Tuesday, March 29, 2011

March 29

The girls are jigging and singing a sea shanty. When they say they went on a pirate ship, they mime climbing the rigging; they salute the captain; they rub their tums that are full of rum.

B tells me some longarse thing about Bob Dylan, and the moral of the story is that life is about the simple things. Maybe she is right: I have more pleasure from watching my children dancing than I do from any other thing in this life.

After his sleepover, Naughtyman's scouts put on a show, and Naughtyman's ribbon dance looked the spit of his crazy dance, which has had me in stitches a hundred times. It looks like hilarious uncoordinated, superfast Irish dancing. He is beaming as he jerks like a puppet whose master has been at the billy whiz.

The pleasure of children is so pure because it's so simple. You don't have to ask yourself what it means.

When I read about people abusing their children, I cannot help thinking that the abusers must be the lowest of people, because they are too coarse even to appreciate how much there is to gain in being a parent. They think it is worth less than sex, or whatever approximation to it what they are doing actually is. I mean, whether it's motivated by wanting sex or by needing to express their need to have power or thinking that it is some kind of love.

What would I know about it? I cannot begin to imagine it. I know it is trite to feel that way, but as I said, it doesn't hurt to be human sometimes.

And I know there are many ways to abuse a person. Raising a child brings so much anxiety. What do they feel? What will they feel? Will their judgement be harsh, or will they remember mostly that you loved them, and forget your failings just as you try to forget those of the people you love?

It tortures my mum. She remembers the times she smacked me, and with time they have become monstrous vicious tortures, savage attacks on me with any weapon that came to hand. I remember laughing hysterically as my mum tried to belabour me with a shoe, but it's a tiny memory against the bigger picture of kindness, sacrifice and love. Given how smackable I doubtless was, it's likely a wonder I was not beaten raw.

I admire B so much. I have had a taste of raising children singlehanded, but I hand mine over every other week. She exemplifies that it's how you play your hand that counts, not what hand you were dealt. She approaches her boys always with softness and love: they could never doubt she loves them. How lucky they are! Children thrive on it; it's plantgro for kids.

Ugh, what a dull post! I could have just said I love my kids and I left it at that.

1 Comments:

Blogger Grapes 2.0 said...

Dude that's what you said. You can never say it enough.

March 30, 2011 at 12:33 AM  

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