Cynical Kids

Sometimes the cynicism of my kids takes my breath away.

They’ll say when passing a McDonald’s, Oh, yeah like that’s really healthy. Not.

And I think, is nothing sacred?

Now I know I was the one who has been anti McDonalds and anti advertising from day one. But it still surprises me when my cynicism is sprouted back at me from the mouths of babes.

It just seems like such a cynical world my kids are living in. Everyone’s rolling their eyes and laughing at the silliness of everyone else.

I came home the other day and found them entrenched in front of the Simpsons. I sat down with them and watched a few. It does have a moral at the end but to get there, man, they take everyone down. And yes, maybe many of us are stupid and ignorant. But what kind of world is that to grow up in?

My daughter watched St. Trinian’s the other day on a play date. She came home practically repeating it verbatim. And it does sound funny and clever. But I watched amazed as my ten year old laughed about the drug dealings of one teacher and sexual escapades of another.

So I took her to the movies this weekend to see the movie The Young Victoria. I thought a nice old fashioned PG love story was in order: Nice guy takes a bullet for his lady. Good traditional fun. With lots of great clothes and grand palatial sets.

So how did you like it? I asked afterwards.

It was good, she said, but… She hesitated.

What?

Too much kissing, she said, shocked.

I laughed. Sometimes real emotions are shocking.

It was just what the anti-cynicism doctor ordered.

photo by .Martin. (flickr)

Happy Birthday, Ben

It’s my boy’s birthday today. Little baby Ben is 7 years old. Can you see the family dynamics in that phrase or what? He is our treasure and is doted on and is consequently getting a bit too So What Have You Done for Me Lately?

But he is awfully cute.

He can not leave a shop without wanting to bring all the resident stuffed toys home. He has, no lie, about fifty stuffed animals in his room. He comes down clutching one or two every morning. And they sit and watch him eat breakfast. They sit and wait for him to come home from school. They all try to fit into his bed for his bedtime read.

Which is all very adorable but I worry about him.

I hate it when I hear his friends say things like No you can’t do that or Go away or Give me that! And I want to say to them Who do you think you are, you little pip squeak, talking to my child like that? Truth be told, I want him to be the authoritative one. I want him to be the one calling the shots.

I blame myself. When he was a toddler and he whacked someone I took him into the corner and gave him a serious time out. So he’s learned to play nice (except with his sister who warrants subversive tactics). Plus he’s too much like me. I’m a bit of a push over. Which is probably why, deep down, I want him to be one of the tough guys. Even though it’s the adult tough guys who have gotten us into so much trouble lately.

I don’t want my son to be troubled upon.

But Ben doesn’t seem to care about that. I ask him Are they being nice to you? And he says Yeah. I say You don’t have to give it to them, you know. And Ben says I know. I say…but he’s off, running around with them, having a seemingly very good time.

Now I’m not much of a Bible reader but I do remember this from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, the Beatitudes:

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.

Which is all well and good and beautifully hopeful. Even so, for once I’d like to hear him say to the little pip squeaks You tawking to ME?

Writing Animal

By Spud

There’s a thing my dear children do on weekends that drives me nuts. They get up about 20 minutes apart. The first one gets up and I’m all hugs and snuggles, holding hands, asking What would you like for breakfast. Tell me how you slept. Are you warm enough. I’ll get your slippers. And then, Yes, of course you can watch TV.

And then just when the TV flicks on, the other stumbles out of her room, yawning, rubbing her eyes with her fists but she have missed the gravy train. My momself has disappeared, replaced by an insecure writer with not enough material. The poor second riser gets the dregs: Get your own breakfast and don’t make a mess, I’ll be in my office.

It sounds grand my office, doesn’t it? And yes it is a small room with a desk and a chair. It also contains our old suitcases, wrapping paper, boxes from all the appliances which for some reason my husband is loath to throw out, disused toys… In fact everything we don’t know what to do with ends up in my office. But it’s a step up from our old place where my desk was in the baby’s room. So cosy I didn’t have to get up from my desk to breastfeed. I just swiveled around in my chair to face the cot, lifted and clamped on.

My friends remind me what an animal I was with my first books, rising at 5 am to get some writing done before the kids woke up. I’m lazier now. I have, in theory, more time to write now that my children are in school but I fritter the time away. I’m not as focused and the books seem to be taking longer than they should. I should get up early again. Early enough so that my self censor isn’t awake yet and commenting on my lack of progress. It’s when I can write in an almost dreamlike state. By the time I’ve fully woken up my daily quota of 500 to 750 words is down and I can enjoy the rest of the day while my subconscious works on coming up with another 500 to 750 words. I really need to get back to that.

I’m going to start again tomorrow…