I have been BUSY! Keeping two tween-agers occupied isn't as easy as it looks. And with them around, there's more cooking and cleaning to do or else we spend the day going out and spending money. Oh how I long for the days when a trip to the park or the beach or a bike ride was sufficient. Not anymore.
Of course, I didn't see much of them in the first few days after school let out. Son had his bezzie mates round for a sleepover, then he went to another sleepover at one of the mate's. Then he spent half a day at home. Then another friend came over and spent the night. Daughter went to a friend's on Saturday night, was home Sunday, went shopping with another friend Monday and a sleepover that night at a schoolfriend's. Then Tuesday I took them and two friends shopping and to the cinema to see Harry Potter (fantastic!).
Here's the difference between boys and girls. At my son's sleepover and the one he went to, the boys played games and swam in his friend's pool. At the sleepover my daughter went to, the girls sat around telling each other their worst faults.
Maybe it's a 12-year-old thing. I seem to recall doing that too, with disastrous results for the friendship. Daughter's school friends did this at the last sleepover they went to as well. That resulted in some hurt feelings on the part of one girl. I know that because I am friends with the mother of that girl. I took the mother to lunch for her birthday last week, and she proceeded to tell me all about her daughter crying and feeling left out, etc. If I don't sound very sympathetic, it's because I'm not. This particular girl dumped my daughter two weeks into the school year. I didn't repeat anything my daughter had told me about the girl. I did say 12-year-old girls can be incredibly bitchy. I did say my daughter had also gone through a rough patch earlier in the year when nobody was calling her. I am fairly confident that information was passed on.
At this week's sleepover, Daughter asked the girl why she had quit calling her. Now here's where I get really pissed off. The girl's reply was that she thought Daughter had started acting bigheaded and she wanted to teach her a lesson so she quit having much to do with her! This from the child who boasts about her father's Porsche, her expensive new bedroom, the expensive holidays her family goes on. So Daughter tells me what the girl said and my voice starts to get really loud and indignant and Daughter starts to get defensive and won't tell me anymore. So I calm down and ask her if she thinks that was fair of the girl to say. She said she thought it was, and that maybe she hadn't been such a good friend to the girl.
I said no more and have not brought it up since. But I am incensed! I think Daughter is afraid of losing friends and so will put up this little madam for the sake of peace. The only thing that consoles me is that I doubt this relationship will last much longer than another school year, if that. I wish I could tell Daughter that women don't do this sort of thing to each other, that they grow out of it. But we all know that isn't true, don't we. Women are each other's best friends and worst enemies. I have wished many a time that I had a man's emotional makeup. I sometimes envy men their ease in keeping conversation on a surface level. Still, they have their problems too, don't they. There are still the Wannabe Alpha Males jostling for superiority in sport, cars, and women. And the men who will not show one iota of emotion. And the ones who are from Mars and other planets.
I'd put a 12-year-old girl up against them anyday. I know who would win.
Showing posts with label my son. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my son. Show all posts
Thursday, 26 July 2007
Thursday, 19 July 2007
Leaving Wyoming
I just got back from my son's Year Six Leavers Assembly. You know the sort. They all do skits and sing songs and thank everyone. I cried last year at my daughter's, but this year I was dry-eyed. Until I looked at the notice board and saw pictures of my son in Reception. Oh, he was a gorgeous little chappie. Still is. Back then he had these lovely chipmunk cheeks which he's inherited from me, though hubby's family like to claim his looks. I'll never have him like that again, and I feel somewhat melancholy about it. Still, he has grammar school to look forward to, and I think that will be the making of him. I think he will come out from under his bushel and shine the way I always knew he could. At least I hope he will.
But the farewell to primary school isn't quite so wrenching for me as the farewell to Wyoming will be this summer. That is where my mother lives. That is the state we visited every summer when I was growing up to see the grandparents. My mother moved back there in 1977. I've gone back most years ever since. My mother's parents moved there from Missouri when they were young adults, my grandmother to be a teacher, my grandfather to escape his abusive brother. My grandfather went on to be a cowboy for a few years. Yep, a real, live cowboy, though not nearly as romantic as in the movies. They met when they were in their 30s. He was ready to settle down and have a family. She was thankful to meet a man who wanted to settle down with her. They took a train to a town called Thermopolis, built over natural hot springs, and married there. They then lived on a homestead for a few years till the loneliness and the rattle snakes got to my grandmother. My grandpa, as I called him, then built a house that my mother and her twin sister were born in . The house is still in the family, occupied by one of my cousins and his wife and son.
I wrote earlier about my mother needing to move out of my stepfather's house. She is 82 and growing more infirm. He is 85, deaf, incontinent, prone to accidents of all sorts. I finally heard back from my sister, who is ready to have my mother move in with her. I broached the subject with my mother. She is ready to move in with my sister. We just need to tell my stepfather and his daughters and consult a lawyer, I think. Not necessarily for a divorce, but just to tie up any loose ends. Then my nephews will come with a U-Haul truck and take her back to Florida.
So this will probably be the last time I visit Wyoming for a very long time. I will savour the view of the mountains when we take our annual hike to clear our jet-lagged heads. I will dip my toes in the icy cold water of the mountain spring we visit. I will remember my brother, my cousins and I, as reckless teen-agers, drinking beer all the way down the mountain, and me having to stop at each and every rest stop. I will drive past Grandma and Grandpa's house and remember their vegetable patch, Grandma's flowers, the soft grass that I loved to walk barefoot in. It looks different now because my aunt built a house on part of the land. I will shut that out and remember playing croquet on that soft grass, the smell of Grandpa's garage where he kept all his old license plates, the green shed my brother and cousin called the sleephouse because that's where they slept when we visited. Where are those license plates now? Probably claimed by some relation. I think the sleephouse was taken down some years ago.
I will walk down the streets of my mother's town, as I do every year with my husband, peering at the vegetables and flowers that people somehow coax to life from a sometimes less-than-willing environment. We will point out to our children the house one occupant painted red, white, and blue the summer after 9/11. We will visit the hot springs of Thermopolis where my children will go down the various water slides and jump off the high diving board, as I did as a child. Perhaps we will coax them into the teepees for some photographs. I will try to get to Montana, which I try to do every year yet fail for one reason or another. Maybe one last visit to Yellowstone (though I hope not as I have yet to stay in the Old Faithful Inn, one of my goals in life). So much to fit in, so little time.
Leaving primary school is bittersweet. Leaving Wyoming will be much, much sadder.
But the farewell to primary school isn't quite so wrenching for me as the farewell to Wyoming will be this summer. That is where my mother lives. That is the state we visited every summer when I was growing up to see the grandparents. My mother moved back there in 1977. I've gone back most years ever since. My mother's parents moved there from Missouri when they were young adults, my grandmother to be a teacher, my grandfather to escape his abusive brother. My grandfather went on to be a cowboy for a few years. Yep, a real, live cowboy, though not nearly as romantic as in the movies. They met when they were in their 30s. He was ready to settle down and have a family. She was thankful to meet a man who wanted to settle down with her. They took a train to a town called Thermopolis, built over natural hot springs, and married there. They then lived on a homestead for a few years till the loneliness and the rattle snakes got to my grandmother. My grandpa, as I called him, then built a house that my mother and her twin sister were born in . The house is still in the family, occupied by one of my cousins and his wife and son.
I wrote earlier about my mother needing to move out of my stepfather's house. She is 82 and growing more infirm. He is 85, deaf, incontinent, prone to accidents of all sorts. I finally heard back from my sister, who is ready to have my mother move in with her. I broached the subject with my mother. She is ready to move in with my sister. We just need to tell my stepfather and his daughters and consult a lawyer, I think. Not necessarily for a divorce, but just to tie up any loose ends. Then my nephews will come with a U-Haul truck and take her back to Florida.
So this will probably be the last time I visit Wyoming for a very long time. I will savour the view of the mountains when we take our annual hike to clear our jet-lagged heads. I will dip my toes in the icy cold water of the mountain spring we visit. I will remember my brother, my cousins and I, as reckless teen-agers, drinking beer all the way down the mountain, and me having to stop at each and every rest stop. I will drive past Grandma and Grandpa's house and remember their vegetable patch, Grandma's flowers, the soft grass that I loved to walk barefoot in. It looks different now because my aunt built a house on part of the land. I will shut that out and remember playing croquet on that soft grass, the smell of Grandpa's garage where he kept all his old license plates, the green shed my brother and cousin called the sleephouse because that's where they slept when we visited. Where are those license plates now? Probably claimed by some relation. I think the sleephouse was taken down some years ago.
I will walk down the streets of my mother's town, as I do every year with my husband, peering at the vegetables and flowers that people somehow coax to life from a sometimes less-than-willing environment. We will point out to our children the house one occupant painted red, white, and blue the summer after 9/11. We will visit the hot springs of Thermopolis where my children will go down the various water slides and jump off the high diving board, as I did as a child. Perhaps we will coax them into the teepees for some photographs. I will try to get to Montana, which I try to do every year yet fail for one reason or another. Maybe one last visit to Yellowstone (though I hope not as I have yet to stay in the Old Faithful Inn, one of my goals in life). So much to fit in, so little time.
Leaving primary school is bittersweet. Leaving Wyoming will be much, much sadder.
Tuesday, 17 July 2007
A Whole New World
I had coffee today with my friends who also help with reading at my son's primary school. As the days are ticked off till the end of my son's Year Six, I reflect on all that I did at that school. There was the PTA, of course, which I was heavily involved with for a time. Then I helped out at the infants' library once a week for five years. And I helped individual children with reading for six years. I so enjoyed that and could have continued, but decided it's time to move on. To what I'm not sure. I don't think there's the scope at secondary school for parents to help out other than in PAs. And I've been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Both of my children have also made it very clear they don't want me to show my face at their respective schools.
What I will continue to do is meet up with my friends -- two men and the bad mum with the tattoos and pierced nose. She's as raunchy as I am. When drilling from the restaurant next door made conversation difficult, I said we should pretend it's a vibrator. Well, the men just didn't know where to look or what to say. Granted, one of them is a grandad and a devout Catholic and the other is rather inhibited. Does them good to go out with us, I say. On the telly was "Big Brother." I just don't get the fascination with this programme. It's all so boring watching members of the "Look At Me" generation brush their teeth and preen in front of mirrors. OK, here's where you all think "It's pretty boring reading about your life too."
The men were asking us what happened to the Spice Girls, and alarmingly, G., the other raunchy woman, and I knew about each and every one of them. Too much time spent at the hairdresser's, I explained. I also have a confession to make: I watch the Katie and Peter Andre programme with my daughter. Somehow I find them endearing. Maybe because I watched them get together on "I'm a Celebrity." Yeah, ok, I admit to watching that. But that particular one was downright funny because of those two.
I will miss my friends, but we don't live far from each other. Indeed, A., the inhibited one, lives just a few doors down. Unfortunately, he suffers from severe short-term memory loss and you never know if he's going to remember you or not. He had a brain tumour some years back and isn't even supposed to be alive. But they zapped it good and proper with the radiation and he went on to get his wife pregnant twice (the docs said he'd be sterile probably) although unfortunately she had an ectopic pregnancy the first time. The second pregnancy resulted in the most gorgeous little girl. A. can't walk too well now because of nerve damage from the radiation so he has one of those motorised scooters. I call him Easy Rider. His little girl rides her scooter along next to him and gets on board when she gets tired. I smile every time I see A. He is such a lovely fellow. He was lovely before his illness, and he's lost none of his loveliness. He has to be a stay-at-home dad now because his short-term memory loss eventually meant he couldn't continue to do his job. Instead his wife has gone back to work. He's one of those people you feel proud to know.
I thought I would feel a bit sad about the passing of this stage in my children's lives, but I'm not. I think I will now look into doing something for me. I've wanted to take a massage course. I'm quite good at giving them, probably because I've had so much physiotherapy on my back I can feel the source of tension in others'. And the fellow in the village who did Shiatsu massages has left so there's an opening. Well, we'll see what happens.
Wednesday, 4 July 2007
Today is the Fourth of July. Independence Day in America, where we celebrate by having cook-outs, fireworks, and lots of beer. Since I've been in England, I tend to ignore this day. Well, who would celebrate with me? Actually, I find my English friends quite amenable to the idea of celebrating a bunch of terrorists (whoops, patriots) beating a bunch of poorly prepared soldiers. But it's just not the same. So I've let this holiday pass most years. I still do Thanksgiving every year. My British friends love Thanksgiving because it's all about food and friendship, two things most people enjoy.
Today is also the day I waved goodbye to my son as he went off independently on his school PGL trip. It's one of the last rites of passage before he moves on to secondary school. I felt like crying but don't know if it's because of my current physical ailments (bad back, cystitis, conjunctivitis) or because I'm sad at the passing of my children's childhood. It seems like yesterday I got my son ready for his first day of school, in his brand new shorts, jumper, and shirt. His blue eyes sparkled that day in anticipation of going to big school. Then big school became a disappointment as he struggled with various subjects.
Now we have grammar school to look forward to. We ordered the blazer yesterday afternoon. Then we went to the meeting last night for new parents. I dragged my boy along because I thought all the boys were going. As we arrived, though, it became apparent that many parents felt it best to leave their sons at home. I'm glad I didn't. He got to meet his new form teacher, listen to the languages master explain the different options, groan at the lame jokes made by his head of year, yawn at the PE teacher. It's just one more way for him to become familiar with what will be his academic home for the next five or so years. None of his friends is in the same form as him. There is one other boy from his school who will be with him. I tried to put a good spin on it. I said the other boy isn't going to be with his good friends either. I said at least he wasn't going to be with the boy he can't stand. I said it will be an opportunity for him to meet other boys. I scanned the list of names. "Oh, yes, you know him from football. And this one used to go to Kumon with you." Still, I could feel his disappointment and watched as he fought back tears. I wish I could do more to make him feel better. But this is something he will have to go through himself.
In the middle of the lame jokes and much-too-long meeting, my mobile rang. I rushed to switch it off, but couldn't find it of course because it was at the bottom of my bott0m-less pit handbag. It was my daughter. She'd found a slug. In the house. She was crying because she didn't know what to do. How did the slug get in the house? Easy. The cat brings them in in her fur. I find at least two everyday this time of year (and some people moan about fleas!). Fortunately, she figured out that she could pick it up with a paper towel and throw it away. Glad to know she's learned something from me. She goes off on her PGL trip on Friday, the day my son comes home. I've spent all weekend and week getting the two of them ready. I'm sure my daughter will be fine, provided there are no slugs in her room.
There's a silence and stillness in the house, a taste of what will be in the future. We bring our children into the world, and they are such a major part of our lives. And then they are gone. Off to have an independent life. Should I celebrate?
Friday, 29 June 2007
Harper Valley PTA revisited
Here is my son in his school play. Obviously, he looks more human than the fellow at left, but I must say he is the Best Damn Squirrel ever in a school play. He should win an award.
Last night was a bit melancholy because it's the last school production either of my children will be in in primary school. But on the other hand, I thought, Hurrah, I don't have to see those Bitch Mothers anymore. You know the sort. Very cliquey. They rule the PTAs of the world. I used to be one of them till I was frozen out. Then I decided, Fuck 'em. I can't stand the PTA anyway. I can't help it if my children are so gorgeous and intelligent that they just naturally outshine the BMs' children. I can't help it if I'm just naturally so gorgeous and intelligent that I outshine the BMs.
So I sat next to one of the Bad Mums who still speaks to me and we had the most fascinating conversation. She's just had her nose pierced, and she regaled me with stories of the piercings of other bodily parts that she saw or heard about. Body piercing, apart from ears, is something I only ever saw in National Geographic. Foreskin and clitoral piercing are way outside my league. I remember when having two piercings in each earlobe was daring.
Anyway, after the piercing conversation we moved on to gossip about the male teacher who has been off for two months because of a bad back. The other mum reckons it's from too much shagging (he's recently become engaged after losing his wife to cancer). And we had a good look at the boyishly handsome new head, so different from the old head who didn't believe in shaving her legs. I always thought a sponsored leg wax would have been a good fund-raiser.
All in all, it was a good evening, despite one of the Bitch Mothers trying her best to blank me (she couldn't because she would have tripped over me otherwise). I do so enjoy being one of the Bad Mums.
Saturday, 16 June 2007
Rising Son
Today is my son's 11th birthday. Seems like only yesterday that I was having the little guy. He was a bit of a surprise, a little too much fizz on my daughter's first birthday. I never dreamed I could get pregnant that easily. I wasn't happy about it at first. I come from a family with big gaps between the children. And so I thought I would probably have the same, not 20 months. I nearly cried at first. How would I ever cope with two small children? I suffered more with tiredness, sickness, and swollen ankles the second time.
The birth took me by surprise too. He was due on June 26. I wanted him to be late and be born in July because June is littered with birthdays in my family. But I had a chest infection and was coughing quite violently. I'm sure that's why he came early. I didn't even realise my water had broke but a friend suggested I go to the hospital to be sure. Once there they wouldn't let me go home because I'd been leaking amniotic fluid for a while. They put me on an oxytocin drip, and my neighbour, who'd taken me to the hospital while my husband put our daughter to bed, went home. I was by myself for a couple of hours while my husband tried to get things together for my bag. My mother was due to arrive later in the week. I sat in a rocking chair and felt very sorry for myself and started to cry. When my husband got to the hospital he wasn't much help because he had an ear infection. I refused an epidural because I'd had one during my daughter's birth and didn't like it. So it was gas and air, which was useless, and a pethidine injection for the last moments.
The cord had become wrapped round my son's neck. Not out of the ordinary, the midwives say. But that had happened to my brother too, and had cut off his oxygen supply temporarily. Then they detected a heart murmur in my son. Again, not out of the ordinary. They made me stay in over night to see if it would go away. It did, and we took our beautiful boy home. He was so placid those first two weeks, sleeping almost nonstop. I'd have to wake him to feed him. Then he met my mother-in-law and became a different baby. My husband was much more hands-on with our daughter, but because of the ear infection and sheer tiredness, he left most of the parenting, particularly at night, to me. At the same time our daughter, who'd been a very good sleeper, decided waking at night was a good idea. I remember staggering from one room to the next, breasts heavy with milk as I tried to interest my son in feeding. He still doesn't care too much for food.
What was easy with my daughter was a huge struggle with my son: feeding, potty training, school. My daughter has always been a social person, even as a baby. My son is quite happy with his own company or just me. We discovered his sense of humour on his second birthday as he took delight in amusing us all with rolling his eyes back in his head. He found he liked making people, especially me, laugh. He learned that if he made me laugh, he would be far less likely to get into trouble. He's quite the comedian at school too, and earns detention points as a result.
I mentioned my brother earlier. My son was actually born on my brother's birthday. This upset me to begin with. My brother and I weren't close growing up. He has learning problems, dyslexia certainly and possibly some others, which were never diagnosed when he was at school. I have worried over the years that my son would be the same. When he was in Year One, his teacher at first said he was Mr. Average. Six months later, she said he was struggling across the board. Remembering my brother's struggles, I immediately sent him to an education specialist for observation and to Kumon Maths. I should never have done that. It gave him the message that he was slow, thick. It knocked his confidence for years, and I'm to blame for that. What I've learned about my son over the years is that he does things in his own time, and you can't force him otherwise. He taught himself to ride a bike last year. He was ready for it. After years of refusing to play football, he finally joined a team and loves it. He passed the 11 plus despite all my fears. The day we got the results I was so ecstactic. I waited till he got home from school to tell him. His nonchalance upset me and I cried. "I thought you'd be happy about this," I said. "I am happy," he replied, crying with me.
He's quite a sensitive boy, hates being shouted at, will cry if someone does shout at him. My daughter thinks he's being manipulative because he knows I melt if he cries. Maybe he is, but I don't think so. He actually cares about my feelings. My daughter is in the throes of hormonal hell, thinking only of herself most of the time. But my son still thinks of me. The day I returned from Florida, I picked him up from school. I could see him walking towards the car. When he saw me, his face brightened and he started running. "I missed you!" he said as he gave me a great big hug.
All that pain 11 years ago was worth that.
The birth took me by surprise too. He was due on June 26. I wanted him to be late and be born in July because June is littered with birthdays in my family. But I had a chest infection and was coughing quite violently. I'm sure that's why he came early. I didn't even realise my water had broke but a friend suggested I go to the hospital to be sure. Once there they wouldn't let me go home because I'd been leaking amniotic fluid for a while. They put me on an oxytocin drip, and my neighbour, who'd taken me to the hospital while my husband put our daughter to bed, went home. I was by myself for a couple of hours while my husband tried to get things together for my bag. My mother was due to arrive later in the week. I sat in a rocking chair and felt very sorry for myself and started to cry. When my husband got to the hospital he wasn't much help because he had an ear infection. I refused an epidural because I'd had one during my daughter's birth and didn't like it. So it was gas and air, which was useless, and a pethidine injection for the last moments.
The cord had become wrapped round my son's neck. Not out of the ordinary, the midwives say. But that had happened to my brother too, and had cut off his oxygen supply temporarily. Then they detected a heart murmur in my son. Again, not out of the ordinary. They made me stay in over night to see if it would go away. It did, and we took our beautiful boy home. He was so placid those first two weeks, sleeping almost nonstop. I'd have to wake him to feed him. Then he met my mother-in-law and became a different baby. My husband was much more hands-on with our daughter, but because of the ear infection and sheer tiredness, he left most of the parenting, particularly at night, to me. At the same time our daughter, who'd been a very good sleeper, decided waking at night was a good idea. I remember staggering from one room to the next, breasts heavy with milk as I tried to interest my son in feeding. He still doesn't care too much for food.
What was easy with my daughter was a huge struggle with my son: feeding, potty training, school. My daughter has always been a social person, even as a baby. My son is quite happy with his own company or just me. We discovered his sense of humour on his second birthday as he took delight in amusing us all with rolling his eyes back in his head. He found he liked making people, especially me, laugh. He learned that if he made me laugh, he would be far less likely to get into trouble. He's quite the comedian at school too, and earns detention points as a result.
I mentioned my brother earlier. My son was actually born on my brother's birthday. This upset me to begin with. My brother and I weren't close growing up. He has learning problems, dyslexia certainly and possibly some others, which were never diagnosed when he was at school. I have worried over the years that my son would be the same. When he was in Year One, his teacher at first said he was Mr. Average. Six months later, she said he was struggling across the board. Remembering my brother's struggles, I immediately sent him to an education specialist for observation and to Kumon Maths. I should never have done that. It gave him the message that he was slow, thick. It knocked his confidence for years, and I'm to blame for that. What I've learned about my son over the years is that he does things in his own time, and you can't force him otherwise. He taught himself to ride a bike last year. He was ready for it. After years of refusing to play football, he finally joined a team and loves it. He passed the 11 plus despite all my fears. The day we got the results I was so ecstactic. I waited till he got home from school to tell him. His nonchalance upset me and I cried. "I thought you'd be happy about this," I said. "I am happy," he replied, crying with me.
He's quite a sensitive boy, hates being shouted at, will cry if someone does shout at him. My daughter thinks he's being manipulative because he knows I melt if he cries. Maybe he is, but I don't think so. He actually cares about my feelings. My daughter is in the throes of hormonal hell, thinking only of herself most of the time. But my son still thinks of me. The day I returned from Florida, I picked him up from school. I could see him walking towards the car. When he saw me, his face brightened and he started running. "I missed you!" he said as he gave me a great big hug.
All that pain 11 years ago was worth that.
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