Memoirs of a really boring person
Ah, the joys of an Irish public library in a smallish former market town. (And if you didn't get the healthy dose of sarcasm in that sentence, hold out your glass -- this one's on me.) I've become accustomed to the fact that my family's bathroom has a bigger floor space, that they stock number three -- and only number three -- of every series and trilogy, and that you'd stand a better chance waiting for newly published books to fall out of the sky than loaning them out within two years of their debut. One thing I hadn't factored in was the calendar -- it's Saturday. The day when beleaguered parents take their cawing offspring to their five-minute immersion in voluntary edification.
And I do mean five minutes. I was quite horrified to hear, during my hour, the phrases 'Just one book, X!' and 'Hurry up, X, we have to go now' uttered more than once. I felt like saying, "Um, hello? You should be encouraging them to read and letting them browse as long as they like, YOU UTTER MORON WHY DID SOMEONE THINK IT WAS A GOOD IDEA TO GIVE YOU FUNCTIONING OVARIES/SEMINAL GLANDS?" And not once did I hear a parent say to their child the only thing you should say in a library -- to wit: "Be quiet."
Then again, it's wrong to assume that parents should have a Plan for their children, just because I think they should. It's the only thing that separates us from beasts (or doesn't, depending). You have to give your kids something to believe, even if they don't believe it. You have to show them how they should act, even if they don't act that way. You have to teach them how to think, even if they think differently.
My own parents aren't like this, although for the longest time I thought they were. When, aged eighteen, I finally confessed to my mother that I couldn't go to mass any more because I didn't believe, her reply was: "Oh, really? I expected you to stop ages ago." When I complimented her on her strategy in raising me to love reading to the point of insanity, and with the direct result of excellent grades and career in mind, she said, "But I didn't. You wouldn't go to sleep when you were a kid -- you kept popping in to Dad's and my bed and trying to watch TV with us. I just wanted some time alone with him. You insisted on being told four stories before you'd fall asleep, that's all."
Is it any wonder I can't tell my arse from my elbow, really?
As I walked to the car I passed the second ring of hell, also known as my former music studio. The strains of tortured pianists tinkled into the streets. I paused to recall how many times I'd been made to cry within those four walls (double figures), then hurried on before the Devil They Named Pearl saw me. Good times, good times.
And I do mean five minutes. I was quite horrified to hear, during my hour, the phrases 'Just one book, X!' and 'Hurry up, X, we have to go now' uttered more than once. I felt like saying, "Um, hello? You should be encouraging them to read and letting them browse as long as they like, YOU UTTER MORON WHY DID SOMEONE THINK IT WAS A GOOD IDEA TO GIVE YOU FUNCTIONING OVARIES/SEMINAL GLANDS?" And not once did I hear a parent say to their child the only thing you should say in a library -- to wit: "Be quiet."
Then again, it's wrong to assume that parents should have a Plan for their children, just because I think they should. It's the only thing that separates us from beasts (or doesn't, depending). You have to give your kids something to believe, even if they don't believe it. You have to show them how they should act, even if they don't act that way. You have to teach them how to think, even if they think differently.
My own parents aren't like this, although for the longest time I thought they were. When, aged eighteen, I finally confessed to my mother that I couldn't go to mass any more because I didn't believe, her reply was: "Oh, really? I expected you to stop ages ago." When I complimented her on her strategy in raising me to love reading to the point of insanity, and with the direct result of excellent grades and career in mind, she said, "But I didn't. You wouldn't go to sleep when you were a kid -- you kept popping in to Dad's and my bed and trying to watch TV with us. I just wanted some time alone with him. You insisted on being told four stories before you'd fall asleep, that's all."
Is it any wonder I can't tell my arse from my elbow, really?
As I walked to the car I passed the second ring of hell, also known as my former music studio. The strains of tortured pianists tinkled into the streets. I paused to recall how many times I'd been made to cry within those four walls (double figures), then hurried on before the Devil They Named Pearl saw me. Good times, good times.