BACK TO SCHOOL BLUES
WORDS Georgina McEncroe
ILLUSTRATION Terry Denton
‘But I don’t want those shoes. I hate them. They look uncomfortable. Nobody else will be wearing shoes like that ...’
‘Why can’t school shoes be in orange or blue? How come you get to wear red shoes and I only get to wear stupid ugly brown shoes?’
I answer. ‘These shoes are safe and sturdy and will protect your feet if you fall over.’
‘I didn’t ask for a new atlas. I wanted a new folder. Not one of those folders … one of the ones that Elly has. You know? The cool ones. I wanted gel pens not textas and a Bratz Doll pencil case. I hate The Saddle Club now. No one likes The Saddle Club. It’s for babies.’
I answer. ‘Elly’s mum is responsible for Elly’s pencil case and I am responsible for yours. Now stop it.’
I am tempted to justify the appalling behaviour of my children on the grounds that their back-to-school nerves are getting to them. I am thinking that maybe the two scowling, skinny-legged creatures who drag on the trolley, making it almost impossible to steer, are changelings. I fantasise that my true children, the ones who should be here with me thanking me for my efforts and saying things like–‘Oh Mum, I can make do with what we’ve got. Don’t get anything for me. You and Dad do enough already. You could spend that money on some charity or something’–have been spirited to the wrong place and might come back any day now.
Mostly, though, I want them to be quiet. We have walked and walked and I am starving and angry and bored. I think my kids are obnoxious, toxic units and way too loud about it. Suddenly I remember my mother’s technique of silencing us when we drove her mad in a public place. In a very loud voice she would ask a salesperson, usually someone good-looking and only a little older than us, if he could direct us to the toilet. She was always compelled to add, ‘Because my daughter needs to do poo’.
As angry as I am with the kids right now, I cannot bring myself to do this to them. I think it would be more humane and less humiliating for them if I were to break their arms or start getting my gear off. I abandon the notion of getting even or getting them to stop whining. We shuffle through the interminable aisles of stuff.
A few weeks ago these now grumpy things were playing in the sand and making friends on the beach. They were asking questions about pelicans and seals and sharks. They were watching TV in their pyjamas until 10am and bouncing on the trampoline until it got dark enough to go looking for possums in the ti-trees. They were sources of pride, wonder and delight. I wonder if it’s my unwillingness to be back in the old routine which is causing such poor behaviour or whether the children are in fact just pretty awful and I have been blinded by a couple of weeks by the sea.
I find some consolation in the fact that every other group in Target on this particular afternoon is composed of parents like me (sweating, whispering, very, very tense) and children like mine (rude, spoilt, ungrateful, tanned).
Behind me a mother is bargaining. ‘How about this … You agree to wear the white runners for sport and I’ll get you those chunky awful runners for the weekends. Deal?’
Two aisles away a father breaks. A kid has pushed too far. ‘That’s it, then. No way. Bad luck. You are wearing your old clothes, riding your old bike and using last year’s stuff. You are spoilt beyond belief. Never had anything like the amount of stuff you get and still it’s never enough. You can cry all you like. Tough. We’re going home.’
The atmosphere shifts. The parents have been empowered by the courage of the angry father. They start to walk a little taller, talk a little louder and say ‘no’ with voices so energetic they are almost gleeful. The kids sense the game might be up and become more … malleable. Likeable even. The tone has improved. Despite the loud music and glaring fluorescent lights designed to make clear thinking impossible, parents are putting items back on the shelves. Something spectacular has occurred. I sense I have witnessed some kind of revolution. I want to call after Angry Dad and say, ‘Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.’
But he is too busy trying to find change for the bubble gum machine.
Reproduction of material from any Jesuit Publications pages
without written prior permission is strictly prohibited.
Copyright 2002 Jesuit Publications
PO Box 553 Richmond VIC 3121 Australia
Tel +61 3 9427 7311, Fax +61 3 9428 4450