The pre-school battlefield is where the clash between the warring factions of parents and children is at its most heated. The statement that most accidents happen in the kitchen, can equally be applied to arguments. And for all that every school morning seems to be the same, month after month, year after year, as time passes there are subtle changes, as each side develops new tactics, meeting force with resistance, invoking counter-terrorism against espionage. Today, another new tactic from this side of the great wall.
One of Two thrives on painful sluggishness every morning, taking years to do things which even her brother does in seconds. Most days I end up saying the same thing to her, and I know I must sound like a really tired, boring old parent who never changes the record. ‘You’re the one who’s going to be late,’ I intone, like some ancient incantation. ‘I’m not going to be late for anything,’ I say, (albeit this morning I was hoping to be back in time to watch the last couple of overs of the Test Match), ‘Two of Two, (whose official start time is fifteen minutes later) isn’t going to be late for anything. Just you, One of Two. It’s your responsibility, I don’t care if you’re late.’
Blah, blah, blah. She must just instantly switch off. It’s like Gary Larson’s ‘What we say to dogs, what dogs hear’ cartoon. And then, of course, I invariably completely betray my words, by continually getting on at her until she’s actually out the door, showing that I do care if she’s late. Rubbish parenting.
This morning, for some reason, I decided to be true to my words. I gave her the speech, told her that Two of Two and I were ready to leave and that it was up to her to get ready in time then I walked down the stairs and left her to it.
She did not rush. Time passed. The clock ticked. Outside, cars whizzed by on their way to work and school. The weather changed. A couple of guys painted the Forth Bridge. Geoff Boycott ground out a double century. Civilisations rose and fell. I wondered, as she had already used up her usual morning spoiling tactic of sitting on the toilet for half an hour, what she could possibly be up to.
She appeared, smiling, some time later. By this time I was in such a rush that I didn’t look at her, just hustled the kids into the car and legged it out of the garage. Only then did I notice… She had absolutely clarted her face in make up. Lippy, lip gloss, mascara, God knows what else.
I’m a man, from the west of Scotland. I don’t know anything about mascara. Seriously. I don’t even really know what it’s for. I hate make up. It’s bad enough on women, a hideous abomination on wee girls. However, even though I’m amazingly and happily ignorant about something I see on women every day, I do know enough to sense that stabbing yourself on the eyelid with mascara, giving one eye a small black splodge so that you look like you’re in the first throes of some strange and exciting new plague that’s about to sweep the planet, probably isn’t right.
To be fair to the girl One of Two, she’d nailed the lippy.
I searched the car in vain for tissues. (Finding yourself without tissues or wet wipes is a regular, if minor, bad parenting moment.) When we arrived at school I unearthed a towel in the boot. I’ve no idea what it had previously been used for. Maybe it’s just there in a Hitchhiker’s Guide way in case of emergencies, and this certainly fitted the bill. I pounced on One of Two, and a few minutes later her face was cleared of all Max Factor products and the like. Maybe because she knew she was never going to get away with it, or maybe because I refrained from the boring ‘no daughter of mine…’ speech, she pretty much gave me free reign to towel her face away.
And just to further thwart my intentions, we arrived at school at the same time as two other kids in her class, who proceeded to walk slowly into the building in no great rush. She had spent hours and hours, so it seemed, applying her face, and yet we still weren’t particularly late. Another triumph for the spawn.
Kids dispatched, I drove home and walked back into the house, back to that wonderful silence and calm, a beautiful serenity that cannot be undermined by the clamour of unwashed breakfast cereal plates which surround the kitchen sink like native American’s around Custer’s wagons, and planked myself down in front of the television.
The cricket was finished. One of Two’s victory was complete. When I picked her up I told her that I’d managed to see the last five overs, but she knew I was lying.
No comments:
Post a Comment