Open Writing

If I was not already up to my double chin in ‘societies’ I would feel staunchly tempted to form a new one, the SPCPEM – A Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Parents especially Mums.

Any society misappropriation can, it seems, with a little help from various authorities and psychiatrists, always be traced back to parents. Yet no one notices the adversities we suffer or the cruel way we are neglected.

The pain of childbirth is nothing compared with the agony and fatigue of adolescent rearing. We are provided with Trilene to numb the discomfort when they enter this world, but are compelled to suffer their adolescence undrugged and sober. On certain painful occasions in our household a whiff of gas and air would be most welcome.

The trouble is my juveniles just don’t understand me. My first mistake was not being as tall as everyone else’s mum – a great disadvantage now their twitchy nostrils are higher than my parting – another twelve inches could give me more authority. Also, I am constantly informed other mums are half my age, which on my calculation means they had their families before they left junior school!

They give me too much homework for my age with no television until it is completed. They make disparaging remarks about my ‘tatty’ appearance but won’t allow me more spending money. Yes this is a cry from the wallet. I am just an in-between, too old for the boys and too young for the joys of Metro and pension benefits (hope that there are some left when I am eligible).

Every disagreement is related to ‘age’ – mine. I am expected to be gripped with sympathetic hysteria at the sign of another of their ‘spots’ but when I mention my grey hairs they tune in to Elvis.

Everything I wear has to meet with their approval; nothing designed to make anyone look twice is acceptable. As long as it blends in with the crowd it’s OK. Whenever we see their friends approaching in town I have to walk three paces behind until they pass. They often go out and leave me alone for hours never bothering to tell me where or when to expect them back, which makes me most insecure and unhappy.

If I try to confide my worries to them, they do not listen. My ‘nobody cares’ soliloquy, which used to even make the plants wilt a little, only makes then yawn or play imaginary violins. They giggle all the way through the sordidness of my favourite serial then sit with faces as animated as Shredded Wheat when Laurel and Hardy have me in stitches. My small efforts to amuse have them re-excavating their latest pimple.

I did think the dog was on my side the other day when he sported a lop-sided grin. But when the leer was still there an hour later, although naturally flattered, I did begin to wonder. On closer investigation I found a piece of bone wedged between his teeth holding up his top lip. Pity, he nearly had me convinced of his intelligence.

To crown all, our teenagers have started hiding their make-up. It said in my morning paper that if you wore none you are either self-confident or a nursing mother. Well I am not likely to be either this week. The next paragraph hit me right below the bulge. If you wouldn’t be caught dead without your lipstick, you are probably over forty and missed out on the permissive society. ‘Missed out? I am drowning in it!

‘When the children get ready for bed without being told or clean their shoes or get ready for school on time – give them a prize,’ says educational ‘wizard’ John Presland. What about giving Dad and me some reward? I say a medal for bravery or better still a diploma stating that ‘while under the influence of three aggressive, demanding children under fifteen you did still continue to cling gamely to sanity above and beyond the call of Vallium.’

Even my dreams are invaded. There I am drifting into delicious sin with Frank Finlay when someone wakes me up to tell me there’s a man-eating spider creeping about. Why do they always have nightmares in the middle of favourite fantasies? I tried three times to dream myself back to Frank but a gigantic spider kept getting in the way.

Where is this all-forgiveness we tried to inject? Just because I inadvertently vacuumed up a set of plastic fingernails, one daughter showed the compassion of a bank clerk. How was I to know they were not part of the usual rubbish that lives on their bedroom floor five days of the week?

In an eggshell, they just don’t seem to have time for us any more; goodness knows what sort of wrecks we shall become after all this callous neglect.

Fortunately, the worst pain is soonest forgotten. Time has a restorative habit of diluting the pain. Despite parental shortcomings our first daughter has reached twenty-one virtually unscarred. This is a time when only the special happiness they brought remains.

Our son did confront us one teatime with some peremptory soup-spilling views on the spoken word. His English teacher, he announced proudly, thought parents were wrong to ban swearing. He (the teacher), considered this a snobbish attitude. Anglo Saxon language was our proud heritage. He then gave us a few examples guaranteed to resurrect anyone’s ancestors. When I suggested we all start swearing at each other the moment his friend arrived, he didn’t seem as fervently consumed by the idea.