Thursday, December 22, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Daddy's Girl
So the circle
of life continues.
The man partly
responsible for bringing me into this world, is by all accounts about to leave
it.
I don’t know
this for a fact, as he left my world
some 30-odd years ago, when I was about the same age my daughter is.
But I’m told that
the same disease my mother was battling at the time he left, is attacking my
father now.
See, another circle.
To be honest,
I’m not sure what I’m expected to feel about it.
Sure, I feel
bad that Cancer has reared its ugly head again- I don’t wish it on anyone.
Yes I am sorry
that someone is suffering, with no brilliant prognosis this time.
True, there is
concern that people dear to me are upset about it.
Of course I
should be sad that someone I know is in pain.
But the whole
what-am-I-going-to-do-my-dad-is-dying thing, well I just can’t come at.
Because - truth be told - I lost my father a long time ago; I’ve done my grieving already, aged
8.
A lady I know
recently buried her dad with whom she had a…shall we say challenging
relationship. Without breaching her privacy or her pain, it was a similar
story: he left, didn’t have a lot to do with them, and time ran out before the
break was properly healed.
Yet she had the
bravery, and inner beauty, to speak a Eulogy for him. She revisited the good
times and the bad, and bid him farewell the best way she could: with honesty
and humour.
I wish I could
say the same thing for the man I know as father.
If I do get to
talk with him before he goes, I might say thank you for having me. After all,
without his input I wouldn’t be here now.
And I might smile at a cherished memory or two that survived the fallout
that befell our family. I would even wish him well for the next part of his
journey. But I cannot tell him I love
him. (Nor do I loathe him, just for the record.)
And hopefully one
day I can find the words to explain to my children why they never met their
grandfather, for all his faults.
So all I can
do is this: support my family as they support him, and pray that when the
circle of life rolls around again, there is no break in the bond between my own
offspring and me.
Daddy’s Little Girl (©1986)
daddy, aren’t i your little girl? aren’t i your
‘supa-kid’?
well, then, why did you leave me here,
wondering what i did?
your clothes are gone, your cupboard’s bare,
not much is left behind.
your crucifix stays on our wall, one thing
left to remind.
please daddy, won’t you come back home? we all
miss you so much.
my friends still have their daddies here- a
real daddy to touch.
but daddy’s gone, he left me here, he didn’t
want his child.
so now it’s just the 4 of us, one less
reason to smile.
my daddy’s gone away, you see, he doesn’t
really care.
‘cause when i cry his name at night i know
he’s never there.
but daddy, i’ll grow up someday, i hope with
no regrets-
but when you leave your little girl
the pain’s hard to forget.
Jx
©2011
Friday, September 30, 2011
The Birds & The Bees
It’s about
that time that my daughter and I had a little talk.
Yep charity’s
not the only thing that should begin at home.
So does sex
education.
I’ve learnt
that the hard way.
Oh it was
innocent enough- My Beloved decided we deserved a break from the constant
bickering that had punctuated our Saturday morning up to that point, so he shut
the bedroom door on the kids saying he wanted 5 minutes alone with mummy to
give her a quiet cuddle. For a change that’s what he actually meant!
Didn’t quite
realize how it sounded to another’s ears until our 6 year old told a caller
that “Mummy can’t come to the phone right now, she’s busy in the bedroom having
a hug with daddy.”
Well, didn’t
my friend give me grief when I got hold of the handset?!
I really
don’t know who was more embarrassed or amused when Miss V knocked on the
bedroom door to pass the telephone over and I was greeted with giggles from my
friend, followed finally by an explanation of the mirth (also the background
comments from said friend’s husband that Fathers’ Day was still weeks away and
was he getting an early gift). It wasn’t like that at all. (Heaven knows we
have learnt to schedule those sessions for when we’re least likely to get
interrupted i.e. when kids aren’t home!)
But with our
son now approaching the age where school sessions are scheduled to ensure the
information is delivered in a factual and fun way (whatever that means), it
means that the adults in the house are having “that” discussion about whether
the children are really ready for it.
Here’s the
thing. We’ve never used euphemisms or silly nicknames for body parts- we’re
both big on calling a spade a spade (or whatever’s the relevant term for the
item in question)- and have discovered real issues when our offspring bring
home titles like “willy”, weener”, “doodle”, “family jewels”, and “front
bottom”. (Front bottom? Seriously, what is up with that??) And I’ve even had to have a quiet chat with
my son at the request of another mother that terms like “balls” are really not
appropriate to use in conversation with girls in the classroom.Unless it's in the context of sport.
♫Awwk-waaard. ♫
I have to say
though, that the very thought of having to sit down and have “The Talk” with my
daughter immediately brings up memories of my mother attempting to do the same
with me as a child. Being the youngest of three girls in an all-female
household, there wasn’t a lot left to the imagination (think nudie runs from
bathroom to bedroom simply to keep the schedule of all those women in a
one-bathroom house), and of course we
were exposed to the schoolyard discussions of what’s under other’s clothes or
the private stuff that goes on in two-parent families. Ours didn’t exactly fit
the perfect model of mum-dad- and-the-kids, my sisters and I never had the
opportunity to accidentally expose what really goes on in the marital bed (and
both my therapist and I thank our lucky stars every day for that, just quietly)
so mum had some explaining to do.
I distinctly
remember the extreme embarrassment mum and I felt when she took me into her
room, brought out the tried and trusty copy of the puberty book (you know, I
can’t for the life of me remember the name of it, only that it had a garish
yellow cover– must have blocked that one out as a painful memory!) and sat me
down and started to read. I still shudder at the thought of my mother nodding
wisely at the advice that relations between a man and a woman are a special
thing given by God, or words to that effect. I was so innocent and embarrassed
that I couldn’t even come up with a clever comment like “So that’s why people
call out His name?!” at the time.
But we both
survived it relatively intact. And now
it’s my turn. With my little girl who has yet to embrace the fashion and makeup
and all the bling things that others her age are well and truly into.
My turn to
find the appropriate text to take into the bedroom and sit her down for that
chat.
One can only
hope that no one rings at the time or else my son might just tell them I’m unavailable because of
something to do with sex!
Jx
©2010/11
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Faking it
Yes, yes, we’ve all heard the
statistics- every woman at least once in her life will fake it.
Today it was my turn.
Having been part of the school Parents
& Citizens Association for the past couple of years and having somehow held
the position of Vice President for that time I was included on the VIP list for
the official opening of the new classrooms. (Here I have to come clean and
confess that I only accepted the role of VP because it offered the least
commitment of any of the Executive, and had so far successfully avoided any
events whereby P&C reps were required, so I felt a little like a fraud.)
Today, with due diligence, I primped
and preened and put on something a bit better than the usual outfit for the
school-run (jeans, top and comfy shoes, and maybe some makeup by home time). And since it was a special occasion, I thought
it wouldn’t look too cool if I was hobbling along trying to keep up with the
official party, so I decided to suck it up and leave the crutches in the car.
Unfortunately, politicians being what
they are, ours was running a little late for the event and as soon as she
arrived our principal set off at a cracking pace for the tour of the new
buildings. Luckily there were others older than myself in the group so at least
I wasn’t last. In fact after we’d done the obligatory inspections I found
myself seated in prime position alongside the principal and school captains,
right up front of the entire school.
Which put me in direct line of sight
of not one but both of my children.
It was while I was exchanging winks
with my daughter and pinky waves with my son that I realized the whole event
was being filmed for posterity and it now seemed certain that the school had
caught me on camera behaving in a not-so-VIP way.
But the best was yet to come.
After all the various speeches and
ribbon-cutting we then had to stand for the singing of our national anthem.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I
have always been slightly amused at the televised close ups of representative
sportspeople and the like at national events as they mouth the words of our
patriotic tune.
Not so funny when the camera was
possibly on oneself and one doesn’t know all the words as well as one should.
The school stood as one, the opening strains had begun, and so far so good.
Until they started the second verse.
It was a classic case of that Mr Bean episode
(minus the candy) as I sang the words I knew, and mumbled the phrases I didn’t…
♪ Beneath
our radiant Southern Cross, we’ll toil with hearts and hands, something
Commonwealth of ours, renowned of all the lands, hmmmm mmm mmm hmmm across the
seas, something something plains to share, mmm hmm hm hmm hmm hm hmm mm Advance Australia Fair, in joyful
strains then let us sing Advaaaance Austraaaaaylya Faaaaaair! ♫
OK, so perhaps not as confident at Mr
Bean, but at least a little better than the Penguins of Madagascar,
smile and wave boys, smile and wave.
And fake it like a pro.
Jx
©2011
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Mirror Mirror
Our family bathroom has a mirror that measures roughly 5 feet along and 3 feet high.
It’s a beauty.
All I can say is that the previous owner/builder of the property must have had slight narcissistic tendencies, but I’m not going to complain; not when there’s enough space to stand two children and a husband side by side at the sink with enough elbow room to avoid small scale conflicts.
Most of the time.
But any time I attempt to utilize the thing myself, I swear there is toothpaste covering every square inch of it! I know- I’ve just cleaned the thing again. And no one seems to see it but me…
There are a lot of home truths I’ve learnt since bringing my babies home:
1. Boys smell*. They really do. And no amount of washing, changing, and deodorizing seems to keep it at bay for any great length of time. Must be that Y chromosome.
2. Children are under the impression that being bored is the same thing as being hungry. It doesn’t matter if they’ve just eaten you out of house and home and have just sat through the latest family friendly feature film…they are like a crevasse in living form.
3. Kids are also under the assumption that Colonel Sanders makes toilet paper, as they seem to expect a ‘magic barrel’ with a neverending supply. As a friend of mine says: there is nothing that can come out of a human bottom to require that much paper to clean it. But apparently both she and I are wrong.
And
4. One small pea-size squirt of toothpaste (as recommended by dentists everywhere) can create enough white specks to cover previously mentioned 5 x 3 foot mirror! (And have you ever noticed that it doesn’t matter what colour the toothpaste is going in, it always comes out white?)
Luckily I’ve also discovered some nifty new wipes designed specifically for mirrors and glass-fronted furniture that promise to get “rid of streaks and leave your glass and mirror surfaces sparkling”. Unfortunately, there’s no guarantee that these wonder wipes will also leave an invisible coating of something akin to Teflon™ so that next time the offspring are on dental duty any sprays will simply go away.
Of course it doesn’t help matters that on the last visit to the dentist the nurse gave the “helpful” suggestion that - in order to brush teeth correctly every time- one should give ten decent ‘flicks’ in every direction. Now, you and I both know that by definition of ‘direction’ that she meant top, bottom, and side to side, in order to ensure every little nook and cranny and wobbly tooth gets a look in. Seems my children took her literally and literally flick the toothpaste in every direction!
I kid you not, this time it was even on the fluorescent light above the mirror!
Anyways, at least the entire bathroom region is looking spick and span and shiny again, thanks to my nifty new wipes. But I bet not one of the aforementioned family members will notice.
Now all I need to do is finish scrubbing the toilet bowls which also seem to be almost permanently sporting splatter no matter how clean I try to keep them (*see point #1 above), and replace yet another toilet roll.
Before I get back into it, I’ll just leave you with one of my favourite jokes of all time, which I think you’ll agree ties in rather nicely with the topic.
Sister Mary Margaret bursts into Mother Superior’s office with the complaint that the kids have been at it again and the boys’ toilet in particular was in a shocking state:
“The little devils have been having yet another competition about who can get highest up the wall above the urinal! I had to send for the cleaner yet again, and just as we were going back to tidy up the stinky streams, more of the bedeviled little creatures were in there having another contest."
“And what did you do?“ asked Mother Superior
“I hit the roof!!”
Jx
©2011
It’s a beauty.
All I can say is that the previous owner/builder of the property must have had slight narcissistic tendencies, but I’m not going to complain; not when there’s enough space to stand two children and a husband side by side at the sink with enough elbow room to avoid small scale conflicts.
Most of the time.
But any time I attempt to utilize the thing myself, I swear there is toothpaste covering every square inch of it! I know- I’ve just cleaned the thing again. And no one seems to see it but me…
There are a lot of home truths I’ve learnt since bringing my babies home:
1. Boys smell*. They really do. And no amount of washing, changing, and deodorizing seems to keep it at bay for any great length of time. Must be that Y chromosome.
2. Children are under the impression that being bored is the same thing as being hungry. It doesn’t matter if they’ve just eaten you out of house and home and have just sat through the latest family friendly feature film…they are like a crevasse in living form.
3. Kids are also under the assumption that Colonel Sanders makes toilet paper, as they seem to expect a ‘magic barrel’ with a neverending supply. As a friend of mine says: there is nothing that can come out of a human bottom to require that much paper to clean it. But apparently both she and I are wrong.
And
4. One small pea-size squirt of toothpaste (as recommended by dentists everywhere) can create enough white specks to cover previously mentioned 5 x 3 foot mirror! (And have you ever noticed that it doesn’t matter what colour the toothpaste is going in, it always comes out white?)
Luckily I’ve also discovered some nifty new wipes designed specifically for mirrors and glass-fronted furniture that promise to get “rid of streaks and leave your glass and mirror surfaces sparkling”. Unfortunately, there’s no guarantee that these wonder wipes will also leave an invisible coating of something akin to Teflon™ so that next time the offspring are on dental duty any sprays will simply go away.
Of course it doesn’t help matters that on the last visit to the dentist the nurse gave the “helpful” suggestion that - in order to brush teeth correctly every time- one should give ten decent ‘flicks’ in every direction. Now, you and I both know that by definition of ‘direction’ that she meant top, bottom, and side to side, in order to ensure every little nook and cranny and wobbly tooth gets a look in. Seems my children took her literally and literally flick the toothpaste in every direction!
I kid you not, this time it was even on the fluorescent light above the mirror!
Anyways, at least the entire bathroom region is looking spick and span and shiny again, thanks to my nifty new wipes. But I bet not one of the aforementioned family members will notice.
Now all I need to do is finish scrubbing the toilet bowls which also seem to be almost permanently sporting splatter no matter how clean I try to keep them (*see point #1 above), and replace yet another toilet roll.
Before I get back into it, I’ll just leave you with one of my favourite jokes of all time, which I think you’ll agree ties in rather nicely with the topic.
Sister Mary Margaret bursts into Mother Superior’s office with the complaint that the kids have been at it again and the boys’ toilet in particular was in a shocking state:
“The little devils have been having yet another competition about who can get highest up the wall above the urinal! I had to send for the cleaner yet again, and just as we were going back to tidy up the stinky streams, more of the bedeviled little creatures were in there having another contest."
“And what did you do?“ asked Mother Superior
“I hit the roof!!”
Jx
©2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Trouble Afoot
I had an unfortunate incident on my last visit to hospital for so-called “routine day surgery”.
Somewhere, somehow, the routine went wrong. The day turned into weeks. And counting.
After being last on the list into theatre, I woke up in Recovery to discover that not all of me had recovered. My right foot felt asleep. Make that my entire leg from the knee down.
The nurses were at a loss to explain what had happened, the doctor apparently didn’t think it serious enough to visit in the wee small hours of the morning to investigate, and the hospital seemed a little less than enthusiastic to let others know what was afoot (pun fully intended) so simply stuck me in a room at the end of the corridor and left me to it. Not even a name above my bed.
I wasn’t happy with that arrangement for some strange reason, and kept on asking to see someone, anyone, who might be able to tell me what was going on.
After the physio took a look, to no avail, my surgeon did his post-op visit, and the neurologist was called. He immediately diagnosed ‘foot drop’ at the very least and suspected a nerve had been pinched in my spine in the time I was under anaesthetic.
As the condition can be permanent and bring about other problems, and in order to see if more surgery was on the cards for me, the neurologist thought an MRI was in order. Easier said than done.
Since the very reason the imaging was ordered was due to my lack of mobility, the logistics of getting me to the MRI machine were pretty involved.
After going through the motions of my morning shower (which for the best for all concerned I won’t go into here) I had to manoeuvre myself out of bed into a wheelchair for my friendly transport driver to, well, transport me. Down the lift, clutching a vomit bag as my newly-discovered motion sickness kicked in, and into the ambulance where he loaded and locked me into the back, then left me shivering for a few minutes with all doors open while he went back in for more VBags…just in case. (Just quietly, I love these things- best thing since sliced bread- I buy them in bulk for my son’s adverse reaction to a certain medication, children’s travel sickness, the list is endless!)
Things got a whole lot more interesting once we got to the medical centre. Due to their regulations the wheelchair I was in could not go into the actual imaging room- I had to use one of theirs- so I was wheeled off to a changing cubicle with just a threadbare curtain separating me from the technicians in the room and informed I needed to take off everything except my knickers and put on yet another inglorious paper gown.
In the process, I had to transfer myself from the wheelchair to a little bench seat, get changed, somehow doing up the gown at the back, then pull another (OH&S-approved) wheelchair into the cubicle and wriggle into that. Of course I did the age-old female trick of whipping the bra off out my sleeves at the last minute as I really didn’t trust the curtain and quite frankly have bared enough of my bod in recent days.
When I got my breath back the tech wheeled me into the waiting MRI machine where I then had to get up onto the teeny tiny table. Lifting myself up with a muttered “Stupid right leg” the assistant asked me “Is that the medical terminology for your condition?” “No, it’s the layperson’s term,” I replied, “usually accompanied by an expletive or two.” Still laughing he left me lying on a table that definitely made my butt look big.
Once done, I had to repeat the performance and end up back in my original clothes in my original chair so that the original transport driver could transport me back to hospital.
To give you some idea of what was required, imagine if you will a sick and twisted version of the itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini song:
♫ From the bed to the wheelchair, from the wheelchair to the floor, from the floor to the table…I guess there isn’t any more. ♪
At least, there better not be today anyway.
Jx
©2010 & 2011
Somewhere, somehow, the routine went wrong. The day turned into weeks. And counting.
After being last on the list into theatre, I woke up in Recovery to discover that not all of me had recovered. My right foot felt asleep. Make that my entire leg from the knee down.
The nurses were at a loss to explain what had happened, the doctor apparently didn’t think it serious enough to visit in the wee small hours of the morning to investigate, and the hospital seemed a little less than enthusiastic to let others know what was afoot (pun fully intended) so simply stuck me in a room at the end of the corridor and left me to it. Not even a name above my bed.
I wasn’t happy with that arrangement for some strange reason, and kept on asking to see someone, anyone, who might be able to tell me what was going on.
After the physio took a look, to no avail, my surgeon did his post-op visit, and the neurologist was called. He immediately diagnosed ‘foot drop’ at the very least and suspected a nerve had been pinched in my spine in the time I was under anaesthetic.
As the condition can be permanent and bring about other problems, and in order to see if more surgery was on the cards for me, the neurologist thought an MRI was in order. Easier said than done.
Since the very reason the imaging was ordered was due to my lack of mobility, the logistics of getting me to the MRI machine were pretty involved.
After going through the motions of my morning shower (which for the best for all concerned I won’t go into here) I had to manoeuvre myself out of bed into a wheelchair for my friendly transport driver to, well, transport me. Down the lift, clutching a vomit bag as my newly-discovered motion sickness kicked in, and into the ambulance where he loaded and locked me into the back, then left me shivering for a few minutes with all doors open while he went back in for more VBags…just in case. (Just quietly, I love these things- best thing since sliced bread- I buy them in bulk for my son’s adverse reaction to a certain medication, children’s travel sickness, the list is endless!)
Things got a whole lot more interesting once we got to the medical centre. Due to their regulations the wheelchair I was in could not go into the actual imaging room- I had to use one of theirs- so I was wheeled off to a changing cubicle with just a threadbare curtain separating me from the technicians in the room and informed I needed to take off everything except my knickers and put on yet another inglorious paper gown.
In the process, I had to transfer myself from the wheelchair to a little bench seat, get changed, somehow doing up the gown at the back, then pull another (OH&S-approved) wheelchair into the cubicle and wriggle into that. Of course I did the age-old female trick of whipping the bra off out my sleeves at the last minute as I really didn’t trust the curtain and quite frankly have bared enough of my bod in recent days.
When I got my breath back the tech wheeled me into the waiting MRI machine where I then had to get up onto the teeny tiny table. Lifting myself up with a muttered “Stupid right leg” the assistant asked me “Is that the medical terminology for your condition?” “No, it’s the layperson’s term,” I replied, “usually accompanied by an expletive or two.” Still laughing he left me lying on a table that definitely made my butt look big.
Once done, I had to repeat the performance and end up back in my original clothes in my original chair so that the original transport driver could transport me back to hospital.
To give you some idea of what was required, imagine if you will a sick and twisted version of the itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini song:
♫ From the bed to the wheelchair, from the wheelchair to the floor, from the floor to the table…I guess there isn’t any more. ♪
At least, there better not be today anyway.
Jx
©2010 & 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Movie Magic
You have never had the full High Definition movie experience until you have experienced watching a movie with my kids.
Never the shy and retiring little wallflowers at any rate, they are especially vocal on any and every excursion to the cinema, not even the dimming of the lights can dim their enthusiasm. My role in every movie is to sit with one child either side so that I am within easy reach for any scary or sad bits, also well placed to provide regular reminders that there are others around us also trying to watch the film and can we please keep it down?
Oh no, my two children (one of either gender to ensure a fully balanced picture) are natural born critics and take it upon themselves to give running commentary on the events unfolding on the silver screen, along with the requisite attempts to guess what is yet to come, even pontificating on the moral of the story or underlying theme. Sometimes their efforts are so vociferous I fear that we won’t get to see how the story ends if the ushers decide to show us the exit instead.
So any time we actually see a movie when first released -as opposed to waiting until it’s on DVD and “on special” as what is usually within our budget (my goodness some cinemas are expensive!) - I barely get to ponder the plotline so busy am I plotting how to keep my kids quiet for the duration. (Just quietly, I sometimes have to purchase said DVD once it goes on special anyway, just to find out what the heck happens!)
On that note, you can tell just how much my two have enjoyed a movie judging by how quickly they ask “Can we please buy a copy when it’s available?” so they can watch it again in the peace (and I use that term loosely) and privacy of our own home. The better the movie the faster the request- a really good movie doesn’t even get us as far as the front door of the theatre before going on our 'gotta buy' list.
Another telling trait of a winning film is whether there are any trips to the bathroom while the show is showing. My daughter has the uncanny knack of needing to pee a mere ten minutes from the end of the flick- and we all know by now my son’s habit of utilizing public restrooms at every available opportunity- but if the movie is that good, they can miraculously manage to hold on until the end credits roll. Sometimes it’s a mad dash after that, but at least we get our money’s worth up to that point!
What’s even better than seeing new movies with the children, is watching old flicks through new eyes. And quite an eye-opener as to how much I missed the first time around. Or maybe I just wasn’t paying enough attention.
While exposing our offspring to the earthly wonders of ‘ET’ one weekend, my Beloved and I found ourselves locking eyes more than we have since the early days of dating; only this time we were exchanging gazes of amusement at the narration coming from the critics on the couch between us (Oh yes, the seating allocation remains the same at home as in the theatre).
For example, when Elliot ventures out in the dark in search of their unearthly visitor, Critic #1 observes “Oh look, he’s gone outside after his mother told him not to!”
“And only in his socks!!” exclaims Critic #2.
Then when Michael boards the bus for school with some rather raucous classmates our safety-conscious daughter declares “They really shouldn’t be standing up on the bus like that.”
“Yeah,” our son says, “distracting the driver is dangerous!”
At another point, when the mom dashes out the door to collect an apparently intoxicated Elliot- leaving 5 year old Gertie behind at the house- Critic #1 cries out: “You would never leave us at home alone would you mum?”
“Why didn’t she just take her with her?” is the perfectly logical rejoinder from critic #2.
Now, I was 12 when Mr Spielberg’s masterpiece was first released, 4 years older than my oldest is now, but darned if I was aware of details like that. I never seemed to notice just how much swearing there was in some of those apparently ‘Family Films’ either. I just went along for the ride, and like the rest of the audience cheered when Elliot and ET rode away from Mr Keys and the bad-guys on that magically airborne BMX.
Maybe it’s true what they say, that kids are growing up too fast these days; It certainly seems the aging process is working its wonders on me too: I have turned into my mother, inwardly cringing every time someone says or does something on screen that is somewhat inappropriate for small children.
While not yet resorting to the repertoire of “Tsk”s and tiny gasps of horror that my mum has gotten down to a fine art, I try to pre-empt any nasty bits with a tried and true distraction technique – offering the kids the popcorn or lolly bag at the crucial moment.
When it comes down to it, I’d take their innocent (if ongoing) narration any day over them incorporating some R-rated vocabulary into their PG world.
And as far as watching flicks with the kids, I’d give the experience 5 stars every time.
Jx
©2010
Never the shy and retiring little wallflowers at any rate, they are especially vocal on any and every excursion to the cinema, not even the dimming of the lights can dim their enthusiasm. My role in every movie is to sit with one child either side so that I am within easy reach for any scary or sad bits, also well placed to provide regular reminders that there are others around us also trying to watch the film and can we please keep it down?
Oh no, my two children (one of either gender to ensure a fully balanced picture) are natural born critics and take it upon themselves to give running commentary on the events unfolding on the silver screen, along with the requisite attempts to guess what is yet to come, even pontificating on the moral of the story or underlying theme. Sometimes their efforts are so vociferous I fear that we won’t get to see how the story ends if the ushers decide to show us the exit instead.
So any time we actually see a movie when first released -as opposed to waiting until it’s on DVD and “on special” as what is usually within our budget (my goodness some cinemas are expensive!) - I barely get to ponder the plotline so busy am I plotting how to keep my kids quiet for the duration. (Just quietly, I sometimes have to purchase said DVD once it goes on special anyway, just to find out what the heck happens!)
On that note, you can tell just how much my two have enjoyed a movie judging by how quickly they ask “Can we please buy a copy when it’s available?” so they can watch it again in the peace (and I use that term loosely) and privacy of our own home. The better the movie the faster the request- a really good movie doesn’t even get us as far as the front door of the theatre before going on our 'gotta buy' list.
Another telling trait of a winning film is whether there are any trips to the bathroom while the show is showing. My daughter has the uncanny knack of needing to pee a mere ten minutes from the end of the flick- and we all know by now my son’s habit of utilizing public restrooms at every available opportunity- but if the movie is that good, they can miraculously manage to hold on until the end credits roll. Sometimes it’s a mad dash after that, but at least we get our money’s worth up to that point!
What’s even better than seeing new movies with the children, is watching old flicks through new eyes. And quite an eye-opener as to how much I missed the first time around. Or maybe I just wasn’t paying enough attention.
While exposing our offspring to the earthly wonders of ‘ET’ one weekend, my Beloved and I found ourselves locking eyes more than we have since the early days of dating; only this time we were exchanging gazes of amusement at the narration coming from the critics on the couch between us (Oh yes, the seating allocation remains the same at home as in the theatre).
For example, when Elliot ventures out in the dark in search of their unearthly visitor, Critic #1 observes “Oh look, he’s gone outside after his mother told him not to!”
“And only in his socks!!” exclaims Critic #2.
Then when Michael boards the bus for school with some rather raucous classmates our safety-conscious daughter declares “They really shouldn’t be standing up on the bus like that.”
“Yeah,” our son says, “distracting the driver is dangerous!”
At another point, when the mom dashes out the door to collect an apparently intoxicated Elliot- leaving 5 year old Gertie behind at the house- Critic #1 cries out: “You would never leave us at home alone would you mum?”
“Why didn’t she just take her with her?” is the perfectly logical rejoinder from critic #2.
Now, I was 12 when Mr Spielberg’s masterpiece was first released, 4 years older than my oldest is now, but darned if I was aware of details like that. I never seemed to notice just how much swearing there was in some of those apparently ‘Family Films’ either. I just went along for the ride, and like the rest of the audience cheered when Elliot and ET rode away from Mr Keys and the bad-guys on that magically airborne BMX.
Maybe it’s true what they say, that kids are growing up too fast these days; It certainly seems the aging process is working its wonders on me too: I have turned into my mother, inwardly cringing every time someone says or does something on screen that is somewhat inappropriate for small children.
While not yet resorting to the repertoire of “Tsk”s and tiny gasps of horror that my mum has gotten down to a fine art, I try to pre-empt any nasty bits with a tried and true distraction technique – offering the kids the popcorn or lolly bag at the crucial moment.
When it comes down to it, I’d take their innocent (if ongoing) narration any day over them incorporating some R-rated vocabulary into their PG world.
And as far as watching flicks with the kids, I’d give the experience 5 stars every time.
Jx
©2010
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