they call me Mrs. Pitiful
One day last week I came home to the sound of heaves and grunts, the chink of weights sliding onto metal and cries of 'Higher - higher - higher - more - that's it - stay there -" gasp.heave.shunkCLUNK. The boys were taking turns, two spotting, one lifting, and there were instructions to me not to come into the laundry room.
I put the fear of god into them by popping in there with a camera and saying "You guys know I keep a blog, right?"
[Insert random picture of robin's nest in garden shed here. There'd have been a picture of the fledglings if I'd been willing to use the flash on them.] But I had mercy on the boys and gave them lots of chocolate to make up for the scare. What can I say other than I had them eating out of my hand after the chocolate even the tallest, most macho boy was all shy smiles and sweetness and little jokes.*pets them* Ah, the fragile bravado of young men.
I see these boys in a very different light than the young men who come calling for my daughters liars and fools all. The suitors present themselves as finished, competent, invulnerable, no cracks in their facade, no visible fragility. I'm old enough to know the performance of 'man' in these hard-bodied, hard-edged, handsome young fellows brings its own anxieties, and exerts in own costs: particularly in that rigidity and conservatism some of us will be calling wilful obtuseness before we're a lot older. By contrast my son and his friends seem still to be evolving. The boy moved out last weekend *sad face*
Missing so much a sturdy, amiable, capable presence. His room is empty except for a few CDs - must be the crap ones; the Terry Pratchett collection - he must have read them all; his leathers, dumped on the bare matress - well I know he's selling his bike to fund the move; and a fishtank empty of everything but water. Someone keeps switching the fishtank light on. The room looks like some kind of art installation about absence.
He's been back a few times, mostly to scrounge round the kitchen - and I keep forgetting, and go to cook and find no onions, or soy sauce, or mustard - and I'm steeling myself not to do any of his laundry, left in heaps round the training laundry room - apart from my own ideological stuff I'd never hear the end of it from the daughters - favouritism! partiality! Oh, he's your precious BOY is he? Yes, and? Is the world still turning? I don't know any mothers of fledgling men who don't think their own is the best thing since sliced bread and dammit.. might that be part of the problem...spose we can't all be right.
It's such a different relationship than that I have with my daughters, which is a swampy mutuality of inspiration, aspiration, resentment, knee-jerk denial and deep, deep understanding. Oh, and affection, I dare say. With the boy, mutual understanding has to explored and worked towards, and double-checked. I hope the process rubs off onto his relationships with woman, as I imagine it would be handy, and save a lot of time. I hope he finds a girl who gets it too: you probably don't understand each other; talk about it; you may get there if you put some work in.
I hope he won't take refuge from the inevitable fall-out of the gender wars in meaness and control-freakery (as one notices so often), recognising a pyrrhic victory when he sees one. I relish the way he'll tackle any job asked of him, from building a wall to cooking and cleaning, thoroughly and with vigour. There should be a caveat in there somewhere. I realise I'm being sentimental, just on account of his big grey eyes. Which is, of course, so much easier to do when he's not around.
How's everybody been? Hey, it just about looks like Summer late Spring. We've got pear blossom, the hedges are creamy with hawthorn-or-is-it-blackthorn blossom (ne'er cast a clout etc.) The evil killer magpies have been marauding through the new nests in our garden, and just cos they have fledglings of their own it doesn't make it any easier to watch. Oh, and it's no more than poetic justice, I guess, when the person who doesn't believe in dieting on principle finds they can no longer fit in their trousers. See what giving up smoking will do for you.
I put the fear of god into them by popping in there with a camera and saying "You guys know I keep a blog, right?"
[Insert random picture of robin's nest in garden shed here. There'd have been a picture of the fledglings if I'd been willing to use the flash on them.] But I had mercy on the boys and gave them lots of chocolate to make up for the scare. What can I say other than I had them eating out of my hand after the chocolate even the tallest, most macho boy was all shy smiles and sweetness and little jokes.*pets them* Ah, the fragile bravado of young men.
I see these boys in a very different light than the young men who come calling for my daughters liars and fools all. The suitors present themselves as finished, competent, invulnerable, no cracks in their facade, no visible fragility. I'm old enough to know the performance of 'man' in these hard-bodied, hard-edged, handsome young fellows brings its own anxieties, and exerts in own costs: particularly in that rigidity and conservatism some of us will be calling wilful obtuseness before we're a lot older. By contrast my son and his friends seem still to be evolving. The boy moved out last weekend *sad face*
Missing so much a sturdy, amiable, capable presence. His room is empty except for a few CDs - must be the crap ones; the Terry Pratchett collection - he must have read them all; his leathers, dumped on the bare matress - well I know he's selling his bike to fund the move; and a fishtank empty of everything but water. Someone keeps switching the fishtank light on. The room looks like some kind of art installation about absence.
He's been back a few times, mostly to scrounge round the kitchen - and I keep forgetting, and go to cook and find no onions, or soy sauce, or mustard - and I'm steeling myself not to do any of his laundry, left in heaps round the training laundry room - apart from my own ideological stuff I'd never hear the end of it from the daughters - favouritism! partiality! Oh, he's your precious BOY is he? Yes, and? Is the world still turning? I don't know any mothers of fledgling men who don't think their own is the best thing since sliced bread and dammit.. might that be part of the problem...spose we can't all be right.
It's such a different relationship than that I have with my daughters, which is a swampy mutuality of inspiration, aspiration, resentment, knee-jerk denial and deep, deep understanding. Oh, and affection, I dare say. With the boy, mutual understanding has to explored and worked towards, and double-checked. I hope the process rubs off onto his relationships with woman, as I imagine it would be handy, and save a lot of time. I hope he finds a girl who gets it too: you probably don't understand each other; talk about it; you may get there if you put some work in.
I hope he won't take refuge from the inevitable fall-out of the gender wars in meaness and control-freakery (as one notices so often), recognising a pyrrhic victory when he sees one. I relish the way he'll tackle any job asked of him, from building a wall to cooking and cleaning, thoroughly and with vigour. There should be a caveat in there somewhere. I realise I'm being sentimental, just on account of his big grey eyes. Which is, of course, so much easier to do when he's not around.
How's everybody been? Hey, it just about looks like Summer late Spring. We've got pear blossom, the hedges are creamy with hawthorn-or-is-it-blackthorn blossom (ne'er cast a clout etc.) The evil killer magpies have been marauding through the new nests in our garden, and just cos they have fledglings of their own it doesn't make it any easier to watch. Oh, and it's no more than poetic justice, I guess, when the person who doesn't believe in dieting on principle finds they can no longer fit in their trousers. See what giving up smoking will do for you.