about driving is anxiety about letting my oldest drive. I know I have to, and I know I will, but, Bloggy Friends who've travelled this road already, how on earth do I do this?
.
Last time I was driving on a motorway (a couple of weeks ago), I found myself feeling really quite agitated. This is not good, I thought. So I kept calm, breathed regularly and deeply, and the moment slowly passed. Then I started digging around in myself. Why is this becoming a problem? I was in a car crash 8 years ago. Is it something to do with that? The more I thought about it, and tried to get in touch with whatever goes on at my gut level, the more I realised that this isn't about me and my driving. It's about 16-yo.
You know those mothers who tell you, when you're short of sleep, up to your elbows in dirty nappies, and trying to settle a fractious baby while keeping a busy toddler amused at a table in a café, "just wait till they're teenagers"? You know them? Well, they do have a point.
I've spent years of my life, at a conscious level and at an unconscious level, waking and sleeping, keeping my children safe. It's part of the very fabric of my being. It's what I do. It's second nature, and third, and fourth, fifth, sixth. I protect them from harm.
I've supported their necks when picking them up, covered electric sockets, put kettles out of reach, used 5-point harnesses, understood what an isofix fitting is, purchased shin pads, strapped on helmets, and not let them put things round their necks. I've taught them how to cross a street, to walk carefully by the side of a swimming pool, to check the depth of water before diving in, not to talk to strangers, not to play with sharp knives, matches and electrical items. I've cut grapes into safely chewable halves, stopped them putting marbles in their mouths, moved furniture away from upstairs windows, kept plastic bags in a high cupboard, not left them alone in the bath, not allowed them to squash pillows over each other's faces, phoned GPs in the night, written my mobile number on their wrists, and held their hands when walking along pavements by busy traffic. Busy traffic. Whoa. Stop right there.
Now, it seems, I will soon need to stand back, while one of them takes control of a small metal box, which travels at speeds which can only be described as ludicrous when you think about the softness of the human body inside, and let him hurtle across the land in extremely close proximity to other small metal boxes, all of which are controlled by mere mortals, the majority of whom mean well but inevitably suffer from lapses in concentration and errors of judgment, and a small minority of whom are raving lunatics who can't tell the difference between the length of a car and the length of their own body appendages, if the distance between their front bumper and my back bumper in the outside lane of a motorway is anything to go by. It's a far cry from the 5-point harness.
I can sense that my recent anxiety about driving is anxiety about letting my oldest drive. I know I have to, and I know I will, but, Bloggy Friends who've travelled this road already, how on earth do I do this?
.
Friday, June 28, 2013
An abundance of cornflakes
"Cornflakes. Cornflakes. Cornflakes." Says 16-yo in his dressing gown, with a grin on his face, and a laugh in his voice, pointing at different locations in the kitchen.
"Cornflakes. And Special K." I reply, with self-justifying weight in my voice, and pointing to the two different varieties of Special K on the top of the fridge.
16-yo laughs. "I think I'll have toast instead".
I always have one item that I stock up on. It lodges itself in my memory as something we get through a lot of, and that we mustn't run out of. Then, when I'm going round the supermarket, I buy it. If I don't have a list, I buy it. Even if I have a list, I go off liste, and buy it. "I might as well stock up while I'm here", I think, as I pass it. Then I get home and see that my purchase was unnecessary. "Oh well. We'll use it up. Must remember not to get any next time." Remember for next time? Ha! No chance.
For a while, it was Ritz crackers. I think that one stemmed from my excitement when we got to America that they have Ritz crackers. Just like at home! The Ritz crackers phase lasted for a long while. It didn't really matter, as we had American-size storage options in our kitchen and utility room. If that near-miss tornado had struck our house, the ground would have been littered with red cardboard, and soggy wheat-based discs, but I guess the embarrassment of having the quirks of your kitchen cupboards revealed is unimportant in those situations.
Then it was lentils. For a short while. Turns out we don't get through lentils as quickly as I think we do. But they're so healthy that it's hard to walk past them in the aisle without feeling that stocking up on them is a good thing. And I had a recipe for sausages and lentils that I was convinced my children loved, even though they repeatedly told me they didn't. I wanted them to love it, and the sheer force of my desire was enough to lodge lentils in that "buy me" spot in my brain.
For the moment, it's cornflakes. Cornflakes are my domestic comfort blanket. Not to eat, but just to know I have them there. In the case of a nuclear armageddon, we'll at least have a good breakfast option.
The cornflakes are little more out of hand than usual, for two reasons. First, I haven't quite got used to my smaller kitchen, and those big packets of cereal, they're BIG. They don't fit in cupboards. So when I do stock up, it's all very visible. They have to stand like soldiers to attention on top of the fridge, or lurk in the utility room, annoyingly in front of the outside light switch, (though I'm not using that much at this time of year, and perhaps the Great Cornflake Plenty will have passed by the time the nights draw in again in the autumn. Autumn 2016, that is.)
Second, it was those dreaded multi-buy offers, combined with a voucher incentive. A 21st century housewife is powerless in the face of such weapons, especially the lethal combination of them both at once, in a pincer movement. I was at the till, and my trolley had come to about £4 less than the total needed to get a "Week 3" voucher, and I'd already got weeks 1 and 2. So I asked the cashier to wait a second, and rushed off to the spot, nearby, where I knew the cornflakes were on "two-for" offer, because I'd already put some in my trolley. I came back with two boxes. He scanned them through, but - because they were on special offer - they didn't tip the balance over the required total. I needed something else, but - under the pressure of the narrowing eyes of the queue behind me - I couldn't think of what else to get. My mind froze, then jumped for the simplest option. I went and got another couple of packets of cornflakes. We'll get through them, my inner voice whispered, down its well-worn neural pathways. It was only when I got home that I remembered just how big those bumper packs are. And just how many were already on the top of the fridge.
Cornflakes, in my defence, are good. They have a lot less sugar than most other cereals, even the diet-y ones. Special K, for example, has lots of sugar in it, particularly if you get the packets with added flakes of suspiciously highly coloured, edible dried substance, which might or might not once have been fruit.
I feel like the fourth little pig, who built her house out of cornflake packets. I know that when the big bad wolf comes, the cornflake bricks will probably not stand his huffing and puffing, but at least he'll be distracted by the prospect of a vitamin-enriched snack while we escape.
What about you? Do you hoard food? If so, what kind?
"Cornflakes. And Special K." I reply, with self-justifying weight in my voice, and pointing to the two different varieties of Special K on the top of the fridge.
16-yo laughs. "I think I'll have toast instead".
I always have one item that I stock up on. It lodges itself in my memory as something we get through a lot of, and that we mustn't run out of. Then, when I'm going round the supermarket, I buy it. If I don't have a list, I buy it. Even if I have a list, I go off liste, and buy it. "I might as well stock up while I'm here", I think, as I pass it. Then I get home and see that my purchase was unnecessary. "Oh well. We'll use it up. Must remember not to get any next time." Remember for next time? Ha! No chance.
For a while, it was Ritz crackers. I think that one stemmed from my excitement when we got to America that they have Ritz crackers. Just like at home! The Ritz crackers phase lasted for a long while. It didn't really matter, as we had American-size storage options in our kitchen and utility room. If that near-miss tornado had struck our house, the ground would have been littered with red cardboard, and soggy wheat-based discs, but I guess the embarrassment of having the quirks of your kitchen cupboards revealed is unimportant in those situations.
Then it was lentils. For a short while. Turns out we don't get through lentils as quickly as I think we do. But they're so healthy that it's hard to walk past them in the aisle without feeling that stocking up on them is a good thing. And I had a recipe for sausages and lentils that I was convinced my children loved, even though they repeatedly told me they didn't. I wanted them to love it, and the sheer force of my desire was enough to lodge lentils in that "buy me" spot in my brain.
For the moment, it's cornflakes. Cornflakes are my domestic comfort blanket. Not to eat, but just to know I have them there. In the case of a nuclear armageddon, we'll at least have a good breakfast option.
The cornflakes are little more out of hand than usual, for two reasons. First, I haven't quite got used to my smaller kitchen, and those big packets of cereal, they're BIG. They don't fit in cupboards. So when I do stock up, it's all very visible. They have to stand like soldiers to attention on top of the fridge, or lurk in the utility room, annoyingly in front of the outside light switch, (though I'm not using that much at this time of year, and perhaps the Great Cornflake Plenty will have passed by the time the nights draw in again in the autumn. Autumn 2016, that is.)
Second, it was those dreaded multi-buy offers, combined with a voucher incentive. A 21st century housewife is powerless in the face of such weapons, especially the lethal combination of them both at once, in a pincer movement. I was at the till, and my trolley had come to about £4 less than the total needed to get a "Week 3" voucher, and I'd already got weeks 1 and 2. So I asked the cashier to wait a second, and rushed off to the spot, nearby, where I knew the cornflakes were on "two-for" offer, because I'd already put some in my trolley. I came back with two boxes. He scanned them through, but - because they were on special offer - they didn't tip the balance over the required total. I needed something else, but - under the pressure of the narrowing eyes of the queue behind me - I couldn't think of what else to get. My mind froze, then jumped for the simplest option. I went and got another couple of packets of cornflakes. We'll get through them, my inner voice whispered, down its well-worn neural pathways. It was only when I got home that I remembered just how big those bumper packs are. And just how many were already on the top of the fridge.
Cornflakes, in my defence, are good. They have a lot less sugar than most other cereals, even the diet-y ones. Special K, for example, has lots of sugar in it, particularly if you get the packets with added flakes of suspiciously highly coloured, edible dried substance, which might or might not once have been fruit.
I feel like the fourth little pig, who built her house out of cornflake packets. I know that when the big bad wolf comes, the cornflake bricks will probably not stand his huffing and puffing, but at least he'll be distracted by the prospect of a vitamin-enriched snack while we escape.
What about you? Do you hoard food? If so, what kind?
Saturday, June 22, 2013
She who would valiant be
Why is being a parent of a teenager such a tough call these days?
We want the instruction manual. Remember those early days with a baby, when you thought "why doesn't it come with an instruction manual?". It's like that all over again. I don't know if it's our education system, or our nanny state, or just human nature, but it always feels like there's a right way of doing something, and our job is to find it. We know this isn't true, but somehow it feels like it is.
Where to look for the ultimate advice?
We want the instruction manual. Remember those early days with a baby, when you thought "why doesn't it come with an instruction manual?". It's like that all over again. I don't know if it's our education system, or our nanny state, or just human nature, but it always feels like there's a right way of doing something, and our job is to find it. We know this isn't true, but somehow it feels like it is.
Where to look for the ultimate advice?
- A book - but which one to choose?
- A bunch of friends - but they all have slightly differing opinions, and there's that dangerous thing of asking a friend, and then deciding to ignore their advice.
- The science - which can help (folic acid during pregnancy, that was an easy one, once they'd worked out that the advice should be just to take a tablet and not to try to eat a small field of broccoli or spinach every day - which actually was the advice when it first came out and I should know because I was pregnant during that tiny window before the advice changed to a more manageable course of action), but can also be seriously anxiety-inducing (MMR jabs, anyone?), and disempowering (Vitamin K jabs for newborns - have they decided whether that is risk-free yet, or are parents still having to decide between the rare bruising disease and the unproven link with some childhood cancers?)
- Parents - can be complicated.
- Blogs - always good, but they don't know your children. Only you really know your children.
- Intuition - usually good, but I think we're a generation of parents who have totally lost faith in our own intuion.
- The Waltons. Yes. There's always a good parenting tip or two on The Waltons, and my friend has the complete box set readily available for borrowing. I am well set up.
Seriously, though. It is hard to be a parent of a teenager, and I'll tell you why. Because it plays on our own insecurities and fears. I'm guessing that few of us reached mature adult life (and I'm talking mid-twenties here) without some bumps and scrapes. Even though we may know that those were all part of a process, and though we may know that people get through and emerge ok, we are also hard-wired to protect our off-spring, and somehow we want them to have a smooth ride. Because if we had the instruction manual, and followed the instructions, then they would. Or so says the false voice in our heads.
I have found the whole Duke of Edinburgh thing very hard to navigate through....
At this point, I wrote a couple of paragraphs, explaining the exact circumstances. Then I realised that all I was doing was justifying myself to you. So I went back and deleted them. That's the very point I'm trying to make. I feel so out of my depth when I think about how to go about parenting this son of mine, that I just slip into self-justification mode. Because I don't want to fail. I want that instruction book, I want to follow it, and then no-one will be able to say I haven't done my best. But meanwhile, instead, I have a head full of questions that go round and round, and the gist of them is this: Have I prepared him enough? Have I done too much for him? How have I done, tightrope-walking that line between being over-protective and under-protective?
It brings back all those feelings that we went through (I say "we" because I don't think it's just me... I've read enough blogs about this...) when we were trying to do well with our babies and toddlers. That time in the park when your toddler fell over, and you picked him up, and your friend said "he needs to learn to get up on his own... otherwise he'll be too dependent on you". Or the GP who told you you were over-reacting when you thought your child was ill. Or that new mum group where it turned out that everyone else was doing x and you were doing y, and you'd been quite happy doing y until that moment, and then you went home and tried to do x instead, and it didn't work, and you didn't draw the conclusion that y was fine after all, but you felt like somehow you were getting it all wrong, and that it was your fault, and that you were letting your baby down.
16-yo is in London today (and this is one of the complications, that he arrives back at 10.00pm tonight and then goes off on the Duke of Ed trip tomorrow at 8.00am). He's been there for 3 nights, meeting up with a group from his old high school in America, who are on a trip to Europe. Before he went, I was so full of self-congratulation at how hands-off I am as a parent, and how he will find his own way and learn from his mistakes, and just what could go wrong, honestly? While he was away, all that fell by the wayside, and I was checking my phone for texts all the time, cursing the bad reception that meant a call from him dropped just as I answered it, sneakily texting his aunt who met him for lunch, to see how he was doing... I so don't want to be an anxious mother, and I so am.
I think he'll do fine, though. I put him on the train, having bought him a cup of tea and helped him find his carriage and seat. (You forget that a seat reservation isn't an obvious thing, to those who've never encountered one before...). As I walked away down the platform, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was him. "Mum, you're holding my tickets!" And I was. In under a minute, he'd realised the lack of tickets, tried to phone me, tried to text me, and then decided to run after me. Good call. Top marks for competence. I think he'll do fine.
And the title? Well, you do have to be valiant, to be a parent of a teenager.
.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
He who would valiant be
I still feel I'm new to this "parenting of teenagers" lark, but oldest is 16, so I suppose I have a certain amount of experience. Can I pass on to those of you who may be embarking on the journey one small word of warning? Forewarned is forearmed, and all that. There is something you need to know about, a beast that rears its ugly head from time to time during the teenage years. Learn to recognise the monster, and when you see him, turn tail, run, flee, as if your sanity depended on it (it may, in reality, do so). Those who stand and fight are courageous, but usually live to regret it.
The beast seems innocent enough. It starts off as a "letter home". The warning sign is this (take it from a seasoned recipient of the "letter home"): the letter home includes words such as personal development, initiative-taking, leadership-training, challenging, team-building or responsibility. These are the tell-tale indicators of the poison within.
Yes, dear Bloggy Friends, it's the Duke of Edinburgh Award Scheme Expedition. Enough of a monster in its own right, with its kit list, and its early morning start, and its production of dirty laundry mounds the size of mythical giants. But, worst of all, let it be known among you brave warriors of the teenage parenting cause, this challenge, this adventure, this quest, is not your child's but your own.
Thanks, Prince Phillip. Thanks very much. You thought you were giving young people the chance to flex their muscles, to develop their personalities, to grow in character. But, bless your recuperating cotton socks, you couldn't have foreseen how the way young people are treated would change, and that in fact you were creating a challenge of gargantuan dimensions for parents.
It starts with the letter home, and the request for a cheque. (Do some kids have to earn the money to pay for these trips themselves, or do all we parents just cough up?)
Then there's the kit list. This is the parent's first challenge. How do you get the kit list? Some parents, sneaky devils, ask the school, or download it from the school website, or even look it out from the pile of paper that arrived home at the end of the previous term. But there are noble saints, valiant champions of the cause of "teaching your young person leadership skills", who stand firm, and request the list, repeatedly, from their off-spring. Was it Don Quixote who tilted at windmills? I know how he felt. An honourably-intentioned, but fruitless, activity.
Then the second challenge. Buying the items on the kit list. I'm told there are those who go to shops and do so. Others, we of strong mind and valour, talk to our child of "taking responsibility", and set mind-taxing challenges such as "when can we find a time for you to come shopping with me?" We have close to our heart, the development of our child's problem-solving skills.
These foes must be vanquished, before the young adventurer can move onto the most difficult obstacle he has yet encountered. Packing. You must metaphorically hold his hand, as he advances forth into the bedroom, to extract the rucksack from the deep monster's lair known as "the wardrobe". Then you must stand sentinel, warding off maleficient younger siblings, as the young knight lays his belongings out on the floor, and grapples with the task of fitting them all into the rucksack. He who displays moral stature will succeed. Others will be distracted from the task by their trusty iPods, and expect the packing fairies (who they still believe in) to do the deed for them.
I could go on, but you get my drift. This is the second such trip my son has been on. Apparently they are "designed to give opportunities to develop leadership skills and show responsibility", but it's all a huge myth. The teachers and parents run around getting them ready. They jump into lochs, or go abseiiling, or climb over an obstacle course, but it doesn't teach them anything to do with responsibility. It teaches them abseiling and obstacle courses. Every time I try and inject a bit of "taking responsibility" into it, I just end up with a ridiculous dilemma, such as today's which is "do I let my son go off hiking in the Scottish Highlands without walking boots that fit, and learn through blisters and pain that it might have been better to have made preparations, or do I figure out a way of buying him some boots even though he now doesn't have time to get to a shop, and make it all ok for him on this occasion, thus implying that if you don't make preparations, it doesn't matter because someone will bail you out?" Neither seems a very good option.
I tell you, if I was King for a day, I could design an award scheme which would teach young people plenty of useful skills. It would involve
The beast seems innocent enough. It starts off as a "letter home". The warning sign is this (take it from a seasoned recipient of the "letter home"): the letter home includes words such as personal development, initiative-taking, leadership-training, challenging, team-building or responsibility. These are the tell-tale indicators of the poison within.
Yes, dear Bloggy Friends, it's the Duke of Edinburgh Award Scheme Expedition. Enough of a monster in its own right, with its kit list, and its early morning start, and its production of dirty laundry mounds the size of mythical giants. But, worst of all, let it be known among you brave warriors of the teenage parenting cause, this challenge, this adventure, this quest, is not your child's but your own.
Thanks, Prince Phillip. Thanks very much. You thought you were giving young people the chance to flex their muscles, to develop their personalities, to grow in character. But, bless your recuperating cotton socks, you couldn't have foreseen how the way young people are treated would change, and that in fact you were creating a challenge of gargantuan dimensions for parents.
It starts with the letter home, and the request for a cheque. (Do some kids have to earn the money to pay for these trips themselves, or do all we parents just cough up?)
Then there's the kit list. This is the parent's first challenge. How do you get the kit list? Some parents, sneaky devils, ask the school, or download it from the school website, or even look it out from the pile of paper that arrived home at the end of the previous term. But there are noble saints, valiant champions of the cause of "teaching your young person leadership skills", who stand firm, and request the list, repeatedly, from their off-spring. Was it Don Quixote who tilted at windmills? I know how he felt. An honourably-intentioned, but fruitless, activity.
Then the second challenge. Buying the items on the kit list. I'm told there are those who go to shops and do so. Others, we of strong mind and valour, talk to our child of "taking responsibility", and set mind-taxing challenges such as "when can we find a time for you to come shopping with me?" We have close to our heart, the development of our child's problem-solving skills.
These foes must be vanquished, before the young adventurer can move onto the most difficult obstacle he has yet encountered. Packing. You must metaphorically hold his hand, as he advances forth into the bedroom, to extract the rucksack from the deep monster's lair known as "the wardrobe". Then you must stand sentinel, warding off maleficient younger siblings, as the young knight lays his belongings out on the floor, and grapples with the task of fitting them all into the rucksack. He who displays moral stature will succeed. Others will be distracted from the task by their trusty iPods, and expect the packing fairies (who they still believe in) to do the deed for them.
I could go on, but you get my drift. This is the second such trip my son has been on. Apparently they are "designed to give opportunities to develop leadership skills and show responsibility", but it's all a huge myth. The teachers and parents run around getting them ready. They jump into lochs, or go abseiiling, or climb over an obstacle course, but it doesn't teach them anything to do with responsibility. It teaches them abseiling and obstacle courses. Every time I try and inject a bit of "taking responsibility" into it, I just end up with a ridiculous dilemma, such as today's which is "do I let my son go off hiking in the Scottish Highlands without walking boots that fit, and learn through blisters and pain that it might have been better to have made preparations, or do I figure out a way of buying him some boots even though he now doesn't have time to get to a shop, and make it all ok for him on this occasion, thus implying that if you don't make preparations, it doesn't matter because someone will bail you out?" Neither seems a very good option.
I tell you, if I was King for a day, I could design an award scheme which would teach young people plenty of useful skills. It would involve
- several hours of picking up dirty laundry from bedroom floors, followed by several hours of putting clean laundry in drawers
- workshops on how to unload a dishwasher (with those who show exceptional ability given further training in how to unload a dishwasher without even being asked)
- lock-in sessions where they are kept in an enclosed space with younger siblings and not allowed out until they have worked out how to share the space without aggravating those siblings, physically, mentally or emotionally
- trips to the corner shop with a pound coin to buy a pint of milk, including compulsory use of the pedestrian crossing, and with optional instruction in how to complete the task cheerfully and without implying to others that you are being asked to trek across half the city
- and finally - but mind you, this would only be for the gold award - how to get ready for a school trip without stressing out your mother.
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