Bleak House 2 (The sands of time)

Back to my father’s new front door.

So far it has received the following attention:

-     One coat of aluminium based primer (looked like a spaceship)

-     Three coats of dark grey undercoat

-     One coat of dark green topcoat

With some simple maths, I’m sure you can work out how often the car has now been parked on the doorstep.

However, being a hardwood door, all the paint is still insufficient to disguise the light grain of the wood.  This means the door has some faint lines, little more than the grooves of a baby’s fingernail.  Unfortunately, my father has decided he wants the plastic glossy finish that you see on the front door of 10 Downing Street and the grain is unacceptable.

Short of covering the door with cling film and painting over it, the only way to achieve this is to start again.  Consequently he has taken the sander to the door and stripped all the paint from it till it is as bare as a newly peeled twig.  He now intends to continue sanding the wood away, as if he were a makeup artist, tasked with achieving a flawless foundation.

All this might just be reasonable – in an over the top, OCD sort of way – if it weren’t for three main factors:

-     To sand the door he removes it from its hinges and lays it flat over trestles

-     It’s hardwood and bloomin’ heavy

-     He has a bad back

I know that lots of people have bad backs, but my father has been flat on his for 5 weeks, from a few days before Christmas till a month ago.  Literally.  Was in absolute agony, unable to stand, move, sit or even lie down.  Then over the course of 24 hours, the pain miraculously scarpers, taking with it any resolution he made to take things easy.

I thought teenagers were awkward but they’re really quite sensible compared to a parent en route to his second childhood.

Suggestions on a post card please.

Dubious pleasures

It’s the last day of half term, so time for homework to raise its ugly head.  Of course, I’d like to have seen it happen on the first day, or even the weekend before half term started as I fondly imagine the pleasure that would bring: knowing everything has been done.

Pleasure to me that is.  The boys don’t give two hoots – just like I didn’t when I was their age.  I think I'd done a couple of years of university before I saw learning and essays as a pleasure, rather than a chore to be prevaricated.

10am

Me:         Time to get your homework started

Jamie:    In a bit

Midday

Me:         Homework Jamie

Jamie:    Once I’ve done this

2pm

Me:         Have you started yet?

Jamie:    Just checking what I’ve got

4pm

Me:         Now!

Jamie:    Okay – no need to nag

I’m at that stage where you fear your teenager will never master the basics he needs to get through life, from cleaning teeth to comprehensible speech.  On a bad day, remembering to flush the loo is an issue, so maybe I am being unreasonable expecting homework too.

The boys’ delight in each other’s misdemeanours doesn’t help.  If one is being told off, the other either wants to know the gory extent of the crime, or joins in on my bad cop side.  I’d prefer them to stick up for each other, not revel in moral superiority.    

Still, I do remember those far away days when they used to tell each other of their mutual love.  I  hope they'll remember that when they no longer share a roof.  It's got to be more important than homework and unlike Latin, should last them a lifetime.

Hair, hair everywhere, nor any strand to cut

Haircuts have always been a problem. 

The boys no longer roll around on the floor, whilst the hairdresser crouches beside them, nipping in and out with the scissors.  However I still have to condition them to the idea, introducing it as a forthcoming event a few weeks in advance.

Jamie fights against it most, which is a problem because he’s got haystack hair.  I’d like to say it looks like a bird’s nest, except birds’ nests are carefully constructed and actually very ordered.  Jamie’s is more like a bird’s nest that’s been ripped to shreds by a cat burglar, then squished together, then rolled in the mud.  The barber spends ten minutes unpicking it before beginning so that his scissors don’t get lost.

When I ask him why he doesn't want it chopped, he says he’s saving it up for a surprise or maybe a sponsored cut.  I’d sponsor him just to wash it.

Daniel needs it shorter to save his neck.  He’s got straight silky hair which would hang down to the end of his nose if he didn’t head flick it out of his eyes every few seconds.  He won’t use his fingers (wrong look) and despite hair products being as much for boys these days, they’re also despised.  Instead, it’s a neck wrenching flick as if he’s after a dislocation.  Trouble is, everywhere I look there’s boys his age doing the same.  Maybe I should stock up on a neck brace, before there’s a run on them?

So I thought I’d show willing and get mine cut.  Minus six inches and despite having gone from long to short, only my husband has noticed.  Only course left is to stop washing it and start flicking.  But there’s a line at what you'll sacrifice for your children.

Half Time

The boys have reached the age where half term is theirs, not ours, and doing something together is greeted with as much enthusiasm as an extra day at school.

Me:         How about a museum?

Jamie:    Muuumm

Me:         The sea

Daniel:    Too cold

Me:         Bourneville – we’ve never been there

Jamie:    Too far

Me:         Go somewhere on our bikes

Daniel:    Effort

Me:         Well what do you suggest?

Jamie:    Go to 5 different Games Workshops

Daniel:    Airsofting

Games Workshop is the home of Warhammer, the modern version of tin soldiers.  The difference is you pay astronomical sums for badly pressed pieces of plastic that you first have to cut up, stick together and finally paint into armies.  The experts’ models belong in a gallery of exquisite miniatures.  The average teenager’s looks like the average teenager:  somewhat misshapen, blotchy and oddly attired.  Only Jamie is a fan.

Airsofting is similar to paintballing, except you use BB guns which fire small plastic pellets.  They still hurt and because you can’t see the paint splodges from a hit, apparently victims are honourable and stick their hands up when dead.  Whilst Dan has a dozen forms of protective gear, Jamie and I would be blinded.

In the end I get a grudging okay to a hands on music exhibition.  You can play different instruments and record your own tracks, which I think sounds fun.  It’s a far cry from my teenage years when a cassette recorder with a microphone was pretty amazing. 

Anyway, I’ll override the remaining grumbles and smooth out the day with fizzy drinks and other bribes.  And I don’t really care what we do, I just like being with them.

Costa Cool

I’m in the kitchen baking to see the boys through at least two hours of half term.

Daniel:   Can I have some money for Costa Coffee?

Me:         I’m making you a cake!

Daniel:   Yeah but I’m meeting Luke & Euan

Me:         Bring them here

Daniel:   It’s not cool

Since when – and how - did Costa Coffee become cool?  All I see there are parents and pensioners; plus the occasional city suit on his way home from distressing the economy. 

I thought teenagers were supposed to hang around bus shelters and bike sheds, but then again most of these have been demolished.  So much for discouraging car use.

Instead they lurk online on Facebook and MSN, jumping between one line conversations in half a dozen windows with the skill of a conductor controlling an orchestra.  At least they can multi-task.

And then there’s the PlayStation.

Me:         It’s time for bed

Jamie:   I’m in a game with friends from school

Me:         Well end it

Jamie:   I can’t, I’m the host and if I log off, everyone gets kicked out

Me:         Teeth grind

Before it became uncool for their friends to come round, you could always send them home.  Now, they’re here all the time but all you know of them are the jingles of electronic alerts. 

When they were babies, someone told me to give them a room of their own when they’re teenagers.  They’ll still be doing all the stuff you don’t want them to, but at least you know where they’re doing it.  Never realised that the internet would make this unnecessary.

Maybe real life at Costa Coffee should be encouraged.  I’ll just stuff their pockets with my cakes first, so they’re not corrupted.

Bringing up parents

Fidgeted through GCSE options meeting at school and spent most of time looking at the gym apparatus hanging from the ceiling.  Still a dozen ropes chained together and swagged back to each side of the room like a curtain.  Also two sets of wooden parallel bars suspended like a guillotine.  Are they actually used, or just there to invoke fearful memories in parents and take us back to our own schooling?

Still, at least they now provide chairs and we don’t have to sit cross legged in fart inducing position.

Took husband who was even more wriggly than me.  Wish I’d dragged Jamie instead, but last time we went together he told me off.

Jamie:    Put your phone away

Me:         Just deleting old messages

Jamie:    You’re not paying attention

Me:         What?

Count on Jamie knowing more about this than me and that he can tell me what he - and I -should be doing.  I just throw in odd suggestions, like how about Beauty course, and hope he ignores me.

Unlike Daniel’s college letter.

Me:         You’ve got to write to college this week, accepting the place they’ve offered

Daniel:    Have I?

Me:         It said so in their letter

Daniel:    What else does it say?

Me:         I don’t know, I haven’t read it

Daniel:    So why did you take it?

My irresponsibility again proven, I know why people say they don’t feel grown up enough to be parents.  It’s all very well feeling I’m still twenty something, it’s not so good I still act that way and don’t do the things I should.  Just relieved boys are 14 and 16 and so far I’ve got away with it. 

Never realised that becoming a parent meant you’d be taught responsibility by your children. 

Evil schemes and plots

Jamie’s decreed that today should be dedicated to evil schemes and plots. 

Me:         What d’you have in mind?

Jamie:    Locking the doors and keeping Daniel out

Me:         Is that it?

Probably shouldn’t encourage him to think more dastardly but wonder if I should worry that evil doings are not yet at The Beano level.

Their fight last night peaked with biscuits.  Not your obvious weapon of choice, but remember The Princess and The Pea?  Well, instead of a pea in the bedding, think biscuit crumbs and I know you’ll be squirming. 

Jamie placed four crumbs between Daniel’s sheets, whereupon Daniel retaliated by loading Jamie's bed with half a packet of pulverised digestives.  Jamie’s bed looked like a gravel pit, but I was relieved Daniel hadn’t had the time to prepare for this properly with jaffa cakes or jammie dodgers.

Unfortunately, I was the one to discover the other booby trap, a door handle smeared with something brown and squidgy.  Whilst I thought Cell Block H and raised hand to nose in great fear, there was no aroma and so Daniel is still living. 

Transpires, digestives also good crushed and mixed with water to form door handle paste.  But it demonstrates a certain innocence.

Should I tell them that their grandfather used to catch adders and post them to London Zoo?  Or that their eldest uncle broke stink bombs over their mother when I didn't do his bidding?  Or even how their middle uncle came to stab youngest uncle in foot with machete in a game of chicken?

Maybe better to continue stocking cupboards with biscuits for weapons of mass deconstruction and be grateful.

No touching?

I'm struggling to get right the teenage contact rules.  At 16, touching is now forbidden with Daniel, without prior invitation, such as:

Daniel:    Can you brush the cat hair off me?

Me:         Sure

Instead he lavishes what used to be my affection on the cat who clings around his neck like a collar and flares her claws at me if I go near.

At 14, Jamie, is the opposite.  He will use an implement to move the cat from his bed rather than touch her, and screeches if she brushes against him.  When he hangs around my computer it’s always:

Jamie:    Can I sit on your lap?

Me:         No

Jamie:    Why not?

Me:         You’re bigger than me and too heavy

Jamie:    You’re heavier

Grit my teeth at the truth and think you’ll miss this when he no longer wants to.  When Jamie sits next to me, it’s still okay to have my arm part way round him and neither of us even notice.  If I did this with Daniel he would be as appalled as if I’d turned up naked for a school parent’s evening.

Yet Jamie is the one who was horrified when I told him one of my friend’s had said he was quite good looking.

Jamie:    Isn’t that sick Mum?

Me:         No, she was just commenting

Jamie:    But why would she do that?

I have no answer that will make sense to him, as he totters within teenage no man’s land.  At his age, appearance is all to do with attraction and admiration can never be objective.  If you like the way they look, you must fancy them and don’t bother saying you don’t, because no one will believe you.  

The only way past this is to gain about thirty years. Or get married.  But neither's guaranteed.

Bleak House

With the slashing rain, numbing wind and general foulness of a British winter, we’re having the sort of weather when you close your front door, position the dog as a draught excluder, light a roaring fire and toast your crumpets.

Unless you’re my father.  

He has ripped out his front door and half the front of his house.  Admittedly, the extreme ventilation system only lasted a day or two before the replacement door and glass walls were installed, but now that they’re in, they need painting. 

Guess who gets to do that?

The first bit wasn’t too bad.  Lots of initial sanding required rapid hand movements and with the stretching up and down the door frame, all in all I was quite warm.  Then the painting started and nice warming speed sacrificed for accuracy.  After several hours outside in far too few clothes, I resolve to return in the thermal equivalent of an arctic sleeping bag.

The next morning, I find my father has parked his car on the front door step and there is a sign on the new glass wall saying DO NOT ENTER.  Front door is open.  Given continuing freezing rain, I have vague hopes of emergency which necessitates cancelling today’s painting.  Go round the back, but door is locked.  Go back to the front again.

Me:         Hello?

Father:    Good, you’re here.  Come in

Me:         What’s the sign for?

Father:    To keep people out

Me:         Why’s the car there?

Father:    To keep people out

It transpires he has not shut the front door since I left the day before, to allow the paint to dry.  Sensible for a few hours perhaps, but see paragraph 1 again, and reassess decision based on prevailing weather conditions.

This also means he has left the front door open all night, hence the DO NOT ENTER sign.  Personally, I’m not convinced your average burglar would read it and think, Oh, I’d better not go in then.  And especially when he has left them a getaway vehicle backed onto the doorstep. 

This time I paint all inside door edges first and demonstrate they are near enough to shut-dry before I leave. 

Hope to find winter has swopped places with summer for tomorrow’s painting.  And that my father has not been stolen.

The good, the bad and the baker

Got up at 9:30 to find the boys have already left the house to meet up with friends.  Without waking me.  Does this make me good parent – they’re capable, independent and considerate? Or bad - I slept in and didn’t say hello-goodbye have-you-money have-you-phone?

Resolve to compensate by baking a cake, which I tend to prioritise over meals.  I come up with the meals too, but like to think that making cakes demonstrates love whilst producing meals is just necessity.  They don’t fret the distinction.  They’re teenagers with insatiable stomachs.

Must remember the cake's for them. 

Blackmail and other habits

Jamie’s worried I will write about his bad habits.  What a suggestion.  He’s now given me a new level of blackmail that I hadn’t considered.  Up until now, blackmail’s been at the average level of Tidy-Your-Room-or-You-Can’t-Have-Your-Friend-Round and Eat-The-Parsnips-or-There’s-No-Pudding.  Now I realise that where bribes have failed, blackmail may succeed.  So of course I won’t include them - as long as he obliterates them instead.

Actually I’m quite encouraged.  After years of telling him Don’t Do That, it suggests he also recognises the Thats as best kept private.  If there were a 12 step plan for breaking a habit, I’m sure this must be at least step 3. Not so long ago he was bemused that I regarded his habits as so nefarious.  Now he either trusts my judgement or life is teaching him the hard way.

Meanwhile at sixteen, when I thought he’d be most resistant to parental interference, Daniel is keen to change.  He has decided time is pressing and is keen to wipe out his more peculiar habits.  He has even asked me to tell him when they sneak out. He’s currently working on cutlery.  I hasten to add he does know how to use them, but when not in use he rests them on his plate, as if sharing them with the person opposite.  Instead of leaning out at the standard 5 o’clock and 7 o’clock positions, he leaves them at 11 o’clock and 1 o’clock, so that they look like a pair of ears. 

Unless he is double or triple jointed, I can’t understand why he finds this more comfortable, but maybe there is some evolutional advantage yet to come of age.  And at least he no longer flings himself on the floor when asked to eat.

Hope Dan’s commitment to change is helping Jamie realise that habits can be broken, without the intervention of handcuffs.  So I’ll keep my promise for the moment, say no more and see if the fear of exposure works.

Best not tell him that thirty years later, I still miss sucking my fingers.

The pursuit of imperfection

The perfect son forgot his homework today.  As I told him he would when he declined to put it away last night, but we don’t mention that. 

He has decided that he must be the perfect son, because he came after his brother.  If his brother had been perfect, there wouldn’t have been a second, and because there is no third, the second must be perfect.  To his mathematical mind, this is a logical conclusion.  Shame perfection doesn’t extend to remembering things.

Most weeks there is a panic phonecall from school.

Jamie:       I left my sports kit at home, can you bring it?

Me:            No

Jamie:       I left my food tech in the car, can you bring it?

Me:            It was beside you in a bright green bag.  How could you miss it?

Jamie:       Can you bring it?

Me:            No

Jamie:       I left my English essay at home, can you bring it?

Me:            No

Jamie:       It’s the third time and I’ll get a detention

Me:            So start remembering

The books tell me that if I always say No, it will do him more good in the long run and he will remember next time.  Ten school years later, this advice has consolidated his position of always in trouble and I feel like an ogre.  For the perfect child (who actually does try hard), this isn’t fair.

It’s only helped by the imperfect child who never forgets and corrects my failings

Daniel:       Don’t you need to hand in your form today, Jamie?

Jamie:       Mum, can you sign this?

Daniel:       Have you got your lunch box?

Jamie:       No.  Hang on Mum, you need to unlock the door again

Daniel:       Is it Basketball tonight?

Jamie:       Stop the car!  I’ve forgotten my trainers

So the imperfect child who has enough confidence not to care about other’s opinions is always being praised.  Whilst the perfect child who cares desperately about doing well, thinks himself a numpty and the cycle continues.

Why is it so much easier to see the problem than fix it?

The road too travelled

My car has just turned one hundred and thirty thousand miles used.  I could have gone more than five times round the world for this.  Instead it’s one trip to Scotland (say a thousand miles), one trip to France (say another thousand) and that still leaves me enough for five circuits.  I daren’t calculate school runs and journeys to work in case I’m tempted to sell it, buy a backpack and travel for real.

I do try to use it less.

Daniel:    Can you pick me up from the station?

Me:         Why?

Daniel:    It’s raining, it’s dark, I’ve got a heavy bag and I’m tired

Me:         Try going to bed earlier

Phone goes dead.  Wonder if I should call back with a Don’t-You-Dare, like my friend does.  Don’t, as think I might lose.

We live up a steep hill, a mile from the station.  We’re on an unlit, wooded lane, too narrow for cars to pass and populated by maniacs whose vehicles are big enough for a football team, only use top gear and despise brakes. 

Phone rings again.

Daniel:    I didn’t hang up on you, I dropped my phone and the battery fell out

Me:         That’s okay

Daniel:    Will you pick me up then?

Me:         ‘kay

I pick up my car keys

Me:         Just going to get Dan

Jamie:    How come he gets a lift but you made me cycle to the supermarket?

Me:         He’s got a heavy bag

Jamie:    So did I

Sent Jamie out earlier to get rolls for next week’s lunchboxes.  Realised his backpack could also fit a chicken, carrots and milk, so he picked those up too.  You needed the exercise I think, but instead try good parent line.

Me:         You’re just a superstar

Jamie:    Well you can come too on your bike next time

Me:         ‘kay

Still, my husband has walked more miles in the past year than he’s driven.  Does that count?

Beyond me

Daniel has maths tonight, whilst Jamie’s playing with his iPod.

Me:         Have you done your maths yet?

Daniel:    I don’t understand it

I smirk thinking back to my ‘b’ grade O level which I like to think was nearly an ‘a’.

Me:         I can help you. What’s it on?

Daniel:    Quadratic sequencing

Me:         Quadratic what?

Jamie tunes in with his two year younger brother inferiority.

Jamie:    We did that ages ago.  Last year.  Last decade

Daniel:    Ha Ha.  It’s not just sequences you know (eyes narrow to indicate silent expletive)

Jamie:    n squared plus n plus two?  That stuff?

The right answer is clearly the wrong answer and the fact that Jamie knows how to do it does not go down well.  I push my luck.

Me:         Why don’t you get Jamie to help you?

This time there is a definite noise from the not so silent expletive, but not loud enough for me to decipher.

Daniel:    I’ll look up the book

Like you should have done in the first place I think, but it’s a result.  He’s doing it.  So I start on Jamie to make it seem fair.

Me:         Shouldn’t you be doing your homework?

Jamie:    I am

Me:         What – playing with your iPod?

Jamie:    I’m not playing, I’m drawing it

I now realise he has a wrinkled piece of paper under his hand that looks like it’s been rescued from the bin.  The kitchen bin.  Or the bottom of his schoolbag.

Me:         Why on earth are you drawing your iPod?

Jamie:    It’s art.  We’ve got to draw a small electrical object.  Or toy

I can’t say it doesn’t meet the remit.  I consider the utterly smooth rectangular object and its challenges.  I suppose it’s got rounded corners and a dent on the side where he dropped it.

Me:         Couldn’t you have chosen something a little more detailed?

Jamie:    Shrug

Daniel:    That’s quite good actually

Praise indeed.  I stare again and wonder what I’m missing.  Maybe next time I’ll get it.

Promises, promises

The homework ritual starts in the car. 

Me:         What have you got tonight?

Daniel:    Nothing

Jamie:    I’ll need to check.

Me:         Daniel, you can’t have nothing again.  You’ve got GCSEs this year.

Daniel:    I’ve done it at school

I let this ride for the moment and turn to Jamie.

Me:         You can’t need to check every time I ask?

Jamie:    I don’t remember otherwise.  I’ve got it written down, Mum, honest.

I let this one ride too as I know that unless I am standing over him as he turns every page of his planner, I won’t get an answer.  And for the next eight miles, this isn’t the moment.

Round one of homework concluded, the negotiations start.  They’ve decided before I pick them up who is most likely to be in favour at the moment and today Jamie kicks off.

Jamie:    Is it a Costa Day today?

Me:         No.

Daniel:    Why not?

Me:         Why should it be?

Jamie:    Cos we’re hungry

Daniel:    And we’ve been working hard all day

Me:         Ha!

Their injured innocence as I question this fills the car and they let it squeeze against me, giving me enough time to feel guilty before they try another tack.

Daniel:    How about a bun then?  From the baker?

Me:         Big sigh

Jamie:    Is that a yes?

Me:         Bigger sigh

Daniel:    We haven’t had one for ages

Me:         No, not since I put one in your lunch box this morning

Daniel:    That doesn’t count

Me:         Well, I might as well leave it out then and save it till after school

Jamie:    No, it does count, Mum

Silence from Daniel whilst he decides what to try next.

Daniel:    Well, can we go tomorrow then?

Me:         Maybe

Unfortunately they never forget a maybe and they mostly manage to convert them in their favour.  But whilst they’re trying to be nice to me, I put on the homework record again.

Me:         We’re not going to go if you’ve got any homework left

Jamie:    Yes Mum.

Me:         Even the stuff that’s not for tomorrow

Daniel:    ‘kay.

Jamie:    So is that a yes then?

Me:         Maybe

And we all keep quiet for the rest of the journey, knowing it is.