Master 11's football team plays nearly every Sunday. I hustled him and his 13-year-old sister into the car for the 15-minute drive to Blake Park. My daughter and I would walk across the street to the store for hot drinks while soccer dude warmed up. Just as I parked, master 11 asked, "where's my bag?" the one with all his gear: shoes, shin guards, socks...
This is where I lose my sh*t. "How can you not have your boots? I'm not driving back to the house to bring them to you." It would be the second time in a week I'd returned for something the boy had forgotten. Last Thursday, my son claimed he didn't know his school football team would be practising. He texted to ask if I'd bring his stuff, ending with, "if you can, can it be before 1.00?" I finished work early and delivered the goods.
I know what you're thinking. "Stop helping the kid. He needs to suffer consequences." I've told Master 11 he'll be sitting on the bench next time he forgets his gear. He'll go hungry when he forgets his lunch. He'll sit around smelly when he forgets to chuck his laundry in the basket. Nix the last one - it punishes us all.
Consequences preserve sanity (mine) while building responsibility (kids'). What happened after i ordered Master 11 from my car so he could watch his team in street shoes was slightly mad. I subjected my daughter to a complaint litany, whinging I'm mostly good for driving and not good for much else. Funny thing is, during the past couple of years I've reached a shaky truce with taxi duty. I tell myself it's a chance to chat with my children. But when they send me driving in circles, I start slotting the peace treaty into the shredder.
By the time we returned with the bag, I felt like I'd played an hour of football. Using only my head. I asked myself why my son was irresponsible; why I'd had children at all; why their father died seven years ago; why their stepdad works and lives out of town most of the week; why an extra half hour in the car triggered an existential crisis...
Part of the insidious nature of grief is its ability to demand attention during inconvenient times. Much like children.
So often we (and i mean me) parade our kids' accomplishments on social media. Just as regularly, I suspect we privately lament the ways our progeny disappoint us. And the ways we feel we've failed them. Or failed ourselves.
Pity is unwarranted. Solidarity, however, is supreme. There's nothing like another mum or grandmother handing you a cup of tea (or glass of wine) and saying, "I've been there, too."
Parenthood requires empathy. And humility. On the flip side of bright, smiling Facebook photos sits a kid who has flunked a test, hit her sibling or lied about being out all night with friends. It's not the first time the darlings have disappointed us. It won't be the last.
I recomposed myself to watch the game. Miss 13 comforted me with, "it's okay, mummy. I love you." Both kids helped clean the house that afternoon (though i give them pocket money for it). It's not the first time they've redeemed themselves. It won't be the last.
The morning after I thought I'd finished writing this, I received another text. This time, miss-usually-responsible, who cycled to school, messaged, "I forgot my bag!!!" Her college is on my way to work. I dropped off her bag. Some mums never learn.