A perfectly formed chip of guilt rests perpetually and snugly on many parents' shoulders. It nudges and torments relentlessly as 'the child' eats Mac Donald's two days in a row or coughs as the parent pushes him through the school gates. Sometimes a glass of two of wine can dislodge the little chip, but it always finds its way back.
As 'the child' crawls through the early years and then trudges into school, you'd expect that the chip would lose a little of its grip as 'the teacher' can be apportioned blame. Afterall, 'the child' spends a great deal of time with 'the teacher'.
But the chip grows faster than 'the child'.
Homework fuels its growth. But as any good parent would know, it is 'the child' who should be doing the homework but what if it's not done? Who is held responsible? Even if 'the child' is sitting in homework detention it is 'the parent' lamenting his fate. So to ensure that 'the child' does not enter the detention pit, the parent offers a little help. It might be colouring in ballooning letters one day or carefully decorating the borders of the story the next. Just a little help.
The worse type of homework is the dreaded 'speech'. Parents react differently to this task. Some applaud its potential usefulness in the corporate world, others cross their fingers that their child doesn't make the cut because that will mean at least two hours out of a day in which to hear speeches being delivered by other gifted children and one is only interested in the child oneself has spawned (if the parent is honest).
One parent, was intent on helping 7 out just a little with his speech. A visit to the library was planned and books on the Titanic were accrued. The internet was surfed and the parent soon came to learn the meaning of downthrust and starboard and all about poor old Captain Smith. The speech was preened and polished as the 'two' worked tirelessly on it. Words cut out, perfect timings, chartings and laminations.
One afternoon, as the parent prepared the little cards explaining the tragic sinking of the unsinkable, she looked over to 7.
'Pop these in your bag darling.' She handed him the speech cards. Each one printed in her neatest scrawl. Some she'd had to do several times to make sure they were readable on the small cards as they needed to fit snugly into the seven-year old's palm. 'You'll need these for your speech tomorrow.'
7 took the cards, then gave them back.
'Mummy, I don't need them,' he said. 'I said my speech today. Mrs Hally said I spoke very clearly.'
The parent's heart sank faster than the ship.
'Oh,' said Mummy. 'Did anyone ask how the Titanic sank?"
'No,' said 7. 'Why would they? I was talking about soccer'
Smiling tightly, she took the cards and put them in a drawer. A little keepsake to her stupidity.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Red Rubber Ball
One day the sun was shining.
The sky was as blue as Grandad’s shiny Falcon.
We went to school.
Nana read the paper.
Mum went for a jog.
And Grandad went to work.
Brmmm…brmmm… blah… blah… blah.
When we got home.
We forgot to put our lunchboxes on the bench.
And didn’t hang our bags on the hooks.
Mum tripped over our shoes.
And moaned about our squashed, uneaten bananas.
We forgot about our homework.
But we remembered our red rubber ball.
We bounced it and threw it.
Aiming it through the hoop and at each other.
Bumped it against the wall.
Ring…ring… ring…
1-1-1
“Yes, of course, how? Ok… thank you.”
Grandad’s sick, lying out flat.
Mum told us.
We’ve never see him horizontal.
He’s cutting the hedge. Big and strong, clip-chop.
Or he’s puffing and jogging.
Mowing the lawn. Moving, moving, moving.
Clanking about in his garage.
Showing us pieces of history.
Or snoozing in his blue chair.
Grandad is very, very sick.
Today he recognised Nana.
She started crying.
Mum said Grandad’s had a stroke.
It’s like a big hand has slapped him down.
When will he come home?
Hospitals smell.
But the nurses are friendly.
Nurse Tina said we could come in.
She said not to worry about the beeps and blips.
Or the tubes.
They’re helping Grandad get well.
Last week Grandad didn’t need tubes or blips.
Nana looks like she’s been crying.
And Mum is rushing about.
Grandad is slow but smiles.
Grandad’s just sleeping, big heavy sighs.
Uncle Mike is very serious and not pulling our legs.
Grandad’s shrunk.
And he’s as pale as the sheets.
He has grey hair, was it grey before?
And tubes are sticking out of funny places.
Lines and bumps jump across a small dark screen.
We don’t belong here.
We feel like shoes on a snake.
We sit in the waiting room wishing we weren’t here.
The couch is faded and ripped.
Wish we were home having tea.
Other people sit here too.
We roll our ball across the room.
Sometimes, when noone is looking, we bounce it.
Chris is cool, his dad is sick.
Wish we were sitting with Nana and Grandad.
Eating potatoes rolling in gravy.
Or with ice-cream dripping from our spoons.
Making sure we pass the salt with the pepper.
With mouths closed and clean fingers.
Grandad shook our hand to day.
Firm. Not soft.
Just like he always does.
He showed us how the bed goes UP
And down.
We wonder if Mum would let us have one.
But it might be too big for our room.
Grandad is surrounded by people.
Some joking. Some not.
They do jobs that don’t dance off our tongue.
Doctor. Physiotherapist. Occupational therapist.
Sometimes they speak as if he is not there.
Or they talk to him like he’s a small boy. He’s not.
Grandad’s big and strong and doesn’t need little words.
Last week he was sitting at his computer
Working out things we don’t understand.
Things Mum doesn’t even know about.
Today we want to be nurses.
They wear medals which make them look like they’ve been to war.
Maybe tomorrow we’ll want to be doctors.
I like the tea trolley.
And the lady smiles big as she gives Grandad cups of tea.
His hand shakes as he takes a sip.
Grandad is up.
He’s not quite straight but like our cousin Dylan
Who’s learning to walk.
A bit unsure, a bit unsteady
But he’s not lying down, getting lost on the sheets.
He walks with a walking frame.
It’s not like his car - big, powerful and blue.
It does have wheels and brakes.
Nana picked up Grandad today.
He’s coming home.
Grandad is coming home!
He will sit in his blue chair and make cups of tea,
Telling us about life as a boy. Grandads were kids too.
But some bits of Grandad are a little lost.
Maybe one day they will come back.
Or perhaps they will stay buried
Like lost treasure.
His eyes are still bluer than blue.
And his smile just as big.
Handshake just as tight.
Grandad’s sitting in his blue chair.
Nana’s in the other one.
And Mum’s still tripping over our shoes.
A stroke is one of the main causes of disability in our country. An elderly person or a young person can have one. Many New Zealanders do not recognise the signs that someone is having a stroke. FAST helps you to learn the signs so that you can act quickly to save someone’s life.
Here is the FAST way to recognise a stroke:
F – Face – smile (is one side droopy?)
A – Raise both arms (is one side weak?)
S – Speak a simple sentence (Is the speech slurred or is he/she unable to speak?)
T – Lost time could be lost brain! Go to hospital fast!
Is it a stroke? Act FAST. Call 111
Act FAST - you could save a stroke victim’s life! Learn FAST off by heart and tell your friends and family about it too.
For more information visit www.stroke.org.nz
Copyright V. Hall 2008
The sky was as blue as Grandad’s shiny Falcon.
We went to school.
Nana read the paper.
Mum went for a jog.
And Grandad went to work.
Brmmm…brmmm… blah… blah… blah.
When we got home.
We forgot to put our lunchboxes on the bench.
And didn’t hang our bags on the hooks.
Mum tripped over our shoes.
And moaned about our squashed, uneaten bananas.
We forgot about our homework.
But we remembered our red rubber ball.
We bounced it and threw it.
Aiming it through the hoop and at each other.
Bumped it against the wall.
Ring…ring… ring…
1-1-1
“Yes, of course, how? Ok… thank you.”
Grandad’s sick, lying out flat.
Mum told us.
We’ve never see him horizontal.
He’s cutting the hedge. Big and strong, clip-chop.
Or he’s puffing and jogging.
Mowing the lawn. Moving, moving, moving.
Clanking about in his garage.
Showing us pieces of history.
Or snoozing in his blue chair.
Grandad is very, very sick.
Today he recognised Nana.
She started crying.
Mum said Grandad’s had a stroke.
It’s like a big hand has slapped him down.
When will he come home?
Hospitals smell.
But the nurses are friendly.
Nurse Tina said we could come in.
She said not to worry about the beeps and blips.
Or the tubes.
They’re helping Grandad get well.
Last week Grandad didn’t need tubes or blips.
Nana looks like she’s been crying.
And Mum is rushing about.
Grandad is slow but smiles.
Grandad’s just sleeping, big heavy sighs.
Uncle Mike is very serious and not pulling our legs.
Grandad’s shrunk.
And he’s as pale as the sheets.
He has grey hair, was it grey before?
And tubes are sticking out of funny places.
Lines and bumps jump across a small dark screen.
We don’t belong here.
We feel like shoes on a snake.
We sit in the waiting room wishing we weren’t here.
The couch is faded and ripped.
Wish we were home having tea.
Other people sit here too.
We roll our ball across the room.
Sometimes, when noone is looking, we bounce it.
Chris is cool, his dad is sick.
Wish we were sitting with Nana and Grandad.
Eating potatoes rolling in gravy.
Or with ice-cream dripping from our spoons.
Making sure we pass the salt with the pepper.
With mouths closed and clean fingers.
Grandad shook our hand to day.
Firm. Not soft.
Just like he always does.
He showed us how the bed goes UP
And down.
We wonder if Mum would let us have one.
But it might be too big for our room.
Grandad is surrounded by people.
Some joking. Some not.
They do jobs that don’t dance off our tongue.
Doctor. Physiotherapist. Occupational therapist.
Sometimes they speak as if he is not there.
Or they talk to him like he’s a small boy. He’s not.
Grandad’s big and strong and doesn’t need little words.
Last week he was sitting at his computer
Working out things we don’t understand.
Things Mum doesn’t even know about.
Today we want to be nurses.
They wear medals which make them look like they’ve been to war.
Maybe tomorrow we’ll want to be doctors.
I like the tea trolley.
And the lady smiles big as she gives Grandad cups of tea.
His hand shakes as he takes a sip.
Grandad is up.
He’s not quite straight but like our cousin Dylan
Who’s learning to walk.
A bit unsure, a bit unsteady
But he’s not lying down, getting lost on the sheets.
He walks with a walking frame.
It’s not like his car - big, powerful and blue.
It does have wheels and brakes.
Nana picked up Grandad today.
He’s coming home.
Grandad is coming home!
He will sit in his blue chair and make cups of tea,
Telling us about life as a boy. Grandads were kids too.
But some bits of Grandad are a little lost.
Maybe one day they will come back.
Or perhaps they will stay buried
Like lost treasure.
His eyes are still bluer than blue.
And his smile just as big.
Handshake just as tight.
Grandad’s sitting in his blue chair.
Nana’s in the other one.
And Mum’s still tripping over our shoes.
A stroke is one of the main causes of disability in our country. An elderly person or a young person can have one. Many New Zealanders do not recognise the signs that someone is having a stroke. FAST helps you to learn the signs so that you can act quickly to save someone’s life.
Here is the FAST way to recognise a stroke:
F – Face – smile (is one side droopy?)
A – Raise both arms (is one side weak?)
S – Speak a simple sentence (Is the speech slurred or is he/she unable to speak?)
T – Lost time could be lost brain! Go to hospital fast!
Is it a stroke? Act FAST. Call 111
Act FAST - you could save a stroke victim’s life! Learn FAST off by heart and tell your friends and family about it too.
For more information visit www.stroke.org.nz
Copyright V. Hall 2008
Confoosister says
"It is wise not to throw up on the roller coaster, as it'll catch you up on the bend"
Confoosister
Confoosister
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Sunny Times
When you were littlish, you could sit on one side of the car and not have to touch your sister on the other side. The seat was like a small sea stretching across to Big Sister Island. Was it because the seats were big or we were small? Not sure really, perhaps a bit of both. The good old days.
Well, mostly good. If you put a little brother smack in the middle of the female siblings, then that blue seat became a battleground during long trips. Hair was pulled and arms were pinched. Dad's arm could magically snake around and tap a knee or whip an ice cream out of an unsuspecting hand.
There was another unsettling, feature of these car trips, as one sister peered out the window as Dad pointed out horses in the paddocks. The blue-eyed brother when not acting out some minor torture was inventing them in his mindseye as he sucked his thumb. The sun would shine, it always did. Happy childhood can seem like one big, sunny drought. It had to rain, but when?
Our car was a big, white Falcon. Shiny chrome and seats still preserved in a plastic covering. It smelt of Falcon, a vinyly blue, slightly petrolly smell. And on longer trips, thanks to the motion, the small blue ocean would sometimes offer up the whiff of forgotten bile.
The bile always emanated from one child. The child who got car sick.
On one trip, rolling along gravel roads towards Whitianga, the heat and the rolls of the car, caused the car-sicker to green with apprehension.
'Mum, I feel sick.'
'We're nearly there, don't worry.'
A little further, a little more petrol.
'Mum, I really feel sick.'
'Of course you don't darling.'
'I do.'
'You don't.'
The thumbsucker moved nearer his older sister, as near as his seatbelt would allow.
'Mum.'
Mum, turned, her hair full and firm, as was the style. Her glasses, big and round. 'We're nearly there.' Her irritation was carefully buried.
'Mum... I do.'
'No, you don't.'
And as she turned to me, smiling reassuringly, the little girl did.
Mum didn't say anything. Removing her glasses, only her eyes had escaped.
The little girl didn't have anything left to say.
Well, mostly good. If you put a little brother smack in the middle of the female siblings, then that blue seat became a battleground during long trips. Hair was pulled and arms were pinched. Dad's arm could magically snake around and tap a knee or whip an ice cream out of an unsuspecting hand.
There was another unsettling, feature of these car trips, as one sister peered out the window as Dad pointed out horses in the paddocks. The blue-eyed brother when not acting out some minor torture was inventing them in his mindseye as he sucked his thumb. The sun would shine, it always did. Happy childhood can seem like one big, sunny drought. It had to rain, but when?
Our car was a big, white Falcon. Shiny chrome and seats still preserved in a plastic covering. It smelt of Falcon, a vinyly blue, slightly petrolly smell. And on longer trips, thanks to the motion, the small blue ocean would sometimes offer up the whiff of forgotten bile.
The bile always emanated from one child. The child who got car sick.
On one trip, rolling along gravel roads towards Whitianga, the heat and the rolls of the car, caused the car-sicker to green with apprehension.
'Mum, I feel sick.'
'We're nearly there, don't worry.'
A little further, a little more petrol.
'Mum, I really feel sick.'
'Of course you don't darling.'
'I do.'
'You don't.'
The thumbsucker moved nearer his older sister, as near as his seatbelt would allow.
'Mum.'
Mum, turned, her hair full and firm, as was the style. Her glasses, big and round. 'We're nearly there.' Her irritation was carefully buried.
'Mum... I do.'
'No, you don't.'
And as she turned to me, smiling reassuringly, the little girl did.
Mum didn't say anything. Removing her glasses, only her eyes had escaped.
The little girl didn't have anything left to say.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
A Nice Day for a...
Blue sky. Rangitoto settled on calm green, waters. The perfect day to have a little jog along the well laid paths curving around the bays.
The only bump in the perfect plan was the exercise wills (or lack thereof) of two smaller members of the sporting clan. One's eyes widened is disbelief that he'd be dragged from far more pressing electronic excursions. The younger one's eyes narrowed in defiance.
It is not in this battle that the story lies and once an Ipod was secured for one and a scooter for the other, the small group piled into the car in search of sea views and exercise.
Jogging was the domain of the Ipod wearer who shot off at speed towards the horizon, zig-zagging around pushed prams and unweildly dogs pulling on leads. Leaving one 'jogger' with the scooter. Said jogger tried to jog in unison with manned scooter. How hard could it be? The paths were completely flat and the scooter had two wheels.
Stop... start... stop... start... stop... start... stop... stop... underbreath expletive ("Mummy, if the car was a swearbox we'd be rich")... stop... S-T-O-P.
Deep, deep breath. Composed face. Curled toes.
Bending down, face to face, the jogger looked into two small narrowed eyes.
'Darling, why don't you just go at your favourite pace?' Encouragingly, softly.
'Mummy, my favourite pace is stopped.'
And the big jogger and the little scooterer waited for the medium sized jogger to return.
Then the three got back into the car and went home.
And two small eyes stared out of the window, going at his favourite pace as the car went at its favourite one.
The only bump in the perfect plan was the exercise wills (or lack thereof) of two smaller members of the sporting clan. One's eyes widened is disbelief that he'd be dragged from far more pressing electronic excursions. The younger one's eyes narrowed in defiance.
It is not in this battle that the story lies and once an Ipod was secured for one and a scooter for the other, the small group piled into the car in search of sea views and exercise.
Jogging was the domain of the Ipod wearer who shot off at speed towards the horizon, zig-zagging around pushed prams and unweildly dogs pulling on leads. Leaving one 'jogger' with the scooter. Said jogger tried to jog in unison with manned scooter. How hard could it be? The paths were completely flat and the scooter had two wheels.
Stop... start... stop... start... stop... start... stop... stop... underbreath expletive ("Mummy, if the car was a swearbox we'd be rich")... stop... S-T-O-P.
Deep, deep breath. Composed face. Curled toes.
Bending down, face to face, the jogger looked into two small narrowed eyes.
'Darling, why don't you just go at your favourite pace?' Encouragingly, softly.
'Mummy, my favourite pace is stopped.'
And the big jogger and the little scooterer waited for the medium sized jogger to return.
Then the three got back into the car and went home.
And two small eyes stared out of the window, going at his favourite pace as the car went at its favourite one.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Puppies gone bad
Back in the seventies... something happened, parents sauntered and span from Cold Duck to Blenheimer. Their cars guzzled and glugged gas with gay abandon and zoomed along truncated motorways. They're longer now.
Mums' moo-moos grazed psychaedelic hems on the trudge to the shops and dad's were wearing coloured shirts, no longer choking on their tight, black ties. Hair grew and flew. Mind enhancers were swilled and swallowed and often unceremoniously regurgitated.
It was great for kids. As parents wandered from sherry to sherry, kids were left to their own devices because if there was a babysitter, she (it was always a she back then) wasn't interested in child rearing nor did she have to wave a qualification before sitting with the kids. She'd be snogging enthusiastically somewhere 'out of sight' if she wasn't sucking on a fag out the window. The glory days. The gory days!
There was usually a funny smell in the bathroom the day after mum and dad had left us with a babysitter. We never heard the retching or regret. Hangovers were hung and dried and not drivelled over.
It was about the same time that long skirts were getting caught in the giddy heights of platforms, that Leroy came into our lives. Leroy, after the song. 'Bad, Bad Leroy Brown'... or something like that... this was last century... he lived up to his name.
Leroy was a dog. Midnight black with a small speck of white on his forehead (do dogs have foreheads?). He was all big feet and tongue when he puppied his way into our lives. We three, vied for his attention with tidbits and strokes.
But it wasn't long before the darkness crept into his being and the big-footed puppy scampered away. We were left with a dog with all the charm of Satan's spawn.
Sometimes he would sit at the top of the stairs gnawing bones. We would try to creep past him but his low growl and curled back lips sent us back down the stairs.
Other times, mum would pick us up from school. But we couldn't get into the old Belmont because Leroy was flying around the interior, bared teeth, barking.
I remember once waking up with a great weight on my still flat chest. It was as if a wardrobe had fallen over during the night, and I was trapped beneath it. A wardrobe would've evoked less fear. The canine force's low growl usurped the urgency of my bladder's signals. As I lay, covered in fur and fear... I wet the bed.
And another lasting memory, was the day Leroy made a dental impression in my cheek. It was sharp and sore. When Dad saw it, he noted pragmatically "If he'd meant it, he'd have taken your jaw off."
Leroy was a Great Dane.
The seventies were great.
Mums' moo-moos grazed psychaedelic hems on the trudge to the shops and dad's were wearing coloured shirts, no longer choking on their tight, black ties. Hair grew and flew. Mind enhancers were swilled and swallowed and often unceremoniously regurgitated.
It was great for kids. As parents wandered from sherry to sherry, kids were left to their own devices because if there was a babysitter, she (it was always a she back then) wasn't interested in child rearing nor did she have to wave a qualification before sitting with the kids. She'd be snogging enthusiastically somewhere 'out of sight' if she wasn't sucking on a fag out the window. The glory days. The gory days!
There was usually a funny smell in the bathroom the day after mum and dad had left us with a babysitter. We never heard the retching or regret. Hangovers were hung and dried and not drivelled over.
It was about the same time that long skirts were getting caught in the giddy heights of platforms, that Leroy came into our lives. Leroy, after the song. 'Bad, Bad Leroy Brown'... or something like that... this was last century... he lived up to his name.
Leroy was a dog. Midnight black with a small speck of white on his forehead (do dogs have foreheads?). He was all big feet and tongue when he puppied his way into our lives. We three, vied for his attention with tidbits and strokes.
But it wasn't long before the darkness crept into his being and the big-footed puppy scampered away. We were left with a dog with all the charm of Satan's spawn.
Sometimes he would sit at the top of the stairs gnawing bones. We would try to creep past him but his low growl and curled back lips sent us back down the stairs.
Other times, mum would pick us up from school. But we couldn't get into the old Belmont because Leroy was flying around the interior, bared teeth, barking.
I remember once waking up with a great weight on my still flat chest. It was as if a wardrobe had fallen over during the night, and I was trapped beneath it. A wardrobe would've evoked less fear. The canine force's low growl usurped the urgency of my bladder's signals. As I lay, covered in fur and fear... I wet the bed.
And another lasting memory, was the day Leroy made a dental impression in my cheek. It was sharp and sore. When Dad saw it, he noted pragmatically "If he'd meant it, he'd have taken your jaw off."
Leroy was a Great Dane.
The seventies were great.
Waiting for the suds...
Ever felt you're waiting for the suds?
Well, here I am on a cyber soapbox and it's time to lather up and start rubbing my cyber paws together... is there a point? Well... you might be standing next to the photocopier waiting for it to burp out flying paper as your thoughts dance in places far from the smell of toner... and you notice that you're wearing two different shoes which you hadn't noticed when you birthed them from the wardrobe that very morning... after 150 copies, paper de-flowered with toner, you notice that you've printed off something which only warranted one page not 500 (the coffee cup stain is the giveaway)... and then you bash and tease buttons to get it to stop... but it continues to burp delightedly and paper continues to shoot out... and you look at your watch and realise you've still got seven hours and thirty five minutes to go.
And then you ask... what was I doing here again? And as you copy the piece of information that needs 500 copies, the question gets bigger. And you find your puppy, all cute and gnawing has somehow transformed into a honking, great rhinoceros. All horn and no tail... well, not one that's wagging anyway...
So, where were we, and where do we want to be? Big, horny (not in the naughty sense!) question. Prefer the puppy myself, it's only got little teeth.
Well, here I am on a cyber soapbox and it's time to lather up and start rubbing my cyber paws together... is there a point? Well... you might be standing next to the photocopier waiting for it to burp out flying paper as your thoughts dance in places far from the smell of toner... and you notice that you're wearing two different shoes which you hadn't noticed when you birthed them from the wardrobe that very morning... after 150 copies, paper de-flowered with toner, you notice that you've printed off something which only warranted one page not 500 (the coffee cup stain is the giveaway)... and then you bash and tease buttons to get it to stop... but it continues to burp delightedly and paper continues to shoot out... and you look at your watch and realise you've still got seven hours and thirty five minutes to go.
And then you ask... what was I doing here again? And as you copy the piece of information that needs 500 copies, the question gets bigger. And you find your puppy, all cute and gnawing has somehow transformed into a honking, great rhinoceros. All horn and no tail... well, not one that's wagging anyway...
So, where were we, and where do we want to be? Big, horny (not in the naughty sense!) question. Prefer the puppy myself, it's only got little teeth.
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