Not so long ago, my grown up son told his grandmother that she was his role model. At one time or another Mark had given one family member or another that look of admiration that spoke volumes about things said or done that had amazed him. It was gran’s turn to bask in the glow of his love. She was chuffed, but all she did in her understated way was to give him her gentle smile and say, ‘that’s nice, darling.’
Both she and my dad, who is no longer with us, lent Mark an independent ear when he felt the need for one; gave him sanctuary when he was running away from his troubles and told Mark that they had faith in his abilities. While his grandparents gave him uncritical love and unquestioning support, they hadn’t actually known they were being role models. It would have made them nervous if they had realised such a huge responsibility had been placed on their shoulders. Mark’s grandparents saw themselves as family centred people who did what came naturally. That meant offering their services where it was needed, willingly, quietly and without the razzmatazz expected of role models these days. They would have left that issue to be fought over by footballers, singers and film stars.
A friend I was speaking to about it would have agreed with that assessment. She believes that family members can’t attain hero status in their own lifetime. We need to admire the prowess of today’s sports people, (or is it sports people who have the need for us to admire them?), and we need to take on the rose coloured patina that covers the legendary folk of the past. The stories of these larger than life people, she said, symbolised such attributes as courage, individuality and selflessness, qualities that we would wish our children to aspire to. If history debunks these people’s stories that’s still all right with my friend. They will be adults by the time they find their idols have feet of clay. She dismisses the thought of sports heroes disgracing themselves. It’s only a few that spoil it all for everybody. The important thing is children need heroes now and family members just can’t compete.
I thought that she missed the point. Mark’s parents had been his first port of call. They were his first teachers, disciplinarians and friends. If he was going to learn about selflessness and courage it would be from his parents and the aunties, uncles and the grandparents who expanded his little world. His family are a constant in his life. At any given time of day or night, Mark knows he can count on his them to be there for him. There will not be any radical changes in their behaviour, nor will they disgrace themselves and let him down. Rather, Mark’s family provide him with enduring lessons about life, love and family. Lessons he has taken with him into adulthood.
Mark is free to admire people for their skills while not confusing them with the personal attributes, ambitions or flaws of strangers. He is a stronger adult for it, sure of himself and his place in the world and he and understands that neither footballers nor film stars know or care anything about him, and, despite constant media scrutiny into their personal lives, he does not know or need to know about them.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, November 25, 2011
Time Out
My 2 ½ year old grandson slipped off the couch where he had been doing ‘time out’ and approached his father. Could he do it again, he asked? He had thought they were playing a fun game.
Eden’s dad had explained to him that that he shouldn't jump on the bed because he could hurt himself. Eden had only been doing what every child has at one time or another done, since the dawn of time. He had absorbed the words and repeated the mantra to the adults in his vicinity. Ten minutes later he was back on the bed and jumping.
What misleads us all is Eden’s decent vocabulary and his facility to repeat in context what he hears. I don’t think he understands the concepts or the consequences yet. Eden has been told that coffee is hot and thankfully he stays away from the stove, but what does the term hot actually mean to him? At around the same age, his cousin touched a hot grill and burned her hand. She understands hot now.
Not that long ago Eden was a placid baby who lay quietly in his cot waiting for someone to come in and pay him some attention. Ever since he has upsized to a big boy’s bed Eden has taken matters into his own hands. He slips out of his bed and visits his parents at five in the morning to greet them with a chirpy hello. No matter how many times he has been told, Eden doesn’t yet understand about sleep-ins. He only knows that he has had his beauty sleep and feels energised. His mother tells me that he marches up and down the corridor singing his favourite nursery rhymes and telling himself stories. Life is all about swimming lessons, going to the zoo, and playing with his friends. And of course, there’s turning the bed into a trampoline. Life is a happy game that begins at the crack of dawn and only improves as the day goes on. Improves for Eden, that is. His parents suspect him of being a terrible two. If that is the case, I suspect it of being a very mild form of it.
I wanted Eden to get back into his pram the other day, but we were at the local shopping Plaza and he was having too much fun running round and absorbing the sights, sounds and smells of his surroundings. Come back, Eden, I said. Time to go home, I explained. He stopped and looked back, giving me his best grin, one foot forward poised to take flight. Mum’s waiting to see us, I said to no avail. I tried several tactics including telling Eden goodbye and walking off. I hid behind a pillar and looked out to see what he was doing. Eden just stood his ground, grinning at the joke, daring me to back up my threat. I was finally forced to catch him, pick him up and place him in the pram. Reason hadn’t worked so I resorted to every parent’s alternative. It’s called the ‘me-Tarzan-you-Jane’ recourse.
There’s a bag of tricks available to parents that they dip into when a situation arises or an incident takes place. Some are generic and others are inspired ideas born of desperation and despair. Eden’s daddy tells him a story: There was a little boy called Eden who jumped on the bed. He fell and broke his arm. The doctor said he couldn’t play with his friends and he couldn’t go swimming (Eden’s favourite activity) for a very long time. Eden was bombarded with this story after each jump. It finally worked, which proves that (as St Thomas of Aquinas is reputed to have said) ‘Repetition is the mother (or father?) of all learning’ and that my children are superior models of the original.
Eden’s dad had explained to him that that he shouldn't jump on the bed because he could hurt himself. Eden had only been doing what every child has at one time or another done, since the dawn of time. He had absorbed the words and repeated the mantra to the adults in his vicinity. Ten minutes later he was back on the bed and jumping.
What misleads us all is Eden’s decent vocabulary and his facility to repeat in context what he hears. I don’t think he understands the concepts or the consequences yet. Eden has been told that coffee is hot and thankfully he stays away from the stove, but what does the term hot actually mean to him? At around the same age, his cousin touched a hot grill and burned her hand. She understands hot now.
Not that long ago Eden was a placid baby who lay quietly in his cot waiting for someone to come in and pay him some attention. Ever since he has upsized to a big boy’s bed Eden has taken matters into his own hands. He slips out of his bed and visits his parents at five in the morning to greet them with a chirpy hello. No matter how many times he has been told, Eden doesn’t yet understand about sleep-ins. He only knows that he has had his beauty sleep and feels energised. His mother tells me that he marches up and down the corridor singing his favourite nursery rhymes and telling himself stories. Life is all about swimming lessons, going to the zoo, and playing with his friends. And of course, there’s turning the bed into a trampoline. Life is a happy game that begins at the crack of dawn and only improves as the day goes on. Improves for Eden, that is. His parents suspect him of being a terrible two. If that is the case, I suspect it of being a very mild form of it.
I wanted Eden to get back into his pram the other day, but we were at the local shopping Plaza and he was having too much fun running round and absorbing the sights, sounds and smells of his surroundings. Come back, Eden, I said. Time to go home, I explained. He stopped and looked back, giving me his best grin, one foot forward poised to take flight. Mum’s waiting to see us, I said to no avail. I tried several tactics including telling Eden goodbye and walking off. I hid behind a pillar and looked out to see what he was doing. Eden just stood his ground, grinning at the joke, daring me to back up my threat. I was finally forced to catch him, pick him up and place him in the pram. Reason hadn’t worked so I resorted to every parent’s alternative. It’s called the ‘me-Tarzan-you-Jane’ recourse.
There’s a bag of tricks available to parents that they dip into when a situation arises or an incident takes place. Some are generic and others are inspired ideas born of desperation and despair. Eden’s daddy tells him a story: There was a little boy called Eden who jumped on the bed. He fell and broke his arm. The doctor said he couldn’t play with his friends and he couldn’t go swimming (Eden’s favourite activity) for a very long time. Eden was bombarded with this story after each jump. It finally worked, which proves that (as St Thomas of Aquinas is reputed to have said) ‘Repetition is the mother (or father?) of all learning’ and that my children are superior models of the original.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Swearing
This is a revised and shortened and re-submitted version of an article I wrote months ago.
My 6 year old son shot off a swear word at the dinner table. I had asked him how his day was and obliged. David had learned a new word at school. Not in the classroom of course, one of his peers had impressed him with it in the school yard, a place where children receive another education altogether. It wasn’t a shocking word, certainly not by today’s standards, but I knew that if I didn’t put a stop to it straight away there was going to be more to come.
I asked him if he knew what it meant and he said no. But it had made quite an impact with his friends so he wasn’t sure why I had suddenly put on my serious face. I explained that it wasn’t a nice word and that he would never hear his dad or I say it. I really didn’t want to hear him repeat it again. In fact, I said, only if he ever heard me utter a swear word in his presence he had my permission to do the same.
I didn’t swear a lot then or now but everyone does it at some time or another and I wasn’t the exception. If I had just missed a bus or bumped my not so funny bone or got a larger than expected electricity bill I could count on a naughty little word slipping out. After my conversation with David, I spent decades saying ‘shoot’ and ‘fruit’ and ‘pickle my grandmother.’ Hard to do at first but after a while it came naturally. So ingrained is the habit that I still say ‘shiver my timbers’ on occasion.
I’m not a prude and as I’ve said, swearing has its place, I just don’t like it replacing communication. I sometimes hear young adults talking among each other or even when addressing adults producing at least one swear word per sentence. They aren’t necessarily being rude, it’s just their way. It doesn’t offend me but I’m sad to think that it’s the only way they know and that they don’t understand (possibly wouldn’t be interested) that they are depriving themselves of the ability to communicate effectively in a society that values it.
Encouraging my children to talk to rather than swear at me while I still had influence was the way to go. I didn’t think that I’d cured David of swearing, I was sure that when he was at school and in the company of friends he reverted to rough and tumble little boy type. That’s okay. Everyone wants to fit in with their group, even adults. I just didn’t want him to bring it home with him. I wanted David to know what my expectations were and to understand about boundaries.
My mother tells this story about my brother who was in high school at the time. He had brought a friend home and introduced him to my mother, then they went off to his room. They were talking loudly as is the way with teenagers, about teachers and friends and what they had been up to that day. My brother’s friend suddenly swore and my mum heard my brother say, ‘don’t say that, my mother will hear you.’ That was the day, she said, my mother knew she was doing something right.
My 6 year old son shot off a swear word at the dinner table. I had asked him how his day was and obliged. David had learned a new word at school. Not in the classroom of course, one of his peers had impressed him with it in the school yard, a place where children receive another education altogether. It wasn’t a shocking word, certainly not by today’s standards, but I knew that if I didn’t put a stop to it straight away there was going to be more to come.
I asked him if he knew what it meant and he said no. But it had made quite an impact with his friends so he wasn’t sure why I had suddenly put on my serious face. I explained that it wasn’t a nice word and that he would never hear his dad or I say it. I really didn’t want to hear him repeat it again. In fact, I said, only if he ever heard me utter a swear word in his presence he had my permission to do the same.
I didn’t swear a lot then or now but everyone does it at some time or another and I wasn’t the exception. If I had just missed a bus or bumped my not so funny bone or got a larger than expected electricity bill I could count on a naughty little word slipping out. After my conversation with David, I spent decades saying ‘shoot’ and ‘fruit’ and ‘pickle my grandmother.’ Hard to do at first but after a while it came naturally. So ingrained is the habit that I still say ‘shiver my timbers’ on occasion.
I’m not a prude and as I’ve said, swearing has its place, I just don’t like it replacing communication. I sometimes hear young adults talking among each other or even when addressing adults producing at least one swear word per sentence. They aren’t necessarily being rude, it’s just their way. It doesn’t offend me but I’m sad to think that it’s the only way they know and that they don’t understand (possibly wouldn’t be interested) that they are depriving themselves of the ability to communicate effectively in a society that values it.
Encouraging my children to talk to rather than swear at me while I still had influence was the way to go. I didn’t think that I’d cured David of swearing, I was sure that when he was at school and in the company of friends he reverted to rough and tumble little boy type. That’s okay. Everyone wants to fit in with their group, even adults. I just didn’t want him to bring it home with him. I wanted David to know what my expectations were and to understand about boundaries.
My mother tells this story about my brother who was in high school at the time. He had brought a friend home and introduced him to my mother, then they went off to his room. They were talking loudly as is the way with teenagers, about teachers and friends and what they had been up to that day. My brother’s friend suddenly swore and my mum heard my brother say, ‘don’t say that, my mother will hear you.’ That was the day, she said, my mother knew she was doing something right.
Join the club
My youngest son who has a two year old son of his own admitted to me recently that although he loves spending time with his little boy, he feels a guilty sense of relief when he goes to work surrounded by his (adult) colleagues and the tools of his trade. ‘Join the club,’ I said. We’ve all been there. My daughter in law works part time and I’ve seen her hover over her child before she leaves for work. But ask her to discuss work related activities and her face lights up.
To work or not to work when your children are little is a topical issue that hasn’t been resolved yet. I think that it’s because there isn’t a one answer fits all solution to it. But those mothers of babies and toddlers who prefer the salt mines to parenting will tell you that although paid work isn’t as rewarding it is a fair bit more restful. A moment of peace is all a mother asks for, and a place to hide from the piping voices that demand your attention. I can tell you first hand that locking myself in the toilet with a copy of Cleo magazine isn’t necessarily a guarantee of privacy. My children would stand outside the door pounding with their little fists and pleading for admission.
Wanting time out isn’t an admission of failure just an acknowledgement of human frailty. Parenting is far more exhausting than we mums and dads anticipate BC (before child). Realising that we have committed every moment of our existence to our children for the next few decades comes as a shock. Our lives BC have suddenly and without notice become a thing of the past. We’ve all heard the stories, of course, but no amount of literature prepares us for the reality of the constant chattering. Oh, that chattering. Children will ask questions and won’t accept a grunt or a non-committal answer. While it is our job to answer questions, teach values and set parameters, we would do it with a greater will if we were only allowed a little bit of ‘me’ time.
Hordes of mothers found their way into the workforce in the 1970’s. Supermums, they called us. Thankfully we were the first and last generation of supermums to think we had to do it all. My generation made their own babysitting arrangements; some hauled their own mothers back into service, others hired minders. I had live in help. It was my job to be home in time to feed my children milk and Tic Toc biscuits. My school teacher husband took his turn at child rearing during the term breaks. If I felt bad about it at all, it was that not everyone was married to a school teacher.
Hooray! I found myself free to spend time in the adult world. My first visit was to the hairdresser. I asked for a short, short haircut to prepare me for my double role of mother and working stiff. A sympathetic hairdresser leaned me back against the basin and washed my hair while her assistant asked if I would like some coffee. I almost broke down on the spot and wept at the thought of someone doing something for me for a change.
I was readying myself for the adult world. I did away with the shabby, round the house garb and bought a wardrobe more in keeping with the professional world. I was looking forward to conversations that didn’t include repeating the daily mantra of don’t hit, don’t touch, do share.’ Even adult friends with children weren’t able to boost my delicate state of mind; these women were in the same situation as I was and all they wanted to do was to tell me about it. Misery might love company but I didn’t want a bar of it. I wanted to be in the thick of office politics and to discuss adult issues; I didn’t want to listen to what other people’s children did or didn’t do or to referee childish accusations of ‘he started it.’
I remember how tiring it was to come home and prepare the evening meal but still, I thought it was great. I gladly took off that work hat and exchanged it for my mummy apron. The trick was not to sit down because I knew I would never have been able to get up again. I took that morning’s washing off the line, handed out after school snacks then got started on the pre-prepared veggies. Even the chattering was welcome as an insight into my children’s daily routine. I loved it. The physical aspects of combining work with child rearing can’t be discounted, but for this mum at least, the drawbacks that parenting without a mental break presents is equally if not more important. I got to come home refreshed and ready to deal with my second job with gusto and kindly feelings towards my children, myself and the whole wonderful world.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Teaching Rachel
My granddaughter Rachel and I have a history of cooking googie eggs. When she was four she stood on a chair to reach the kitchen bench, cracked eggs and stirred the mixture into the frypan with a wooden spoon. Now that she’s seven Rachel reaches the bench on her own and we have graduated to more sophisticated dishes like sponge cake and (very soon) pumpkin soup.
The recipes are my mum’s. I sat at her kitchen table and took notes. Now I am passing the decades’ worth of accumulated culinary wisdom on to Rachel who is the only person currently interested in cooking. Rachel and I pore over my collection of recipes and decide on one dish each time she visits. I teach her about the importance of pre-preparing the ingredients and the trick of clearing away as we go along. We discuss family gatherings and the vital role that sharing meals plays in keeping us all together.
We talk as we bake. We discuss what she’s reading right now (Enid Blyton’s The Far Away Tree). Rachel tells me about her school friends, her teachers and her favourite subject which seems to be maths. I admit that I was a dunce at that subject which she finds hilarious. Despite my showing her pictures of myself in better days, she can’t imagine her wrinkly old Nan ever being young and finds it extraordinary that an adult can’t do absolutely everything well. It’s a revelation. Despite it all she asks me to test her. I oblige but when the time comes I will send her to ask those maths wizards her uncle or her dad who I suspect are throwbacks.
I like to think that my job is to complement all the other resources in Rachel’s life. Today’s parents are time poor and often rely on the extended family to help out with what they once had had time to do in those leisurely days of dad at work, mum at home and everybody in their appointed places. Rachel can count on the uncles for maths, the great uncle knowledge of contemporary music is encyclopaedic, the great aunt provides support for all things literary and the grandfather gives piano and chess lessons. And in the twilight of her life Rachel’s grandma has been reactivated for service above and beyond the call of duty. This has given her a new lease on life.
As a mother of sons I missed out on all those girlie type activities. Don’t get me wrong, my sons and I have our own memories to draw on, but they were never interested in cissy stuff that entailed hanging around the kitchen for longer than it took to scoff down a meal (and under protest wash a dish). And you can’t paint a boy’s toe nails or go shopping with boys. They will pick a top and a pair of jeans in five minutes flat then want to move on to more important things.
This is why it has been a delight to discover a whole new world of sugar and spice and everything nice. Rachel and I are building on the foundations of our own tradition through cooking, giggling and deep and meaningful conversation. It is my hope that when she’s whipping up a chocolate torte in her own kitchen Rachel will look back at us the way we were (my) wrinkles and all and treasure the memories.
The recipes are my mum’s. I sat at her kitchen table and took notes. Now I am passing the decades’ worth of accumulated culinary wisdom on to Rachel who is the only person currently interested in cooking. Rachel and I pore over my collection of recipes and decide on one dish each time she visits. I teach her about the importance of pre-preparing the ingredients and the trick of clearing away as we go along. We discuss family gatherings and the vital role that sharing meals plays in keeping us all together.
We talk as we bake. We discuss what she’s reading right now (Enid Blyton’s The Far Away Tree). Rachel tells me about her school friends, her teachers and her favourite subject which seems to be maths. I admit that I was a dunce at that subject which she finds hilarious. Despite my showing her pictures of myself in better days, she can’t imagine her wrinkly old Nan ever being young and finds it extraordinary that an adult can’t do absolutely everything well. It’s a revelation. Despite it all she asks me to test her. I oblige but when the time comes I will send her to ask those maths wizards her uncle or her dad who I suspect are throwbacks.
I like to think that my job is to complement all the other resources in Rachel’s life. Today’s parents are time poor and often rely on the extended family to help out with what they once had had time to do in those leisurely days of dad at work, mum at home and everybody in their appointed places. Rachel can count on the uncles for maths, the great uncle knowledge of contemporary music is encyclopaedic, the great aunt provides support for all things literary and the grandfather gives piano and chess lessons. And in the twilight of her life Rachel’s grandma has been reactivated for service above and beyond the call of duty. This has given her a new lease on life.
As a mother of sons I missed out on all those girlie type activities. Don’t get me wrong, my sons and I have our own memories to draw on, but they were never interested in cissy stuff that entailed hanging around the kitchen for longer than it took to scoff down a meal (and under protest wash a dish). And you can’t paint a boy’s toe nails or go shopping with boys. They will pick a top and a pair of jeans in five minutes flat then want to move on to more important things.
This is why it has been a delight to discover a whole new world of sugar and spice and everything nice. Rachel and I are building on the foundations of our own tradition through cooking, giggling and deep and meaningful conversation. It is my hope that when she’s whipping up a chocolate torte in her own kitchen Rachel will look back at us the way we were (my) wrinkles and all and treasure the memories.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Time for an oil change
Time for an oil change, I said to my grandson. It’s the family euphemism for a smelly nappy. Eden knew it and ran out of the room. He’s only two years old and still listens to his elders, but for some reason none of us can fathom he has a phobia about anybody except for his mother changing his nappy.
It’s a wonder he listens to us at all, really. We’re a bossy lot who feed him veggies instead of the chips he yearns for. We snatch him away from the swing and the seesaw just when he’s made a friend and enjoying himself and we put him to bed when he wants to keep on with story time.
So why does he do what he’s told? Right now it’s strictly speaking not necessary. Eden weighs not much more than a bag of potatoes so it’s easy for us adults to haul him off to bed whenever we please. I suspect that although we are the most benign of dictators it’s the fear factor coming into play. We’re so big and he’s so small, Eden senses that there’s always the chance that we might erupt and he’s not taking chances. Perhaps it’s the we-will-brook-no-disobedience tone of our voice that has him doing our bidding. I’m not sure what is going through his two year old mind but right now we have him thoroughly bamboozled. I’d like to pickle Eden in amber and keep him that way but as it’s not going to happen I think the second best option is to prepare us and him for his future.
As Eden gets older and goes to crèche, then kindergarten then school, force of habit and training will take over. One authority after another is going to tell him what to do and when to do it. But that sort of socialising process needs to begin with the adults in his family unit. That’s why I have been talking to Eden about the connexion between changing nappies and clean bottoms and telling him lovingly but firmly that he needs to keep still. He doesn’t like it but he’s getting the message that when he’s with me I’m in charge and that there’s a reason for what I’m doing.
That last is the trick. As he gets older he’s going to question our authority more often and we need to be steps ahead. Eden won’t want to go visit his grandma, or get dressed and ready for school, and he will want to play computer games before he’s done his homework. Tempting as it will be to bark out orders a better end result would be to combine parental authority with explanation. Don’t talk with your mouth full it’s bad manners, you have to do your homework if you’re going to get a good job and look after your parents in your old age.
Although my parents never did, their generation used to make a flat statement of ‘because I said so.’ It was supposed to put a full stop to all arguments and a stop to any alternate opinions. They just didn't want to hear it. I try to keep the lines of communication going, knowing that there is going to come a time when Eden will be taller than I am and won’t be told what to do. That’s I am going to want him to listen to reason.
It’s a wonder he listens to us at all, really. We’re a bossy lot who feed him veggies instead of the chips he yearns for. We snatch him away from the swing and the seesaw just when he’s made a friend and enjoying himself and we put him to bed when he wants to keep on with story time.
So why does he do what he’s told? Right now it’s strictly speaking not necessary. Eden weighs not much more than a bag of potatoes so it’s easy for us adults to haul him off to bed whenever we please. I suspect that although we are the most benign of dictators it’s the fear factor coming into play. We’re so big and he’s so small, Eden senses that there’s always the chance that we might erupt and he’s not taking chances. Perhaps it’s the we-will-brook-no-disobedience tone of our voice that has him doing our bidding. I’m not sure what is going through his two year old mind but right now we have him thoroughly bamboozled. I’d like to pickle Eden in amber and keep him that way but as it’s not going to happen I think the second best option is to prepare us and him for his future.
As Eden gets older and goes to crèche, then kindergarten then school, force of habit and training will take over. One authority after another is going to tell him what to do and when to do it. But that sort of socialising process needs to begin with the adults in his family unit. That’s why I have been talking to Eden about the connexion between changing nappies and clean bottoms and telling him lovingly but firmly that he needs to keep still. He doesn’t like it but he’s getting the message that when he’s with me I’m in charge and that there’s a reason for what I’m doing.
That last is the trick. As he gets older he’s going to question our authority more often and we need to be steps ahead. Eden won’t want to go visit his grandma, or get dressed and ready for school, and he will want to play computer games before he’s done his homework. Tempting as it will be to bark out orders a better end result would be to combine parental authority with explanation. Don’t talk with your mouth full it’s bad manners, you have to do your homework if you’re going to get a good job and look after your parents in your old age.
Although my parents never did, their generation used to make a flat statement of ‘because I said so.’ It was supposed to put a full stop to all arguments and a stop to any alternate opinions. They just didn't want to hear it. I try to keep the lines of communication going, knowing that there is going to come a time when Eden will be taller than I am and won’t be told what to do. That’s I am going to want him to listen to reason.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Ask your Father
When I was a little girl parents used to say ‘ask your father’ or ‘ask your mother’ when they didn’t know the answer to a question, perhaps they still say it. The hope back then was that the other parent might know or at least take the brunt of a child’s disappointment if they didn’t. When it was my turn to be the authority on all things children I realised that if my parents had only got together and decided on a plan of action it would have been much easier on them when I reached my teens.
Because children are used to being told when to sleep, what to eat and how to behave, their logical conclusion is that we know everything there is to know. It’s hard to give that up, especially if you’ve heard your child tell a friend that mummy is clever. And the questions are quite easy at first: ‘where do babies come from, why is the sky blue, what happens if I mix blue and red’? It’s tempting to glow in the admiring light of your children eyes as you snap out the answers. But don’t do it, because when they are old enough to realise that we have fooled them, it’s too late for us to change tack. We have to wear their scorn and as the saying goes, or should go, there’s nothing a parent dreads more than a teenager who scorns. Quicker than you can say rampaging hormones, their peers have taken our place and we have become hopelessly dated and uninformed.
When my granddaughters want to know something that I don’t have the answer to, I admit it. I say that I will try and find out and I do. It’s much better for both of us that my grandchildren get to see me as a fallible adult. My hope is to ease them into the human condition and hope that later they will be kind to me.
Dezzy and Rachel’s dad deals with logistics and maths, and I help out with English and English related topics. Each adult in her life has a specialty the children can tap into. Anything in between gets the standard answer, ‘I don’t know, but I will find out for you.’ You do have to share some of the glory with teachers but that’s okay because teachers come and go, but parents and grandparents are a constant in their child’s life. That’s why it’s their job to get it right.
My grown up children still occasionally ask me what a word means. They once believed that I could spell any word and that I knew what each one meant. They were confident in getting an answer every time. When I could see where it was all heading, I taught them how to use the dictionary and a thesaurus.
Because children are used to being told when to sleep, what to eat and how to behave, their logical conclusion is that we know everything there is to know. It’s hard to give that up, especially if you’ve heard your child tell a friend that mummy is clever. And the questions are quite easy at first: ‘where do babies come from, why is the sky blue, what happens if I mix blue and red’? It’s tempting to glow in the admiring light of your children eyes as you snap out the answers. But don’t do it, because when they are old enough to realise that we have fooled them, it’s too late for us to change tack. We have to wear their scorn and as the saying goes, or should go, there’s nothing a parent dreads more than a teenager who scorns. Quicker than you can say rampaging hormones, their peers have taken our place and we have become hopelessly dated and uninformed.
When my granddaughters want to know something that I don’t have the answer to, I admit it. I say that I will try and find out and I do. It’s much better for both of us that my grandchildren get to see me as a fallible adult. My hope is to ease them into the human condition and hope that later they will be kind to me.
Dezzy and Rachel’s dad deals with logistics and maths, and I help out with English and English related topics. Each adult in her life has a specialty the children can tap into. Anything in between gets the standard answer, ‘I don’t know, but I will find out for you.’ You do have to share some of the glory with teachers but that’s okay because teachers come and go, but parents and grandparents are a constant in their child’s life. That’s why it’s their job to get it right.
My grown up children still occasionally ask me what a word means. They once believed that I could spell any word and that I knew what each one meant. They were confident in getting an answer every time. When I could see where it was all heading, I taught them how to use the dictionary and a thesaurus.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Bullying
Bullying seems to be an impossible issue to resolve. I doubt that my article will do this, but I'd like to have a say at the very least. This is my first draft.
A high school boy recently lifted up a fellow student half his size and slammed him to the ground. Surprisingly the aggressor was also a victim. He had put up with bullies for three years and wasn’t about to take it any more. Victims worldwide and their families cheered. It was a cathartic moment for them. The media interviewed the boy who had ‘snapped’ his victim and the boy who filmed the event. It was the usual seven day wonder, but when the dust settled, nothing else did, nothing had changed.
The hero of the moment will probably get through high school without constant harassment, and his school will probably review its bullying policy but what about current and future victims? Nothing seems to have changed or will change for them. There’s anecdotal evidence that confronting a bully with his or her own medicine usually results in the bully backing down, but nobody with any common sense advocates violence as a way to resolve issues. It can result in tragedy for everybody, but what else is there?
Suspending students doesn’t seem to help, students don’t come back calmed down or contrite, rather the reverse. Mediation hasn’t proved to work and neither does walking away from a bully. However well-meaning schools are their anti-bullying policies are obviously inadequate. Cyber bullying has put things in a whole other realm, it’s all become overwhelming for everyone including teachers who haven’t got enough hours in the day to implement everything that’s asked of them and teach as well. I will say that I’m in favour of zero tolerance when it comes to bullies. Three strikes and you’re out. Find another school.
That only leaves parents. If you’re a great believer in nature and nurture, the bully has no chance. But even nature can be something if parents are supportive of their children and raise them to respect themselves and others. I don’t think that bullies like themselves.
A high school boy recently lifted up a fellow student half his size and slammed him to the ground. Surprisingly the aggressor was also a victim. He had put up with bullies for three years and wasn’t about to take it any more. Victims worldwide and their families cheered. It was a cathartic moment for them. The media interviewed the boy who had ‘snapped’ his victim and the boy who filmed the event. It was the usual seven day wonder, but when the dust settled, nothing else did, nothing had changed.
The hero of the moment will probably get through high school without constant harassment, and his school will probably review its bullying policy but what about current and future victims? Nothing seems to have changed or will change for them. There’s anecdotal evidence that confronting a bully with his or her own medicine usually results in the bully backing down, but nobody with any common sense advocates violence as a way to resolve issues. It can result in tragedy for everybody, but what else is there?
Suspending students doesn’t seem to help, students don’t come back calmed down or contrite, rather the reverse. Mediation hasn’t proved to work and neither does walking away from a bully. However well-meaning schools are their anti-bullying policies are obviously inadequate. Cyber bullying has put things in a whole other realm, it’s all become overwhelming for everyone including teachers who haven’t got enough hours in the day to implement everything that’s asked of them and teach as well. I will say that I’m in favour of zero tolerance when it comes to bullies. Three strikes and you’re out. Find another school.
That only leaves parents. If you’re a great believer in nature and nurture, the bully has no chance. But even nature can be something if parents are supportive of their children and raise them to respect themselves and others. I don’t think that bullies like themselves.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Old Farts
When I was a baby, or so I’m told, I was adorable. Doting parents hung on my every utterance, ‘was that dada? Did she say mamamama?’ I was a cute toddler and never short of admirers. I can’t imagine it now, but I used to be shy. But whenever I did have something to say, some adult was bound to turn to another and exclaim ‘did you hear that? However does she come up with those things.’ It was at the very least as if I had made some earth shattering rediscovery about the theory of relativity. ‘What a child.’
Same thing growing up. Rellos and family friends pinched my cheek and coyly enquired about boyfriends. (Euww). My friends and I had all the answers about life, love and the universe. Our youth and inexperience qualified us to pronounce on such issues. We felt sorry for our clueless parents and treated them kindly but firmly whenever they attempted to give us the benefit of their wisdom . When the tables were turned it was a shock to our collective system. Our children refused our hard won advice based on life experience; they’d already discussed it between each other.
The older and wiser I got, the less inclined people seemed to take notice of what I had to say. I had taken my youth for granted, I hadn’t realised it wasn’t going to last.
Now that I’m at the tail end of things, it seems that no one even looks at me. I’ve joined a grey army of invisible people plodding dispiritedly down that path of no return. Even within the family unit, when people do deign to notice I’m there, it seems that I have reverted to cute. Only they’re not hanging on my every utterance. My world views or political opinions are cute, my views on raising children are cute and my preference for old fashioned values is cute. All are code for old fashioned. When I walk down the street I’m just another old fart tottering past, just a bit of detritus in the way of the next generation’s aspirations.
Just as I was ready to stop fighting it and settle down to old-fartdom, an amazing thing happened. I was given a brand new chance to reinvent myself. I become a grandma.
Babies don’t know it yet that old and wrinkly means cute. They pay attention to the love. They hang believingly on every word you have to utter. They are fascinated with your out of tune version of Mary had a Little Lamb and ask you to repeat it as often as your voice holds out. And when I walk down the street, heads turn once more. I’m basking in the glow of my grandchild. People smile at us both. ‘Coochie coo, what a beautiful baby.’ We all beam. I become the baby’s agent. People ask questions and actually listen to the answers. It’s a brand new world composed of mothers and grandmothers having a confab at the park, pushing a swing and sitting on a see saw; at the library, choosing books, reading stories; on the bus singing songs to keep the babies and the other commuters entertained. If my mother and her grandchildren are anything to go by, grandmothers can expect to experience an ongoing relationship based on mutual love, respect and friendship. I’m only at the beginning of all that, but I hope I can make it.
Same thing growing up. Rellos and family friends pinched my cheek and coyly enquired about boyfriends. (Euww). My friends and I had all the answers about life, love and the universe. Our youth and inexperience qualified us to pronounce on such issues. We felt sorry for our clueless parents and treated them kindly but firmly whenever they attempted to give us the benefit of their wisdom . When the tables were turned it was a shock to our collective system. Our children refused our hard won advice based on life experience; they’d already discussed it between each other.
The older and wiser I got, the less inclined people seemed to take notice of what I had to say. I had taken my youth for granted, I hadn’t realised it wasn’t going to last.
Now that I’m at the tail end of things, it seems that no one even looks at me. I’ve joined a grey army of invisible people plodding dispiritedly down that path of no return. Even within the family unit, when people do deign to notice I’m there, it seems that I have reverted to cute. Only they’re not hanging on my every utterance. My world views or political opinions are cute, my views on raising children are cute and my preference for old fashioned values is cute. All are code for old fashioned. When I walk down the street I’m just another old fart tottering past, just a bit of detritus in the way of the next generation’s aspirations.
Just as I was ready to stop fighting it and settle down to old-fartdom, an amazing thing happened. I was given a brand new chance to reinvent myself. I become a grandma.
Babies don’t know it yet that old and wrinkly means cute. They pay attention to the love. They hang believingly on every word you have to utter. They are fascinated with your out of tune version of Mary had a Little Lamb and ask you to repeat it as often as your voice holds out. And when I walk down the street, heads turn once more. I’m basking in the glow of my grandchild. People smile at us both. ‘Coochie coo, what a beautiful baby.’ We all beam. I become the baby’s agent. People ask questions and actually listen to the answers. It’s a brand new world composed of mothers and grandmothers having a confab at the park, pushing a swing and sitting on a see saw; at the library, choosing books, reading stories; on the bus singing songs to keep the babies and the other commuters entertained. If my mother and her grandchildren are anything to go by, grandmothers can expect to experience an ongoing relationship based on mutual love, respect and friendship. I’m only at the beginning of all that, but I hope I can make it.
Monday, March 14, 2011
You've come a long way baby
The Australian Retailers Association has mounted a frantic campaign against plain packaging for cigarettes. It is fast running out of time because the Federal government will ban colourful cigarette packaging in 2012. I’m not sure who the Association’s audience is meant to be. Parents of young children won’t empathise, smokers don’t care and most non-smokers will be thrilled to have those cancer sticks in plain wrap and hidden well under the counter. Nobody cares, except perhaps civil rights groups, but I don’t think that when it comes to this particular issue they will have much influence.
The multiple radio advertisements I’ve been badgered with try to convince that plain packaging won’t work. That it won’t stop people from smoking. What the adverts and the Retailers Association fail to mention, for obvious reasons, is that plain packaging will crimp profits. When I smoked plain packaging and cigarettes under the counter would not have influenced me a bit. On the other hand colourful cigarette boxes work beautifully on beginners. When they get to the shop they will immediately know their preferred brand and they will be loyal to that brand to the bitter end.
Colourful packaging is the last hurrah as far as cigarette advertising goes. Now that accepting sponsorship from cigarette companies is on the nose and cigarette ads are banned, promoting cigarette boxes are all that’s left to the companies that produce them. If you’re a young person starting down that emphysema road, then cool is everything. If all packaging looks the same, where’s the allure?
I remember Virginia Slims. I loved them in the 1990s. They were long and elegant, reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s lighting up at the end of very long cigarette holders. (So elegant is that image that I've seen it trying to sell chocolate products.) I would hold my Virginia Slims a certain way, taking deep breaths and exhaling with my head tilted sideways and up and my eyes half shut. I felt really stylish.
According to Wikipedia, the brand was introduced in 1968 and marketed to professional women using the slogan ‘You’ve come a long way baby’. Later campaigns used the slogan ‘It’s a woman thing’ and ‘Find your voice.’ Wikipedia also states that ‘media watch groups considered this campaign to be responsible for a rapid increase in smoking among teenage girls.’ It must have been a promoter’s dream.
I think don’t think the Australian Retailer’s Association advertisements are working or will work no matter how much money is thrown at them. The Association lives in a world as we all do where to abuse an old cliché, advertising is king. Get the right angle on a product is the wisdom of the day then throw enough money at it and it will usually work. But in this case no amount of money that will help; there’s no empathy and no interest. As I said before, nobody gives a damn.
The multiple radio advertisements I’ve been badgered with try to convince that plain packaging won’t work. That it won’t stop people from smoking. What the adverts and the Retailers Association fail to mention, for obvious reasons, is that plain packaging will crimp profits. When I smoked plain packaging and cigarettes under the counter would not have influenced me a bit. On the other hand colourful cigarette boxes work beautifully on beginners. When they get to the shop they will immediately know their preferred brand and they will be loyal to that brand to the bitter end.
Colourful packaging is the last hurrah as far as cigarette advertising goes. Now that accepting sponsorship from cigarette companies is on the nose and cigarette ads are banned, promoting cigarette boxes are all that’s left to the companies that produce them. If you’re a young person starting down that emphysema road, then cool is everything. If all packaging looks the same, where’s the allure?
I remember Virginia Slims. I loved them in the 1990s. They were long and elegant, reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s lighting up at the end of very long cigarette holders. (So elegant is that image that I've seen it trying to sell chocolate products.) I would hold my Virginia Slims a certain way, taking deep breaths and exhaling with my head tilted sideways and up and my eyes half shut. I felt really stylish.
According to Wikipedia, the brand was introduced in 1968 and marketed to professional women using the slogan ‘You’ve come a long way baby’. Later campaigns used the slogan ‘It’s a woman thing’ and ‘Find your voice.’ Wikipedia also states that ‘media watch groups considered this campaign to be responsible for a rapid increase in smoking among teenage girls.’ It must have been a promoter’s dream.
I think don’t think the Australian Retailer’s Association advertisements are working or will work no matter how much money is thrown at them. The Association lives in a world as we all do where to abuse an old cliché, advertising is king. Get the right angle on a product is the wisdom of the day then throw enough money at it and it will usually work. But in this case no amount of money that will help; there’s no empathy and no interest. As I said before, nobody gives a damn.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Comics
My mother encouraged me to read whatever I wanted, including, shock horror, comics. Brave of her since her contemporaries didn’t see them as worthy fare for budding minds. Mum believed that anything that got me reading and kept me interested was good for my budding mind. I enjoyed the adventures, that the good guys always won and the illustrations.
The good guys don’t always win these days the lines have become blurred, more’s the pity. I don’t care for anti-heroes and if I wanted real life I’d pick up a newspaper.
By the time I got to adult books, the print industry had introduced paperbacks. They were and still are badly pasted together and not meant to last.
Adult hard backs used to be illustrated, copper plates, etchings, watercolour sketches and wood engravings but when the print industry moved away from hard back books we were told that illustrations were for children. And except for Penguin who colour coded their books depending on the genre the wonderful covers, the illustrations are gone. Now that we have e-readers we can forget about illustration or etchings. Not even a book cover to capture our imagination. I predict that we can kiss the print industry goodbye.
Reading comics didn’t rot my brain, they stimulated my imagination and encouraged me to increase my interests.
The worst thing about today's stories are that they are either educational or an attempt to push a particular political barrow. Finally the politically correct have found a way to improve our budding minds.
The good guys don’t always win these days the lines have become blurred, more’s the pity. I don’t care for anti-heroes and if I wanted real life I’d pick up a newspaper.
By the time I got to adult books, the print industry had introduced paperbacks. They were and still are badly pasted together and not meant to last.
Adult hard backs used to be illustrated, copper plates, etchings, watercolour sketches and wood engravings but when the print industry moved away from hard back books we were told that illustrations were for children. And except for Penguin who colour coded their books depending on the genre the wonderful covers, the illustrations are gone. Now that we have e-readers we can forget about illustration or etchings. Not even a book cover to capture our imagination. I predict that we can kiss the print industry goodbye.
Reading comics didn’t rot my brain, they stimulated my imagination and encouraged me to increase my interests.
The worst thing about today's stories are that they are either educational or an attempt to push a particular political barrow. Finally the politically correct have found a way to improve our budding minds.
The Bribe
A child tugged at her mother harnessing all the strength available to her 2 ½ year old body. This droopy diapered tyrant had quite a grip on the mum’s index finger and a look in her eyes that did not bode well for the future. She was determined to have it all her way and her mother was equally determined to show her that there was somebody else to consider here. For some of us waiting for our tram to arrive, watching the two personalities at loggerheads was a mix of entertainment tinged with remembrance and empathy. Been there, done that was the misty eyed consensus.
This wasn’t a David and Goliath story we were watching; the tiny tot hadn’t a chance. But while the end result was predictable, at least for the next handful of years, it was the way her mother dealt with the situation that made it interesting to watch.
It was a stop and start affair and the mum held out as long as she could. Now and again she bent and whispered something in the little girl’s ear, but when it seemed obvious that her strategies weren’t working, the mum reached into her carryall and brought out the biscuit of last resort. The girl took it and the mum lifted the distracted tot up and trotted off into the distance.
I leaned back and reminisced about the good old days of high ideals. It hadn’t taken long for them to take a battering. I had come to realise that a good mother was code word for managing to get through my day without too many blunders and that it was only possible if I had a good baby, code word for placid and sleeps a lot. As my children weren’t good children, I did what we all do when we have that epiphany, I adjusted my standards. It was the first of many times for me.
Having long believed that a tiny morsel couldn’t possibly cause me too much trouble, when my child finally arrived I was forced to face reality. My life was not going to be business as usual. I could no longer drop everything and go haring off on some jaunt at a moment’s notice and cooking was no longer well thought out three course meals but a repertoire of quick and easy recipes. Keeping house, a high maintenance job that required constant mopping and dusting left no room for playing, so until they started four year old kinder, I forced myself to spend a minimum amount of time cleaning (not really a chore) and dedicated the majority of my time playing get to know you with my children.
When it came to the biscuit of last resort, or in my case the chocolate frog of last resort, I preferred small distractions, code word for bribes, to a tap on the bottom. Until my children were old enough to be impressed with the I-will-brook-no-disagreement tone of voice that was the line I took. Not that I stopped reasoning, but like that mum I used a mix of persuasion knowing that sooner or later my exhortations would take hold and the occasional chocolate frog.
I can live with that sort of bribe but I don’t believe everything has a price. I think that paying children to help out for example is wrong. Some people say it teaches children responsibility but I think it smells more like blackmail (you won’t get that dollar if you don’t clean your room) than a lesson. I think the lesson learned should be that mutual expectations and obligations are expected on both sides.
I recently offered my two year old grandson with a chocolate button. He snapped it up and asked for more. I was caring for him and Eden was crying for his mum. The chocolate did its job. It worked so well that the first thing out of those rosebud lips whenever we met was chocolate. I adjusted my standards yet again. Now Eden gets a dose of The Tale of Mr Jeremy Fisher and sometimes we watch The Wiggles. It’s a personal preference, but I have found that I would rather be known as ‘nanna wiggles’, than ‘nanna chocolate’.
This wasn’t a David and Goliath story we were watching; the tiny tot hadn’t a chance. But while the end result was predictable, at least for the next handful of years, it was the way her mother dealt with the situation that made it interesting to watch.
It was a stop and start affair and the mum held out as long as she could. Now and again she bent and whispered something in the little girl’s ear, but when it seemed obvious that her strategies weren’t working, the mum reached into her carryall and brought out the biscuit of last resort. The girl took it and the mum lifted the distracted tot up and trotted off into the distance.
I leaned back and reminisced about the good old days of high ideals. It hadn’t taken long for them to take a battering. I had come to realise that a good mother was code word for managing to get through my day without too many blunders and that it was only possible if I had a good baby, code word for placid and sleeps a lot. As my children weren’t good children, I did what we all do when we have that epiphany, I adjusted my standards. It was the first of many times for me.
Having long believed that a tiny morsel couldn’t possibly cause me too much trouble, when my child finally arrived I was forced to face reality. My life was not going to be business as usual. I could no longer drop everything and go haring off on some jaunt at a moment’s notice and cooking was no longer well thought out three course meals but a repertoire of quick and easy recipes. Keeping house, a high maintenance job that required constant mopping and dusting left no room for playing, so until they started four year old kinder, I forced myself to spend a minimum amount of time cleaning (not really a chore) and dedicated the majority of my time playing get to know you with my children.
When it came to the biscuit of last resort, or in my case the chocolate frog of last resort, I preferred small distractions, code word for bribes, to a tap on the bottom. Until my children were old enough to be impressed with the I-will-brook-no-disagreement tone of voice that was the line I took. Not that I stopped reasoning, but like that mum I used a mix of persuasion knowing that sooner or later my exhortations would take hold and the occasional chocolate frog.
I can live with that sort of bribe but I don’t believe everything has a price. I think that paying children to help out for example is wrong. Some people say it teaches children responsibility but I think it smells more like blackmail (you won’t get that dollar if you don’t clean your room) than a lesson. I think the lesson learned should be that mutual expectations and obligations are expected on both sides.
I recently offered my two year old grandson with a chocolate button. He snapped it up and asked for more. I was caring for him and Eden was crying for his mum. The chocolate did its job. It worked so well that the first thing out of those rosebud lips whenever we met was chocolate. I adjusted my standards yet again. Now Eden gets a dose of The Tale of Mr Jeremy Fisher and sometimes we watch The Wiggles. It’s a personal preference, but I have found that I would rather be known as ‘nanna wiggles’, than ‘nanna chocolate’.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
If I had a dollar
If I had had the foresight to save a dollar for every time somebody asked me how I was, well you know how the rest of that goes. Having absolutely no foresight, I just kept on keeping on with the traditional responses without giving them a second thought (and I’m broke).
It’s touching how every single soul I meet wants to know about my health; the butcher, the baker, the candle stick maker and even the stranger on the street asking directions is interested in my well-being. I’ll admit there was a bit of a lull when I broke my arm two years ago. People didn’t seem to be asking me how I feel as often as they used to, especially after the second or third time. But my arm is healed now, thank goodness and I’m back on track.
Telemarketers want to know how I feel. They call to congratulate me on being chosen for a chance to win a house. To be in the running I only need to attend a short seminar and listen to experts discuss how I can build up my wealth. It doesn’t seem to put them off when I tell them thanks but I’m not interested because I am already so independently wealthy. When I suggest they could offer their services to the needy, they try to convince me that I could never have enough and that as Michael Douglas once said,’ greed is good’. They sound so sincerely interested in my welfare that it’s with regret that I hang up.
My doctor always asks me how I am at the beginning of our sessions together. She’s warm and caring and there’s no doubt that she really wants to know, but she also knows that I tend to overdo it so she times me.
I don’t want you to think I have a monopoly on compassion. I listen to talk-back radio and no matter what the program or the host’s constant response is, to that question, each caller is anxious to hear the answer for himself or herself.
The French say comment ca va? the Italians ask come sta? I seem to have stumbled on the secret to world harmony if we could only harness it, and to a universal empathy that has spanned the globe and all cultures. There’s no doubt about it, it’s a wonderful world.
It’s touching how every single soul I meet wants to know about my health; the butcher, the baker, the candle stick maker and even the stranger on the street asking directions is interested in my well-being. I’ll admit there was a bit of a lull when I broke my arm two years ago. People didn’t seem to be asking me how I feel as often as they used to, especially after the second or third time. But my arm is healed now, thank goodness and I’m back on track.
Telemarketers want to know how I feel. They call to congratulate me on being chosen for a chance to win a house. To be in the running I only need to attend a short seminar and listen to experts discuss how I can build up my wealth. It doesn’t seem to put them off when I tell them thanks but I’m not interested because I am already so independently wealthy. When I suggest they could offer their services to the needy, they try to convince me that I could never have enough and that as Michael Douglas once said,’ greed is good’. They sound so sincerely interested in my welfare that it’s with regret that I hang up.
My doctor always asks me how I am at the beginning of our sessions together. She’s warm and caring and there’s no doubt that she really wants to know, but she also knows that I tend to overdo it so she times me.
I don’t want you to think I have a monopoly on compassion. I listen to talk-back radio and no matter what the program or the host’s constant response is, to that question, each caller is anxious to hear the answer for himself or herself.
The French say comment ca va? the Italians ask come sta? I seem to have stumbled on the secret to world harmony if we could only harness it, and to a universal empathy that has spanned the globe and all cultures. There’s no doubt about it, it’s a wonderful world.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Idle hands
I used to knit. Yards and yards of yarn. No begging rello that came to my door was ever knocked back; my children, other people’s children, nieces, nephews, all got a garment each winter. As a mum raising two boisterous boys, I didn’t mind so much, I had plenty of time on my hands. And as little old ladies were always reminding us, ‘the Devil finds work for idle hands’. Wool was cheaper then and apart from the satisfaction of creating something original it was a more practical option to make your own than to buy a more expensive mass produced, machine made garment.
I loved to drop in to my local wool shop and speak to the old dears behind the counter. (They’re probably the ones who coined that term about the Devil and idle hands.) They could always answer questions about flat seams and cables and how to change colours when doing an Aran knit. Then I’d browse through pattern books, feast on the colours and feel the textures.
The little old ladies have all gone to God now, as have most of the shops and there’s no one there to have crafty chats with. Most of the shops that are left have gone on line. They probably feel that it is much cheaper to put together a website. I can’t blame them, not enough off the street customers to pay for the rent. Can you imagine how useless that is to somebody like me? I mean, knitting is a hands-on occupation for us serious knitters. So is choosing your materials. I feel the same about the E-reader, but that’s another story.
The trouble is that we are a throwaway society. There’s no point spending hours on creating something when it’s likely to last as long as the next season. One by one those arts and crafts are dying. There’s nobody around to pass them on to the next generation. I mean who knows how to tat these days? There was a glimmer of hope a few years ago when some film star bimbo knitted herself a scarf. Every woman and her dog jumped on the bandwagon, (remember that fantasy wool? It looked fantastic but was hell to knit if you dropped a stitch). It was only a fad.
I don’t want to be an old stick in the mud about it…well actually I do. I have grandchildren now. Their parents expect me to get my knitting needles out of hock. I have commissions galore and need to talk to somebody about a Shaker Rib and reversible knitting stitches.
I loved to drop in to my local wool shop and speak to the old dears behind the counter. (They’re probably the ones who coined that term about the Devil and idle hands.) They could always answer questions about flat seams and cables and how to change colours when doing an Aran knit. Then I’d browse through pattern books, feast on the colours and feel the textures.
The little old ladies have all gone to God now, as have most of the shops and there’s no one there to have crafty chats with. Most of the shops that are left have gone on line. They probably feel that it is much cheaper to put together a website. I can’t blame them, not enough off the street customers to pay for the rent. Can you imagine how useless that is to somebody like me? I mean, knitting is a hands-on occupation for us serious knitters. So is choosing your materials. I feel the same about the E-reader, but that’s another story.
The trouble is that we are a throwaway society. There’s no point spending hours on creating something when it’s likely to last as long as the next season. One by one those arts and crafts are dying. There’s nobody around to pass them on to the next generation. I mean who knows how to tat these days? There was a glimmer of hope a few years ago when some film star bimbo knitted herself a scarf. Every woman and her dog jumped on the bandwagon, (remember that fantasy wool? It looked fantastic but was hell to knit if you dropped a stitch). It was only a fad.
I don’t want to be an old stick in the mud about it…well actually I do. I have grandchildren now. Their parents expect me to get my knitting needles out of hock. I have commissions galore and need to talk to somebody about a Shaker Rib and reversible knitting stitches.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Coffee, Tea or Bonox
'Coffee, tea or Bonox?' was an advertising slogan. Both the drink and the slogan originated in the US. We seem to have adopted the slogan in Australia (some time in my dim and distant past), but I don't think many of us took to the drink. I began my relationship with coffee at 16 and haven't stopped to take breath since.
The smell of coffee freshly brewed still brings back fond memories of my younger self. Summer or winter, I greeted each new day with a cig in one hand and a coffee in the other. Usually I’d be sharing it all with the birds and the bees out in the garden. What they thought of second hand smoke I’ll never know, but thankfully for me and luckily for them I’ve given up the former. But I’m still hooked on the latter. Those nearest and dearest to me stay well out of the way until I’ve had my caffeine fix. I still can’t function without that first hit.
Is coffee another habit I should kick? If so, then millions of people world-wide should be joining me. But neither I nor they intend to give it up. Coffee has become an integral part of our lives and until somebody offers us something to equal it, we’re sticking with the devil we know.
Coffee has become a generic term for drink. Even if your guests end up drinking herbal tea or milkshakes you will always automatically offer them coffee. Coffee breaks the ice in a variety of social settings and stimulates conversation. And paradoxically while it is said to be a stimulant coffee also relaxes those first date tensions and soothes down lovers’ tiffs.
Coffee smells like ambrosia should taste, but falls far short of that, what a shame. I do keep hoping and trying. Whenever I grind and plunge or mix blends and dripolate I anticipate and salivate at the thought that I may have got that particular blend right this time round. It’s my holy grail, a mission I intend to follow through to the bitter, smooth, bold and playful, organic and fair trade end.
The smell of coffee freshly brewed still brings back fond memories of my younger self. Summer or winter, I greeted each new day with a cig in one hand and a coffee in the other. Usually I’d be sharing it all with the birds and the bees out in the garden. What they thought of second hand smoke I’ll never know, but thankfully for me and luckily for them I’ve given up the former. But I’m still hooked on the latter. Those nearest and dearest to me stay well out of the way until I’ve had my caffeine fix. I still can’t function without that first hit.
Is coffee another habit I should kick? If so, then millions of people world-wide should be joining me. But neither I nor they intend to give it up. Coffee has become an integral part of our lives and until somebody offers us something to equal it, we’re sticking with the devil we know.
Coffee has become a generic term for drink. Even if your guests end up drinking herbal tea or milkshakes you will always automatically offer them coffee. Coffee breaks the ice in a variety of social settings and stimulates conversation. And paradoxically while it is said to be a stimulant coffee also relaxes those first date tensions and soothes down lovers’ tiffs.
Coffee smells like ambrosia should taste, but falls far short of that, what a shame. I do keep hoping and trying. Whenever I grind and plunge or mix blends and dripolate I anticipate and salivate at the thought that I may have got that particular blend right this time round. It’s my holy grail, a mission I intend to follow through to the bitter, smooth, bold and playful, organic and fair trade end.
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