Parenting Skills
We were in Tenby’s wonderful vivarium, Silent World, yesterday. A couple had brought their little boy, but didn’t seem to want to discuss the many creatures there with him at all. They talked only to each other, and if the little boy wanted them to listen to him he found he had to say everything seventeen times, with increasing loudness, thus:
“Fish. Fish. Fish. Fish. Fish. FISH. FISH. FISH . FISH. FISH.”
“Yes, it’s a fish. So, as I was saying - - “
You get the general idea. In an enclosed space this rapidly became really rather annoying, and then intensely infuriating, though, as Emily pointed out, it really wasn’t the child’s fault at all.
Meanwhile, upstairs, a mother was explaining to a fascinated child of similar age all about the ant colony: how the ants take leaves and flowers from this pile, here, and then climb up the rope and go through the glass tube right across the room to their nest right over there, look - -
(Mind you, some might counsel against that approach too – that’s what we did with Emily when she was small and the result is currently three geckos and a corn snake in our house, with the looming possibility of a boa constrictor - - but, you see, although that might be some parents’ idea of hell, it isn’t mine.)
In the afternoon we had a rather more serious demonstration of crap parenting skills. It was cold and raining slightly so my mother, age eighty-three and a quarter, was of course swimming in the sea.
Also in the sea were three young boys, aged about eight: one with a bodyboard and one with one of those long thin buoyancy aids that are so annoying when they block half a swimming pool as the beginner goes along very slowly in the middle (look, I’m sorry if I appear to be turning into Disapproving Daily Mail Reader, I think it’s all this rain.)
The boy with the long thin buoyancy aid let go of it, and it floated out to sea, as the tide was going out. He swam after it, and then realised he couldn’t get back in again.
I was on the beach, taking photos of my mother swimming, when I saw what was happening – but by the time I’d thought I’d better go in after this lad, my mother, age eighty-three and a quarter, had already swum to him, grabbed him and brought him back to shore.
The parents, sitting chatting a hundred yards or so up the beach, never noticed any of it.
“Fish. Fish. Fish. Fish. Fish. FISH. FISH. FISH . FISH. FISH.”
“Yes, it’s a fish. So, as I was saying - - “
You get the general idea. In an enclosed space this rapidly became really rather annoying, and then intensely infuriating, though, as Emily pointed out, it really wasn’t the child’s fault at all.
Meanwhile, upstairs, a mother was explaining to a fascinated child of similar age all about the ant colony: how the ants take leaves and flowers from this pile, here, and then climb up the rope and go through the glass tube right across the room to their nest right over there, look - -
(Mind you, some might counsel against that approach too – that’s what we did with Emily when she was small and the result is currently three geckos and a corn snake in our house, with the looming possibility of a boa constrictor - - but, you see, although that might be some parents’ idea of hell, it isn’t mine.)
In the afternoon we had a rather more serious demonstration of crap parenting skills. It was cold and raining slightly so my mother, age eighty-three and a quarter, was of course swimming in the sea.
Also in the sea were three young boys, aged about eight: one with a bodyboard and one with one of those long thin buoyancy aids that are so annoying when they block half a swimming pool as the beginner goes along very slowly in the middle (look, I’m sorry if I appear to be turning into Disapproving Daily Mail Reader, I think it’s all this rain.)
The boy with the long thin buoyancy aid let go of it, and it floated out to sea, as the tide was going out. He swam after it, and then realised he couldn’t get back in again.
I was on the beach, taking photos of my mother swimming, when I saw what was happening – but by the time I’d thought I’d better go in after this lad, my mother, age eighty-three and a quarter, had already swum to him, grabbed him and brought him back to shore.
The parents, sitting chatting a hundred yards or so up the beach, never noticed any of it.
posted by Daphne at 4:31 pm
4 Comments:
My mother is fervent on the subject of buoyancy aids in open water.
you have a very cool mother.
and mighty sprightly for her age, please pass on my applause and considerations.
Hi Daphne.
Should your daughter graduate to a boa constrictor she'll clearly be someone be someone to admire - if not slightly fear. Though I wonder where the clear escalation path might lead!
The surprising diversity of crap parenting skills - or unskills - is a constant source of sad surprise. As is the mawkishness which accompanies the sad end which can happen to poorly parented children. Whether drowned by neglect or emotionally abandoned by indifference.
Perhaps we should be allowed to slap a sticker onto people: You Need Parenting Classes!
Hash, but will no one think of the children!
Ah, next stop - a yeti?
oh, no, she's already got one of those!
Hurrah and well done to Mother!
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