My beautiful children have now gone back to their day release penitentiary after the longest summer break in recorded history and our school music teacher is helping me stay sane with gifts that keep on giving. She suggested that on my limited single mother budget I could buy my youngest child a parental torture device AKA a recorder. Why? Will it help her learn to be musical? No. Will it promote family harmony? A trillion times no. A moody teenager and an eight year old practising recorder in the next room are not a happy mix. I can already hear the howls of protest. I looked on youtube and there are young whipper snappers playing recorder while Celine Dion sings. Double torture. Please make them stop. Apparently there are different kinds of recorder, soprano, vibrato, psycho, they all sound like hell to me. Mummy says no.
In his epic poem, The Prophet, Khalil Gibran summed up beautifully what is special in this life.
“a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, “speak to us of children,” and he said:
Your children are not your children.
You’ve just leased them until they are 18 on a ridiculously expensive payment plan
They are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
Well, actually Khalil I created them in my body, as a man you may not get the enormity of that concept. And as I recall they ripped right through me.
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
Especially when they are online chatting with their friends
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
Except when they haven’t done any homework or housework or don’t text you when they said they would, then you can give them a few choice thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
They surely do, especially the 14 year old girls
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
Even when their bodies are dressed like white trash bimbo pole dancers
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
Except when they are selling their souls to Facebook and tumblr and you are paying for the internet access. Then you can get your friends to spy on their blogs.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
Note to Lou: please don’t dress like your 15 year old daughter, you will look like mutton dressed as mutton. And teenage daughter will not borrow my ruched bright 1980s clothing.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
There is nothing you can do about breeding with someone who is located very far down the food chain, so don’t waste time regretting it.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and he bends you with his might that his arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
So your scrubbing, washing and bending over backwards will go unnoticed by everyone except your girlfriends who understand the toil and the sacrifices of single motherhood.
For even as he loves the arrow that flies,
So I teach my children that love flies like an arrow, but fruit flies like a banana
so he loves also the bow that is stable.
All mothers must be stable according to Khalil. No drunken party animals need apply. That means I’m out of a job then.
Eight years ago today I gave birth to a nutty little monkey. My youngest daughter is going to be a stunt woman, a truck and a punk when she grows up. She shouts and makes me laugh and I couldn’t imagine a peaceful life without her. Happy birthday Miss Zen
Living with a teenager feels like I have paid someone to hang shit on me every day. It’s great for my self worth to have someone tease me at regular intervals.
In the fashion stakes I’m in the mode of upgrading from slurry single mummy to fashionista, lead by my teenage daughter. She wears loads of make up. I don’t. She has clothes all over her bedroom floor. I try not to. I also try hard not to have tantrums about my needs not being met.
My wardrobe is improving but I wear Crocs to work. Just to make my teenager squirm. So daggy, but so practical. I bought my teenage fashion victim, I mean queen, a pair of Croc boots. She won’t wear them. Lucky I bought them in my size. This song is for you darling
Parents, school holiday torture is imminent. Medication may be required. Stock up now while you can. Finish your sentences, drink a whole cup of coffee without interruption, go to the toilet on your own, do all the fun things you’ll be giving up in the coming weeks. Parenting is great when you do it your way.
Happy, Happy Mother’s Day. Today is the day we say thank you to the woman who created us in her belly. Mothers love us more than anyone can and at the same time drive us completely mental. Even though I was the world’s most revolting teenager my mother would run in front of a train to save me. I’d do the same for my daughters, even though they think I’m bonkers and I make them crazy some days. I love you Mama. Thank you for having me and loving me. And for making your pavlova, no one has ever whipped up a pav better than you Barbara Pollard.
Parents don’t really need to make resolutions, we’ve already given up everything, our sanity, our sleep and secure employment. But I have decided to make a few resolutions for 2012:
1. I will give up late night drunk dialling and adding provocative comments on the Facebook pages of spunky men in the New Year. I don’t think it’s helping my dating prospects.
2. I will eat green vegetables and chocolate will not be the only food group I consume when my kids aren’t with me.
3. I will wean myself off reading star sign/astrological forecasting/personal analysis websites (mostly).
4. I will exercise daily (including chocolate eating competitions)
5. I will become a sophisticated urban professional, find a nanny for my children and secure a high-powered executive position. Will work 15-hour days armed with lots of gadgets to make me look successful and I will act terribly important while nanny feeds and clothes my babies. Nanny will rescue me from the quagmire of my life. Damn, why can’t I invent something simple in my kitchen that makes me a million bucks?
6. I will abandon all resolutions by 6th January and carry on with my usual debauchery.