The truth about me - pity my kids can't handle it
March 4th 2008 21:48
Look, I don’t ever expect to be nominated as the Mother of the Year. I have no lofty ideals in the department of being fawned upon with gratitude by my two offspring, even though I do my best. I am, sadly, flawed and human and certainly would not want my parenting to be subject to analysis by people with degrees in such things that end in ‘iatry.’
I started off with great hope that I would be the world’s greatest mother, since I had wanted kids from when I was about three. I also thought that nothing short of four kids would be enough, and perhaps even then, I might adopt a few more. But two, it appears was enough.
My daughter who came first was easy enough. I thought I had this parenting thing in the bag. But then came my son. My son who is smart and so handsome I do sometimes wonder which rogue genes strayed into his DNA, is described by his teachers as a ‘challenge.’ He is eight and to this day only eats about four things: sausages (only the organic kind), green apples, plain pasta and peanut butter. (Please do spare a thought about my daily torment in filling his lunchbox when the school is peanut-free and my son won’t eat cold sausages or cold pasta). He is also ‘hyper-sensitive,’ I think that’s the word the school social worker used. Hypersensitive to noise, to texture, to pain, to labels on his clothes. I went to introduce myself to his teacher, at the beginning of the year, thinking perhaps that it would be the polite thing to do. ‘Hi Mrs K,’ I smiled. ‘I’m A’s mum.’ She looked at me with a kindly smile and said, ‘I don’t know how you do it.’
Well, some days I don’t know either, but most of the time he’s adorable and divine, and for anyone even thinking of giving me advice about taking him off gluten, giving him fish oil (I already do) or giving him a good hiding, please don’t. I have shlepped him to kinesiologists, homeopaths, behavioural therapists and boys groups. I myself have done a Positive Parenting course, read every book about parenting, written a book about parenting (Secret Mothers’ Business) and believe that someday he will be the most gorgeous man, in time for some other woman to reap the benefits of my life’s work. But it’s getting there that’s the hard part.
The other day was the school’s swimming carnival, and since both my kids were swimming, I thought I would take the day off work and go and support them. I was one of about five other parents who had made it to the carnival, and so was feeling very smug about my mothering and the sacrifices I have made to ‘be there’ for my kids.
My daughter, who has never competed in swimming before, surprised herself by coming second and third in all her races while I bellowed from the sidelines: ‘Go J!’ Waving her ribbons under my nose, she kissed me and said, ‘It was because you were there mum, shouting for me, that I did so well.’
Then it was my son’s turn to do breaststroke (I didn’t even know he could swim breaststroke). Off he went to a fabulous start and I stood on the sidelines, taking photos for his dad, and shouting for all I was worth, ‘Go A!’
I couldn’t believe how well he was doing – he was coming second! I was getting more and more excited for him, and now he was just five metres from the end, and I was shouting for all I was worth, ‘You can do it!’ when suddenly, he stopped swimming and screamed at me in front of all the teachers, ‘Will you be quiet! You’re giving me a headache!’ And with that, all the other team members passed him. I stood there, drenched in humiliation as all the teachers looked at me with pity. He threw his goggles into the pool and ran off, utterly furious with me.
When he had calmed down, he came and apologized to me (he’s very good at that) and I comforted him – he was bitterly disappointed that he had missed getting his second place ribbon while all the time I wanted to throttle his rude little ass for embarassing me in front of the whole school. I mean, I'm his mother, remember.
So I’ve hung up my pompoms. My cheerleading days are over. I have forgotten what an embarrassment parents inevitably become to their children and how I used to cringe at my father’s excesses and flamboyance in front of my school friends.
But the truth is, that was me. That was the real me. The person jumping up and down and getting really excited and cheering for all she was worth. And I know this will make my kids flinch, but the singing in the car in the morning on the way to school, and the shimmying of the shoulders, that’s the real me too. And the skinny-dipping in the rockpool, and the dancing down the hallway, yep, that’s who I really am.
But the reality is, to quote Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men my kids can’t handle the truth.
www.joannefedler.com
I started off with great hope that I would be the world’s greatest mother, since I had wanted kids from when I was about three. I also thought that nothing short of four kids would be enough, and perhaps even then, I might adopt a few more. But two, it appears was enough.
My daughter who came first was easy enough. I thought I had this parenting thing in the bag. But then came my son. My son who is smart and so handsome I do sometimes wonder which rogue genes strayed into his DNA, is described by his teachers as a ‘challenge.’ He is eight and to this day only eats about four things: sausages (only the organic kind), green apples, plain pasta and peanut butter. (Please do spare a thought about my daily torment in filling his lunchbox when the school is peanut-free and my son won’t eat cold sausages or cold pasta). He is also ‘hyper-sensitive,’ I think that’s the word the school social worker used. Hypersensitive to noise, to texture, to pain, to labels on his clothes. I went to introduce myself to his teacher, at the beginning of the year, thinking perhaps that it would be the polite thing to do. ‘Hi Mrs K,’ I smiled. ‘I’m A’s mum.’ She looked at me with a kindly smile and said, ‘I don’t know how you do it.’
Well, some days I don’t know either, but most of the time he’s adorable and divine, and for anyone even thinking of giving me advice about taking him off gluten, giving him fish oil (I already do) or giving him a good hiding, please don’t. I have shlepped him to kinesiologists, homeopaths, behavioural therapists and boys groups. I myself have done a Positive Parenting course, read every book about parenting, written a book about parenting (Secret Mothers’ Business) and believe that someday he will be the most gorgeous man, in time for some other woman to reap the benefits of my life’s work. But it’s getting there that’s the hard part.
The other day was the school’s swimming carnival, and since both my kids were swimming, I thought I would take the day off work and go and support them. I was one of about five other parents who had made it to the carnival, and so was feeling very smug about my mothering and the sacrifices I have made to ‘be there’ for my kids.
My daughter, who has never competed in swimming before, surprised herself by coming second and third in all her races while I bellowed from the sidelines: ‘Go J!’ Waving her ribbons under my nose, she kissed me and said, ‘It was because you were there mum, shouting for me, that I did so well.’
Then it was my son’s turn to do breaststroke (I didn’t even know he could swim breaststroke). Off he went to a fabulous start and I stood on the sidelines, taking photos for his dad, and shouting for all I was worth, ‘Go A!’
I couldn’t believe how well he was doing – he was coming second! I was getting more and more excited for him, and now he was just five metres from the end, and I was shouting for all I was worth, ‘You can do it!’ when suddenly, he stopped swimming and screamed at me in front of all the teachers, ‘Will you be quiet! You’re giving me a headache!’ And with that, all the other team members passed him. I stood there, drenched in humiliation as all the teachers looked at me with pity. He threw his goggles into the pool and ran off, utterly furious with me.
When he had calmed down, he came and apologized to me (he’s very good at that) and I comforted him – he was bitterly disappointed that he had missed getting his second place ribbon while all the time I wanted to throttle his rude little ass for embarassing me in front of the whole school. I mean, I'm his mother, remember.
So I’ve hung up my pompoms. My cheerleading days are over. I have forgotten what an embarrassment parents inevitably become to their children and how I used to cringe at my father’s excesses and flamboyance in front of my school friends.
But the truth is, that was me. That was the real me. The person jumping up and down and getting really excited and cheering for all she was worth. And I know this will make my kids flinch, but the singing in the car in the morning on the way to school, and the shimmying of the shoulders, that’s the real me too. And the skinny-dipping in the rockpool, and the dancing down the hallway, yep, that’s who I really am.
But the reality is, to quote Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men my kids can’t handle the truth.
www.joannefedler.com
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Comment by tlcorbin
Coffee Quip
A Global Citizen
Paranormal Paranormal
Is Why
Alaska Chronicle
~Boys mature differently and later than girls,
~Boys learn differently and need frequent breaks from the stress of constant study,
~Boys need the opportunity for physical and rambunctious rough housing,
Men are designed for short violent lives and woman for longer more peaceful settled lives; our gender behavior seems to be genetically hard wired. Why; until recent history, man had to be ready to preserve the family with physical interdiction and woman has done so with longevity and new mates. Circumstances have changed but the biological mandates have not.
If that doesn't help, give him a dog and a life time supply of peanut butter sandwiches and a mandate to stay away until he can do his own cooking, laundry and remember to lower the toilet seat after flushing. It'll make it easier to deal with him if he is still a pain in the butt, and living at home when he is 30. Raven
Comment by Joanne Fedler
Secret Writers Business
Jo
Comment by tlcorbin
Coffee Quip
A Global Citizen
Paranormal Paranormal
Is Why
Alaska Chronicle
Comment by Michaelie
Flick Wit
I think Raven's right, you just keep being you, and they will appreciate it in time. I think you must be an excellent mother.
Michaelie
Comment by Joanne Fedler
Secret Writers Business
I'm a work-in-progress as a mother. I do try. Sometimes, perhaps too hard.
But as hard as it gets, I wouldn't have it any other way. i don't think parenting is for everyone. But as tough as it is, it is definitely for me. I'm just not into romanticizing it. It is, like all of life's experiences, riddled with ambivalences and challenges.
Jo
Comment by Miswanderlust
Killer Beats
Ramble On
Hipnotherapy
As a mother of a son, I adored your post!
Mis
Comment by Joanne Fedler
Secret Writers Business
Jo
Comment by Mrs M
Mum's Word
My 4 (nearly 5) year old son cannot walk from A to B without bouncing the whole way.
I changed our diet so we don't consume as many food additives as we used....and he still bounces....sometimes I think he bounces more.
But he has the most cutest, cheekiest, charming grin and I know that he is one kid that is not going to go through life unnoticed.
So the swimming gene comes from you?
Love & stuff
Mrs M