What to blog aimlessly about today, or it it aimless blogging or aimlessly blogging?
'Tis all pure sh**e anyway. My imagination has deserted me for the last few weeks and Ii couldn't engage with a fictional character or an idea if it put a ring on my finger and married me. What to do?
Continue blogging aimlessly I suppose. Another possible ghost-writing project coming my way soon, so that might kickstart something for me.
Son #1 has started to write lyrics but isn't ready to show them to the world, well myspace at least, he is doing his first official 'gig' - two numbers as opening act at some charity gig in a small country pub a few miles from where we live. All thoughts of exams have flown from his music oriented brain and I'm quite sure I will be asked,
'Will you tell me what you think Mam' a thousand times between now and the gig. I'm bloody tone-deaf and if I say 'it's wonderful' he'll think - 'sure, she hasn't a clue'. If I say 'I'm not mad about it' he'll think - 'she still hasn't a clue and she doesn't even love me enough to lie'.
Jemser says I should not project my own anxieties onto my children. Actually they weren't the words he use. He said 'Not everyone is as irrationally unsure of themselves as you.' He's right. Maybe that's why I can't write at the moment (except for aimless etc...)
I have to do a Barack on it. Then I'll conquer the world - but I still won't think it had anything to do with any talent I had (or hadn't)
Promise next blog will be positive, forward looking ,dynamic.......
Showing posts with label adolescence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adolescence. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
You can't fatten a thoroughbred......
A friend of my oldest son took a remarkable picture of him. Not that he is a remarkable looking human being but she seems, to me, to have caught his essence. His strength, his humour, his compassionate nature. (I’m his Ma I’m allowed to wax lyrical).
I showed the photo to all and sundry – beaming mother, look at the fruit on my womb, type of thing and one friend who is involved in the world of fashion and beauty suggested he get a portfolio together and she would take him on her books as one of her models. But he would have to get rid of the fringe.
Silence in the house. The son, like all his peers, is into hair. Hair makes a statement – or so I’m told - I thought you just had to keep it clean and neat. Hair is like shoes, both tell the world how you want to be perceived. Now the son has gone through all sorts of hairstyles in the last five years, from crew cut to a No. 1, from a bleached blonde streak standing up like a Mohican at the centre parting to the latest asymmetrical fringe. This fringe irritates me. But it’s his hair and I always swore I would not fall out with my kids over either hair or clothes, life is too short and their bodies are their bodies not mine etcetera.
But this fringe. He constantly plays with it or throws it off to one side with a flick of his head like a horse trying to keep flies away from its arse. He poses endlessly in front of the mirror to get that smouldering seductive look he thinks will get him women. He’s wrong of course. His smile , his laughter and teasing gentle ways are what the ladies will go for. The fringe kills me because it also hides his lovely eyes.
I have made all these comments (without bursting his ego bubble – impossible), and was told,
“Be quiet woman! Sure you haven’t a clue about what looks good.”
Which is a fair point. But it killed me that when some other good looking sexily dressed lady – of my vintage - told him to cut his fringe that he was quite prepared to do it. Have I failed him in someway that he responded to the opinion of another popinjay like himself rather than his sensible parent?
No. I haven’t failed him, I hope. His appearance is important too him, but at aged fifteen earning a few euro from said appearance is even more important. And like he says:
‘Not worth falling out with her over it. I can always grow it again once she’s signed me’
I think I have reared a politician
I showed the photo to all and sundry – beaming mother, look at the fruit on my womb, type of thing and one friend who is involved in the world of fashion and beauty suggested he get a portfolio together and she would take him on her books as one of her models. But he would have to get rid of the fringe.
Silence in the house. The son, like all his peers, is into hair. Hair makes a statement – or so I’m told - I thought you just had to keep it clean and neat. Hair is like shoes, both tell the world how you want to be perceived. Now the son has gone through all sorts of hairstyles in the last five years, from crew cut to a No. 1, from a bleached blonde streak standing up like a Mohican at the centre parting to the latest asymmetrical fringe. This fringe irritates me. But it’s his hair and I always swore I would not fall out with my kids over either hair or clothes, life is too short and their bodies are their bodies not mine etcetera.
But this fringe. He constantly plays with it or throws it off to one side with a flick of his head like a horse trying to keep flies away from its arse. He poses endlessly in front of the mirror to get that smouldering seductive look he thinks will get him women. He’s wrong of course. His smile , his laughter and teasing gentle ways are what the ladies will go for. The fringe kills me because it also hides his lovely eyes.
I have made all these comments (without bursting his ego bubble – impossible), and was told,
“Be quiet woman! Sure you haven’t a clue about what looks good.”
Which is a fair point. But it killed me that when some other good looking sexily dressed lady – of my vintage - told him to cut his fringe that he was quite prepared to do it. Have I failed him in someway that he responded to the opinion of another popinjay like himself rather than his sensible parent?
No. I haven’t failed him, I hope. His appearance is important too him, but at aged fifteen earning a few euro from said appearance is even more important. And like he says:
‘Not worth falling out with her over it. I can always grow it again once she’s signed me’
I think I have reared a politician
Monday, November 30, 2009
Family Life
I love my children dearly. They are my reason for living and are absolutely the best thing that ever happened to me. But some days. Oh Jesus, some days!
The fifteen-year old glowers at me with beady eyes from behind an asymmetrical fringe that is daily ironed into submission. He throws a surly grunt in lieu of response to every question I ask him or a snarled ‘why?’ is the first answer to any request to do something, then a snort and a sneer as he slouches away if I raise my voice or firm the tone to re-enforce the order. His whole being resents me, resents the fact that he is fifteen and I for some peculiar reason think I have any influence over him whatsoever (I don’t by the way, I am merely keeping up the pretence for as long as possible).
Then there is my beloved ‘baby’. Nine going on ninety-nine, definitely on his fourth or fifth pass through of life and at that superior stage. You know, where nobody knows anything but him, nobody understands anything and everyone is against him. My ‘baby’ is long gone and now he will move from irritating pre-pubescence into testosterone fuelled adolescence and hopefully come out reasonably whole on the other side.
I miss my babies. I miss their kisses and cuddles, their sitting on my knee and having me read stories; that helpless childish giggling when we played ‘peep’. The sheer joy in their faces when I woke them from a sleep as they thrashed their legs about in excitement that they were alive, and best of all they were with me. The nine year old still throws the odd hug my way but the fifteen year old rarely touches me. I know he loves me. I hope he loves me. I drive him mad as he does me but the channels of communication are still open and long may that continue. When this teenager meets his father outside of the house, perhaps on the road or down the town they will shoulder each other and grunt - old ram, young ram. It is their expression of affection.
Occasionally, very, very occasionally in excitement or joy the older son will throw his arms about me and hug and I wonder at his strong arms and broad shoulders. Or the younger son will say something still childishly funny and innocent and I will smile. How did I produce these brave and beautiful young men? I only wanted baby boys! I started out to give out about them, my blog today was to be an amusing rant about life as a middle-aged female stranded in a household of males and I’ve gone all soft on them. I can’t help it- my babies!! Always – my babies.
The fifteen-year old glowers at me with beady eyes from behind an asymmetrical fringe that is daily ironed into submission. He throws a surly grunt in lieu of response to every question I ask him or a snarled ‘why?’ is the first answer to any request to do something, then a snort and a sneer as he slouches away if I raise my voice or firm the tone to re-enforce the order. His whole being resents me, resents the fact that he is fifteen and I for some peculiar reason think I have any influence over him whatsoever (I don’t by the way, I am merely keeping up the pretence for as long as possible).
Then there is my beloved ‘baby’. Nine going on ninety-nine, definitely on his fourth or fifth pass through of life and at that superior stage. You know, where nobody knows anything but him, nobody understands anything and everyone is against him. My ‘baby’ is long gone and now he will move from irritating pre-pubescence into testosterone fuelled adolescence and hopefully come out reasonably whole on the other side.
I miss my babies. I miss their kisses and cuddles, their sitting on my knee and having me read stories; that helpless childish giggling when we played ‘peep’. The sheer joy in their faces when I woke them from a sleep as they thrashed their legs about in excitement that they were alive, and best of all they were with me. The nine year old still throws the odd hug my way but the fifteen year old rarely touches me. I know he loves me. I hope he loves me. I drive him mad as he does me but the channels of communication are still open and long may that continue. When this teenager meets his father outside of the house, perhaps on the road or down the town they will shoulder each other and grunt - old ram, young ram. It is their expression of affection.
Occasionally, very, very occasionally in excitement or joy the older son will throw his arms about me and hug and I wonder at his strong arms and broad shoulders. Or the younger son will say something still childishly funny and innocent and I will smile. How did I produce these brave and beautiful young men? I only wanted baby boys! I started out to give out about them, my blog today was to be an amusing rant about life as a middle-aged female stranded in a household of males and I’ve gone all soft on them. I can’t help it- my babies!! Always – my babies.
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