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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.