Kids v teachers - we know who wins!

Day 360

It was book group last week and we did The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks. As an example of how childhood isn't that innocent, and children are not always sweetness and light, it was very successful. The main character had already killed three members of his own family before even becoming a snotty teenager, and describes it as a phase he was going through. Nice.

Got me thinking about my own adolescence though.

I suddenly remembered the thrill of power and pride that had spread though our class, when we heard our English teacher had suffered a nervous breakdown. We were convinced we had driven him to it and shamelessly gloried in it.

Steve said the same had happened at his school so we weren't unique in our callousness by any means. To have an effect on the outside world - on the adult world - was something we all aspired to and bragged about.

"We made Miss shout/throw the board rubber at Sid/storm out the room/cry" meant you weren't at the bottom of the food chain any more, and there is nothing more enticing to any child than having power over an adult.

I personally couldn't get away with it with my parents - they were just too terrifying - but teachers were fair game. And dinner ladies. And the driver of the school bus if it was Ken (but not if it was Herbie c'os he was nice).

So when Penny had a crush on the maths teacher and just leaned back in her chair, glowing at him lasciviously, and the poor man had to hide in the stationery cupboard until he'd got himself together, we thought that was wicked.

And there was one lad who had a set of skeleton keys he had made that opened every door in the school. He was our hero. A total God of cool.

And when a sneakily made audio tape circulated around the school, of Miss Threapleton (the strict and unpopular classics teacher and head of the girls boarding house) and the new sports master in bed together, our glee was unparalleled.

God, we were horrible.

In my defence, can I just say that I do still feel guilt and remorse over one incident.

On a school walking trip, me and Alison Neate (the class gorgeous girl), were hanging back and waiting for a chance to nip behind a tree for a wee. Up came Dr Skinner, IQ of gazillions and therefore, not very cool but really making an effort.

He kept talking to us, very pleasantly, as we meandered along, but showed absolutely no signs of leaving us and catching up with the others no matter how slowly we went.

Eventually, my walk had turned into a closed legged sort of waddle, and I whispered to Alison "this is getting worse and worse".

Not quietly enough.

Dr Skinner went bright red, muttered something about needing to join the others, and sped off leaving us in fits of embarrassed laughter, whereupon I pee'd myself anyway.

For six years - let me repeat that, six years! - I tried to pluck up the courage to apologise to the man. Never did. Still feel dreadful about it because it was accidental.

Had we intended to insult him, however, we would have been triumphant. Therein lies the difference.

So - childhood - not so innocent. Come to think of it, the only innocence I remember was a complete lack of comprehension about the consequences of my actions and the limitless ability to revel in the misfortunes of others.

Still, we can't get away with that as adults, so enjoy it while you can, kids.

Unless you want to be a sociopath and end up in a book by Iain Banks, of course.

Get your dates right, boys

Day 294

Fancied a bit of a change - what do we think of the new look? There are several others I'm intending to try out but this felt good to start with.

The boys came up trumps on Father's Day this year. They are both rubbish at giving people gifts and cards on time (or at all), and I was still waiting for my birthday cards from the beginning of the month. I put the fear of God and a few other deities into them about Father's Day though, and they turned up with a card each for Steve - ON THE DAY!

AND they had a card and pressie for me. Well, swipe me sideways and call me Susan.

Joe bought me a candle (the last of the big spenders, that one) which was quite nice, actually, as I'd just been to a car boot sale and bought a big wooden candlestick.

Sam bought me a bathroom gift set, which on first glance appeared to be quite nice too. On closer inspection, however, it proved to be fantastic. It was clearly cheap and foreign and, better still, badly translated. Lush!

I am now the proud owner of bath salts for 'decompression', should I ever want to bathe at a depth of 1000 metres. My 'fancy soap' - (which, in my head, is soap given to you by your fancy man) - is supposed to 'cleanlily take good care of ones health maintain skin'. But my favourite is the shower gel which promises to 'clean skin, no-irritated, moisten,and fresher'. Fab-u-lous!

So - I get a birthday present on Father's Day. Steve should expect a Father's Day pressie on his birthday, at the end of July. Then he can have his birthday presents on Sam's birthday in August, who will have to wait until Joe's birthday in December for his. Joe can have his birthday present at Christmas, and they can both wait for their Christmas presents until Easter.

Sorted. Much less expense and we can shop in the sales. If they complain, I can always point out that "you started it", like the mature person that I am. (I am a reed, I bend, I adapt, I go with the flow, this is all perfectly zen...)

You do your best as a parent but it just never turns out the way you expect, does it. They are both much shabbier at things I have always considered important, and wiser than I ever would have expected. They are both funnier, which is always a bonus.

Sam is far kinder than he seemed likely to become as a boisterous little toddler. Joe is more stubborn than I anticipated. And handsomer. But the older they get, they seem to move further and further away from the way I brought them up and into a space of their own.

This is exactly how it should be, I know, but it is also a bit weird.

I have invested twenty-eight years into being a parent, which is well over half my life, and I find I still want to see evidence of all that input in their current lives. I am not quite ready to have my influence so speedily repelled, the lessons I tried to instill so conveniently forgotten, or to have the values I exampled discarded with such happy nonchalance.

This letting go stuff really is for grown-ups, isn't it.

Perhaps I need to have a 'decompression' bath, and get myself 'moisten and fresher', which sounds just about as rude as it possibly could. Ergo, I'm in.

Care to join me?