Tell cubs this;
When showing adults something, the object does not need to touch our retina.
Tell cubs this;
When showing adults something, the object does not need to touch our retina.
For the cubs..
Most can handle prosperity; the true measure of an individual is who they are in times of adversity.
At 8 years old, my daughter has been called the n-word.
I received a phone call at work from the ex this week, she was in tears.
Our daughter was minding her own business playing in the playground when all of a sudden one of the boys she was playing with lashed out.
Her phone call was quickly followed up by a phone call from school; it was my daughter’s form teacher.
Her voice was trembly as she told me what happened. Most of the conversation was taken up by her assuring me of how seriously the school take such things and how they had dealt with this situation robustly.
I thanked her for the phone call and asked her to arrange meeting between both sets of parents. At this response, her voice trembled even more. She promises to call me back. She doesn’t.
I get up from my desk open the office door and go for a walk. I need to clear my head, calm down and think clearly.
From very early on I’ve tried to make my daughter self-aware. Where we live she, in fact we, are a visible minority. For this very reason I have spent years growing her self belief and the knowledge that she is worthy and can achieve anything
It appears to have worked. She reported the incident to the teachers before returning to what she was doing. The boy was removed from play, his parents were called and they removed him from school for the day.
We were eventually offered a meeting the next day with the parents and the headteacher. I declined stating that I need to put a couple of days between the incident to allow me to calm down and also do some damage control.
After school we sat her down for a talk. We asked her what happened and to explain in her words. She did and we listened.
She told us she didn’t really know what the word meant but she’d read it in a book and knew that it wasn’t very nice, and that’s why she told the teachers. I gave her the biggest hug that I could, told her she’d done the right thing and that I was proud of her.
She began to tell me that he’d only called her that name because he was angry. I stopped her. I explained that no one has the right to lash out and call anybody any names or inflict physical damage because they are angry. That is not a justification. People should learn to control themselves. He is young, he is learning, but the rules apply.
This is such an important lesson for children to learn. Words, actions, have consequences.
We received a contrite email from the boy’s mother. She was very apologetic, explained that he didn’t know what the word meant, they don’t use that kind of language at home, and that he picked it up on YouTube.
I couldn’t help but observe some parental choices. She’d read it in a book; he’d heard it on YouTube I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.
Big cub is fine. After we had the conversation, she spent more time telling me excitedly about the football match that she was playing in tomorrow. She was playing in midfield against some other schools. I assured her that I would be there to watch.
Her mum and I, will take a little longer to recover. For us this is the end of the age of innocence. We knew that they would come up against this kind of discrimination and hatred but we had no idea how soon it would happen. I, have been preparing her for a long time by positively reinforcing images of people and women that look like her, making sure that she knew the struggles they went through, what they enjoyed, and what they achieved despite this. I’m so glad I did.
It’s been a busy year so far. I’ve taken a lot on and although it feels good, I’ve become stuck.
Two things have struck me recently;
Firstly, it’s nearly Christmas. I’ve got to prepare and this year has flown.
Secondly, in 15 years, I’ll be 60. This thought was bought on by a tweet about Angela Bassett (60) at an award ceremony.
That’s just the way my mind works.
The first 8 years of my eldest cub’s life have shot by which brings my mind to the passage of time, and how I could be wasting it.
Or at least not making ‘enough’ progress.
That voice is back.
‘Surely I should be there now, rather than where I actually am, here’
The internal coach. Eternal critic.
This time, I have an answer. Where I am now, is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
It’s easy to listen to this critic who will make you forget just how far you’ve come, both personally and professionally.
I’m learning two new skills. They’re big skills that can’t be rushed, but at the grand age of 45, I’m restless. Both skills have ground to a halt; one financially, one technically.
Again, the critic inside thinks I should be further forward.
That is, until I look back 12 months and see that then me, and now me, are strangers. If now me had told then me where I’d be now, it would appear a tale of pure fallacy.
So I take a breath and a break, and relax.
I’m writing this on a windy hilltop, enjoying the sunset. And smiling.
Angela Bassett looked amazing, by the way.
Ok I’m back and hopefully so is my writing bug. Let’s see how this goes.
I like to teach the cubs life skills whenever I can and today was a big one; cooking breakfast.
She’s 8 next month and has shown the maturity to use kitchen knives responsibly in the past. It’s time to use the hob to make porridge.
Sharps are one thing; flame another. She gets a thorough briefing.
She hits the ignition; her life changes for ever.
She turns to talk to me and reach for a bowl. I stop her; keeping her attention on the job. One thing at a time.
She counts aloud as the porridge thickens. Perfection; hob off.
I help with dishing out, as the pot is heavy. (Does the coagulation of a thixotropic material proportionately increase its mass? I’ll save that one for her graduation)
She added the finishing touches to my bowl; honey, nuts, banana, blueberries, cinnamon, turmeric and ginger. Her bowl was less extravagant but she nailed it (apart from the turmeric but hey; curried porridge can be a thing…)
The look of satisfaction and pride on her face is immeasurable.
‘Best porridge ever daddy?’
Not about me not drinking alcohol, although I’m still not, mostly.
I’m talking potty training.
I don’t remember it being this challenging nor do I remember feeling these levels of frustrations. I guess it’s easier when there’s two of you.
Youngest cub is making the transition from pull-ups to big boy pants. It’s quite the journey.
Later this year and all too young, he’s going to school and the last thing I want is for him not to be dry when he gets there.
Expert opinion states that you shouldn’t force a child into being dry, but rather you should look for signs that they are ready to start using the potty or the toilet.
For about the last year he has been asking questions about the toilet or opening the door at inopportune moments to stare at me. I took it as a sign.
Nursery staff commented a while back that he had spent most of the day dry so we all agreed to progress things.
On the last Nursery day of the week, when I collected him I also collected a selection of bagged up pants and trousers.
Rome wasn’t built in a day.
This week’s grocery shop included 10 pairs of big boy pants; I intend to crack this over the Easter holidays.
Before breakfast, I change him from a nighttime nappy into normal pants. Over the past couple of weeks he’s become quite good at taking himself to the loo. His step and seat adapter are all where he can reach them.
Sans porridge, he starts wriggling and squatting. He says he needs a wee. I tell him to go. He asks me to come, as he doesn’t want to go upstairs alone. Ok.
As we stand in front of the bowl, getting the step and seat in place he stands awkwardly and a growing puddle appears around his feet. He’s a bit upset.
I reassure him that accidents happen and that maybe he should get there a little earlier next time to avoid the agony of ‘almost’.
I clean him up, put on fresh pants and trousers before we return to our favourite breakfast distraction, learning French on he kindle.
The demand for ghost stories have gone up recently. She’s not convinced but he loves them.
I have a great story book that’s almost suitable for them. I read one yesterday and they seemed to like it, so much so they’ve asked for another story this morning.
I head for the lounge with the book and settle in the sofa. I tell them both to come in close so they can see the illustrations.
She’s in; he’s out, preferring to stand by the arm of the chair. I’m suspicious.
Do you need a poo?
“No” he says, before making a straining noise.
A quick check confirms that we need to scoot. Too late.
I’m frustrated and do my best not to get angry; I sort my emotions before I speak. He seems to comprehend that the wee urge needs to be addressed but still seems to poo on demand.
The psychologist in me understands that I can do damage here if I handle this incorrectly. Nobody cracks any new skill straight away.
I think that what got to me is that I asked him if he needed a poo and he’s said no. That’s a cycle I do need to break.
Time for some classical conditioning and a great deal of patience.
I’ve had a bit of a break because, well, I was tired. I’ve been doing a lot of self improvement lately and that takes its toll. I’ll probably write about it shortly.
Not today though; today, is all about my budding thespian.
My eldest cub has been bouncing off the walls for a month. She had been cast as a major part in the school play, ‘Pirates of the Curry-Bean’.
I probably didn’t have to spell that out but it fills the page.
She was RedBeard; a major speaking part. For the last few weeks she’s pushed her learning of her lines. She’s practiced so, so hard to the point that her 3 year old brother was fluent in all the songs.
I gave her the nuggets of my experience, having played one of the Three Wise Men in numerous nativities and Joseph in one. This makes me a pro.
Proper practice prevents poor performance. She learnt this first. It was our mantra for karate and my mantra for everything.
She sang in the bath; she sang in her room. She sang at bedtime, accompanied by him; she sang in the car. I loved it.
The big day
Actually the night before.
They’ve been at their mum’s this week so technically the next time I’d see her would be when she entered stage right.
I wasn’t having that.
Thank you technology; FaceTime engaged.
We chat, I wish her luck before assuring her that I would be at both the lunchtime and the evening performances.
She responds by informing me that her brother, well on the way to being toilet trained, is having a wee in the bath.
Maybe he’s more nervous than she is.
The big day (for real)
And I wake up with a hacking cough.
Where in hell had this come from?? Disaster!
Understand this; I’m a big fella; when I cough it sounds like a nuclear detonation giving birth to an adult volcanic eruption. It’s pretty loud.
Water. As much of it as I could drink without killing myself.
Drugs. Cold and flu remedies to be precise.
Cough sweets. Not good enough. Give me the industrial stuff – weapons grade if you’ve got it.
Timing. Tablets taken too early would lose their effect at a critical time; probably during a soliloquy. Time to work the clock backwards.
Tablets take 30 minutes to work but then last for 4 hours; taken too early I’d be protection-less at the commencement of the performance, ruining the show and scaring smaller children; too late and it wouldn’t kick in until the epilogue.
Take one in 10 minutes then another in a subsequent 5, thus staggering the impact whilst allowing for any delays in curtain up.
I may have overthought it.
The (revised) plan
Arrive 45 mins early; eat lunch. Take tablet(s); drink drink. Have wee. Take cough sweet (industrial). Drink. Nice.
Seat at the front, with other cub and mum; relax.
Apart from Captain RedBeard taking time out to wave periodically to loved ones during an orchestrated battle, it was amazing.
Proud daddy had the loudest clapping (thankfully not coughing) in the audience.