7th July 2008 - The Lion, the Witch and the Whatnow?

I'd taken the kids to see Prince Caspian, a film adaptation of part of the C.S. Lewis Narnia series of books. Dad had been aware of these books - my sister had been a voracious reader growing up and I'm pretty sure he'd have remembered them. He didn't seem to be able to grasp the idea of cinema. I called it the films, the pictures, the Odeon, everything I could to try and convey where we'd been. But he wasn't having it, he couldn't get the idea.

"Prince Crisp Ian?" he repeated and looked hopefully for approval, searching my face to see if he'd managed to grasp it, to get it, to successfully navigate through to a conversational exchange. I nodded at him, unwilling to actually speak the lie that he'd understood. His face brightened a bit and he volunteered "Crisp toast. Ian Carmichael." and wheezily chuckled himself to a nap.

In Prince Crisp Ian there were scenes of the evacuation of children in the Second World War. Dad had been evacuated, with his brother and sister, to Dollar - a little town in Fife. I tried to imagine how that must have been. Your father away at war, you were taken from your mother, put on a train and shipped off to a place you'd never been, to live with people you'd never met, for an unspecified length of time. Can you imagine the outrage if that was attempted today? Is it any wonder the man has emotional intimacy issues? Is it any wonder this man, who had been an unhealthy invalid child for much of his youth, unable because of his chronic asthma to run about outside with other children and ostracised by classmates for his skin condition, would grow up to be incapable of showing warmth, or communicating his feelings? Poor Dad. A product of his upbringing like everyone else. I stroked his face when he slept and he smiled.

21st June 2008 - Primary 7 blues

It's Mark's final year at primary school. Dad wasn't for being told about this turning point in his oldest grandson's life. The looked through me when I was talking about it, and fell asleep when I was trying to include him in my outrage at my latest bugbear. So, I'm gonna rant here as no bugger else ants to hear me, or rather everyone else I know has already listened to me and thinks I'm mountain making.

The school that he goes to - in common with many others - makes a really big deal about being a P7 and the transition to secondary school. The kids are given more responsibility during the year, they are given more freedom and at the end of the year they have visits to the secondary school they will attend. It's very well thought through, and considered, to help the transition be as smooth as possible. At his school they also stage a musical show and have a 'qually'.

I've had many arguments about the qually. Not with Mark. He's always been very clear, he wanted to wear a tux, he wanted to take Rebecca and he didn't want to dance. Unfortunately Rebecca didn't want to go with him. She didn't tell him right away though, she said maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Right up until Stuart Black asked her, when she said yes to Stuart and no to Mark. I wanted to kill her. I saw Stuart and Rebecca at the shopping mall a few days after she told Mark she wasn't going to go with him. I had to be reminded she was a 12 year old girl and my withering scorn might be neither appropriate nor entirely appreciated.

So, anyway, the arguments have been with friends and aquaintances about the fuss about the dance. In some cases parents hire limousines to deliver their pre-teen child to the event, host after parties, hire photographers, allow hair extensions, fake tan applications and acrylic nails. I heard of two girls whose parents allowed them to take the day off school to go and have their fake tan and nails applied.
What kind of message is being sent to these children? How important is school? How important is appearance? As a society we bang on about children wanting too much, not being children for long enough but on the other hand we give little girls Barbie dolls, Bratz and have bikinis for babies.

I don't want my pre-teen son, and in a few years my daughter, to be facing the disappointment of rejection. Equally I don't want them to be the person who is causing that feeling in someone else. I don't want them to be concerned about who is wearing what or going with whom. I don't want them to care about what they look like. I know I'm swimming against the tide, I know I'm not consistent and give into pressure on all sorts of other things, but it really pisses me off. And it pisses me off even more when I realise that I sound like a Grumpy Old Woman. But I am. Grumpy. Old. And a woman. Harrrrumph!