WARNING – THIS POST WILL MOST DEFINITELY CONTAIN MORE THAN YOUR DAILY RECOMMENDED ALLOWANCE OF FUCKS.
Bean is going through a spell, a phase, whatever. I say a phase, I think I’m only using that term to convince myself that this is all temporary when in actual fact, he’s been doing it for about a year now. Denial is alright, innit? I mean, it’s the only thing keeping me from being a raging alcoholic at the moment so that’s gotta be positive, right?
Bean does not listen to me.
I don’t know how else I can stress that fact.
Majority of the time, I’ve grown used to it. Any requests I make have to come loaded with some kind of bribe. Yeah, I could do without the extortionate chocolate button bills but I really fucking hate spending my entire day listening to my own bloody voice, as I’m sure my neighbours are, and anyone within a 2 mile radius of my house.
But after several days of no sleep, obvs, when the proverbial pipe has burst, spreading a constant stream of shit in my face, ya know, metaphorically, what I don’t need is a small naked boy attempting to make a bid for freedom out of the front door. Or throwing my clean washing over the garden fence, into the neighbours garden – who I really do not like, of course.
A simple “No, don’t do that.” Should do it, yeah?
Will it fuck.
In whichever tone of voice I so wish to use.
Is it a boy thing? Is it a four-year old thing? Is it an attention thing? Is it purely just one of those fucking things that they are supposedly meant to grow out of eventually we tell ourselves, again to convince one another that “this too shall pass, but please pass me the fucking gin” bollocks?
After a horrendous day, I mistakenly call my mum. Ya know. Your own mum will know this shit. She’s been there, through the other side and is happily spending her retirement drinking tea with her feet up, completing countless crosswords. No doubt with a smirk plastered on her face that three of her four kids are now firmly in the midst of the shit she was dealing with a couple of decades ago.
This makes sense, my head stupidly tells me. Call mum. She’ll understand.
See, I’ve already gone wrong. If my head is telling me I’ve got a good idea, fucking ignore it, it’s lying.
Her advice? Words that make me feel sick. Words I don’t want to hear.
I tell her I can’t do that, I don’t want to do that. I’m already fifty shades of the mum I never wanted to be, I can’t go down that road. My star sign is Libra, it’s all wrong with me stars, I want everything to be all floaty and happy and not resulting in a punch up. I can remember my mum smacking me. And no, don’t get me wrong, that ain’t the reason I’ve had thousands of pounds worth of therapy, but still, it’s not a nice memory is it? It’s not a way I want Bean to remember me FFS, even if it is a tiny one, a whisper of a memory, a “Oh shit, yeah I remember you doing that.”
“Oh, but you’ll probably only need to do it a few times.”
And if I don’t? What if it doesn’t work? I just continue to do it?
I tell her all this. I say repeatedly I’m not prepared to detour down that road. Not even once. That yeah, perhaps a few years ago, smacking was pretty much the rule and not the exception. But fucking hell. A few years ago it was normal to send little kids up chimneys. A few years ago technology wasn’t to be trusted. A few bloody years ago everyone was using MySpace.
Does that mean they were right?
“Well, whatever you’re doing now isn’t working, is it?”
No. I suppose it isn’t. He still won’t listen to me. Standing my ground, being firm and dotting little grids stuck on the fridge with gold stars isn’t fucking working.
But in this case, soz Mum, I’d rather be wrong.