School
Little One, 10, has a busy life. School everyday of the week.
Little One, 10, has a busy life. School everyday of the week.
Monday: after-school music.
Wednesday: after-school model-making.
Friday: after-school theatre classes.
Saturday morning: basketball.
Saturday afternoon: esplai (Catalan word for a sport/fun/weekend camping and youth hostelling group run by teenagers).
Wifey’s busy too and so am I (work, Tibetan classes on Monday and yoga on Friday). We’re all so occupied that sometimes I get the feeling we hardly see anything of each other. No good old family singsongs around the piano every evening.
Just as well because none of us play the piano.
People have wallowed in nostalgia ever since they have been able to tell others what they recall or think they remember (and kid themselves others are listening). Things must therefore have been a lot better in 4,000 BC, despite life expectancy of 25 years, no antibiotics and uncomfortable underwear (or perhaps folk didn't wear underwear).
In the mornings I walk with Little One to her school. It takes about fifteen minutes. On some days we don’t say a lot and on others I test her on the tables up to 12. Sometimes I give her fatherly advice, which I know she’ll disregard (perhaps the secret of parental advice is to recommend exactly the opposite of what I think she should do). Anyway, Wifey’s the advice expert and I'm Mr Clumsy, which means I can take on a role of irresponsibility and fun.
Our morning walks to school are always special. Suddenly, all the nagging imperatives that have been flying around at home a few moments earlier (get dressed!, clean your teeth! comb your hair! make your bed! put your breakfast on! eat your shoes! etc. etc.") vanish and there we are on the street. Just the two of us and half a million other people on their busy ways to do whatever they have to do.
The traffic noise makes conversation impossible but this morning we have a few minutes to spare. We stop at a bar. Little One drinks an orange juice and I ask her about the day ahead of her. She hasn’t given it any thought of course. Stupid question. Kids don’t usually plan for anything. Masters of living for the moment (social, economic and/or psychological circumstances permitting).
Later, in adolescence, teenagers willingly or unwillingly assume adult notions of "responsibility" (and therefore the need to plan) yet do not benefit from adult rights. Hence, adolescent bolshiness and rebellion.
Wednesday: after-school model-making.
Friday: after-school theatre classes.
Saturday morning: basketball.
Saturday afternoon: esplai (Catalan word for a sport/fun/weekend camping and youth hostelling group run by teenagers).
Wifey’s busy too and so am I (work, Tibetan classes on Monday and yoga on Friday). We’re all so occupied that sometimes I get the feeling we hardly see anything of each other. No good old family singsongs around the piano every evening.
Just as well because none of us play the piano.
People have wallowed in nostalgia ever since they have been able to tell others what they recall or think they remember (and kid themselves others are listening). Things must therefore have been a lot better in 4,000 BC, despite life expectancy of 25 years, no antibiotics and uncomfortable underwear (or perhaps folk didn't wear underwear).
In the mornings I walk with Little One to her school. It takes about fifteen minutes. On some days we don’t say a lot and on others I test her on the tables up to 12. Sometimes I give her fatherly advice, which I know she’ll disregard (perhaps the secret of parental advice is to recommend exactly the opposite of what I think she should do). Anyway, Wifey’s the advice expert and I'm Mr Clumsy, which means I can take on a role of irresponsibility and fun.
Our morning walks to school are always special. Suddenly, all the nagging imperatives that have been flying around at home a few moments earlier (get dressed!, clean your teeth! comb your hair! make your bed! put your breakfast on! eat your shoes! etc. etc.") vanish and there we are on the street. Just the two of us and half a million other people on their busy ways to do whatever they have to do.
The traffic noise makes conversation impossible but this morning we have a few minutes to spare. We stop at a bar. Little One drinks an orange juice and I ask her about the day ahead of her. She hasn’t given it any thought of course. Stupid question. Kids don’t usually plan for anything. Masters of living for the moment (social, economic and/or psychological circumstances permitting).
Later, in adolescence, teenagers willingly or unwillingly assume adult notions of "responsibility" (and therefore the need to plan) yet do not benefit from adult rights. Hence, adolescent bolshiness and rebellion.
But there I go thinking ahead to Little One’s rejection of her reactionary, fascist Old Man. Better just enjoy her childhood while I can.
posted by Bob at 12:21 pm
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