The World and I, we’re different (from each other)

It’s not often that people surprise me.

Today I was surprised twice by people’s view of me.

Today was “Inspection Day” at our lovely home (which happens to be a rental). Dragon Lady Rental Agent was to meet me at home for 9.45am. I rushed the school run, depositing and Elmo to their classrooms with all the finesse of a paperboy and tore off to meet (Childless and seems to have no concept of the work involved in raising children) Dragon Lady.

I was a minute late and this worried me. It’s the sort of thing Dragon Lady would click her tongue at. Grrr, I just wanted this inspection to be over. She perused the house with the eyes of a hawk and mouth of a lemon-sucker until Baby J said “eyow [hello]” and smiled at her, reaching out a hand to touch her face. She didn’t so much crack a smile, rather instantly melt like a toasting marshmallow, at once her eyes becoming soft and brown instead of hard and black. From here on in, she veritably skipped through the house like Goldilocks, ooing and ahhing at how beautifully I keep my home “and with four children to look after too” she marvelled. She (almost) made me blush and offered to Babysit when she had more time. She was positively lovely. She also mentioned more than once that she was incredibly busy with work and how stressed she was. It was only when I stopped freaking out about how she viewed me, and pondering whether she was judging me for dusty fly screens, that I took a moment to look at her face properly. She was clearly shattered and overworked. She is in her late forties and childless. [She said] She wanted to swap places with me. I realised that she thought I was the luckiest woman alive. Home with my babies clearing up spilled milk from the expensive Timber floor that I lease.

Rewind two days. Eight year old PoetBoy and I are in the Fun Bus on our way to Trendyville to purchase a gift for a friend’s birthday.

PoetBoy: Mum?

Me: Yup? (turns down music as PoetBoy sounds serious)

PoetBoy: I have fallen for some-one.

Me [deadpan]: That’s wonderful. Who?

PoetBoy: Rebecca. She lives next door.

Me: That’s lovely darling. I am glad you have a friend nearby.

PoetBoy [crying slightly]: No mum, I love her. [Revvs up the sobs ]But who would want a freak like me?

Me [soothingly]: You are not a freak, baby and when the time is right you tell her how you feel, you might be surprised by her reaction. (Crosses fingers for poor hormonal, vunerable son).

PoetBoy: You are cool mum, I love you

Me: I love you too.

the next day

PoetBoy: I did it mum, I finally told her. SHE FEELS THE SAME WAY! I feel like the luckiest guy alive!Woohoo!

Soo…my eight year old is “in love”. I will not tell him that he is not in love. I will allow his feelings to feel validated because I am his Mum and he will learn the harsh realities of dating and “love”, the highs and the lows, all without Mum being part of the Opinion Brigade.

today

My sensitive boy comes home from school devastated. I fear that Rebecca has crushed his little heart. She is afterall an “older woman” and could well be facing peer pressure of her own not to hang around with a younger boy. Children can be so cruel. No room for “live and let live”. But no, it is far removed from this:

Today I have been on the receiving end of where some of the judgmental little shites on the playground learn their behaviour. It seems that Rebecca is as besotted with PoetBoy as he is with her. Fabulous. Mother Nasty* however has passed comment that she hears all of the shouting coming from our house and that she doesn’t want Rebecca to associate with “That Boy”.

I am stunned. I glean every bit of information that I can whilst appearing outwardly calm. I smile and tell PoetBoy that we should try to make sure that we don’t give her good reason to think that. “Not so much shouting and screaming in the Garden, hey?!” I manage between gritted teeth. Inside I am boiling. Apparently I am a Horrid Mother who shouts at her Children “all of the time”.

Um.

What The Fuck?

I have partial hearing. It’s not something that people notice as my speech is perfect. It’s also not something I worry about, I couldn’t give a crap. If I miss something people repeat it and if I am talking to someone I can see their lips and hear from my right hand side. Big Deal. My natural voice is apparently very loud. Quelle Surprise. So Sue Me.

I shouted at Elmo the other day, it is true. He had run off across the playground to school whooping and grinning over his shoulder at me. I shouted “I love you baby, you have a great day”. He unashamedly shouted back “I love you too mum”. That’s what we do. Fuck who is listening. I shout at PoetBoy, Elmo and Looney, most days too… I believe my words are usually “Boys! Dinner’s ready, come n get it!”.

I break up play fights that get out of hand from 3.30pm until bedtime everyday. Often this involves raising my voice to be heard and to be listened to. Get OVER it.
We sing too…I wonder if that bothers her?

If Baby J is crying, we all sing together a song called “I love you” or “Yellow Bird” and he stops. Instantly. We sing Sweet Home Alabama by Lynard Skynard. Looney knew all of the words as soon as he could talk. It’s our anthem. And “Found you sitting on a suitcase Crying…”, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” and Tenacious D “Tribute” which PoetBoy and Elmo rock out to with Air Guitars and Drums. They are so cool and my heart bursts when I see them! We sing LOUD. We sing like Evangelical Preachers with something to prove. I am not going to Stop screaming and shrieking in my own home so that some jumped up prick woman from next door has less to whinge about.

This is the lesson I have yet to learn. It’s a hard one. Me and The Rest Of The World. We’re not the same.

I spent time today with a gorgeous family with similar Child Led principles, but we are few and far between. We are the families where the children are allowed to fall asleep on your chest aged one instead of sreaming themselves hoarse because a Dr in a book tells you to leave them to cry; we are the families where toys are to be played with, not admired and dusted on a shelf; we are families where the children scream in delight when they see a watermelon being sliced up for them all to share…and are not told shush; the families where Three year olds creep into bed with mummy and daddy when they lose their covers at night; the families where the children are taught to be adults by way of a slow gradual process instead of expectations being laden upon their shoulders. That’s us.

The woman next door with her (really very sweet) mouse like only daughter, can clearly not comprehend the amount of noise that six people in an open plan house naturally make; or the fact that I rarely shout for the hell of it, there is usually a damn good reason.

My children learn by my example.

As Adults they will be people who know self control and respect for others. They will also know how to command and on occasion demand respect themselves. They will know that people (especially women) sometimes cry for no obvious reason and sometimes because they are so very happy. They will know that educated people are sometime the most ignorant; they will know that some ignorant people would love to learn from my Boys to become less so; they will have the skills to judge appropriate situations in which to speak their minds and when to hold their tongues; they will be passionate people, like their Mother, because I have taught them that this is how to feel alive, without passion for life, for love, we are merely existing; they will know how to cherish those close to them and will learn for themselves who to choose when allowing people close. They will know that Violence is not the answer to any problem, but to take charge of situations so that they will not become victims.

My children learn this though seeing me cry, seeing me displeased, seeing me happy, hearing me sing and watching me live. I hide very littel from them. They also learn a lot from debating life and the universe at twenty minutes past their bedtimes in a bid to be allowed to “stay up”.

I can only teach them what they know. They will make their own choices with regard to that knowledge. I will learn to trust them to do just that.

When they are older and I relate to them the story of today, they will learn that when somebody judges you loudly and unfairly, the most dignified response is to turn you back and silently remember the words:

“Fuck you bitch. You know nothing about me”.

*Rebecca’s Mother (should this need clarifying!)

~ by Femme on May 17, 2007.