not much to show for a life

It's been a tough weekend.

The boy's grandfather died suddenly and we had the duty of having to tell him. This was made more difficult by the fact that he hadn't seen his grandfather for some time.

He'd been living at the boys home but was deeply depressed and alcoholic to some extent, and the boy and he clashed so much that they had to be kept apart.

This man had been a member of the police force, and was perhaps late 50s or 60-ish, but had only found out in recent times that he was adopted. This rocked him substantially. He must have discovered this through his 'mother' who has become senile in her old age and perhaps let this slip at some point. I'm not sure of all the details.

Anyway, he'd taken off, as he had done many times in the past. He was living in a caravan park a few hours drive away, estranged from the family. It seems he had been ill for some time, but suddenly had a massive heart attack on Sunday. They kept him on life support just long enough for his daughter (the boy's mum) to get there and say goodbye.

I don't know what she thought as there is so much resentment built up over years of this man's unfatherly behaviour.

Apparently his caravan was squalid, with nothing to show for a life - a small suitcase of belongings, and the rest was only fit to be tipped out.

What a sad way to leave this planet. Alone, unworthy, hadn't even seen his daughter's brand new baby, his latest grandson.

And then for us to have to tell the boy, who said, "Good, serves him right for drinking so much." He had a smirk on his face, but I just looked at him and said, "No. No-one deserves to be ill and die all alone," and the smirk quickly vanished.

He sobered then and we talked once more about forgiveness. About not letting evil sores eat away at yourself because of what other people have done. We prayed for his grandfather and his mother and talked about the security and eternal hope that we have in God. Death doesn't have power over us, even though it is sad.

I think he understood and felt better.

I'm hoping that this is a real wake up call to his mum and stepdad, that life is short and precious. They need to start thinking about what they will leave behind, what their legacy to their kids will be. Will it just be a suitcase of worthless belongings or will it be a family that is strong and healthy and experiences love every day?

ten rules of boy

1. You will never tire of hearing "What's for breakfast?" or "What's for dessert?" Never. It's up there with "I'm bored, what can I do?"

2. It will take at least 3 occurrences of the dreaded 'white snow in the laundry' before checking pockets for tissues becomes an ingrained behaviour.

3. The lilting, inflected refrain of "awwwwuuwwwww" becomes music to your ears - really.

4. In the abscence of the magical Doona (see Bedtime for Boy), the nearest thing to hand appears to offer the same level of protection to small boys. Wrapping oneself in a beach towel and subsequently rolling under the bed apparently results in a similar invisibility status to said Doona.

5. Boys appear to have genius-level mathematical prowess when it comes to measurements and timeframes. They can spot a miniscule descrepancy in allotted portions at fifty paces to the tune of 'she's got more than me', or 'everyone else is allowed in the shower longer than me', accompanied by the lovingly familiar "aaaaaaawwwwwwuuuuw."

6. "Don't run" is a redundant turn of phrase. Although you will say it every five seconds, there is only one gear and it isn't 'slow.'

7. Never expound on your culinary prowess: 'Thai basil chicken in coconut milk with basmati' is clearly yukky. The same dish labelled 'Chicken and rice' is obviously far more yummy and entirely different.

8. Tomatoes and mushrooms are evil and will cause an agonising death to the boy if he so much as has to look at them. Never mind that you hide them in just about everything you cook and no-one is the wiser.

9. The football scarf and hat should have been warning enough - expect to lose control of the television remote on friday nights.

10. How the apple juice got into the bowl of breakfast cereal is certainly a mystery and one that the boy thinks should be investigated at the highest level, as he sits with that wide-eyed look that you just know isn't quite as innocent as it appears...

pfaffing about

It's amazing how much all this 're-parenting' tires you out. Mentally, I'm a wet dish rag and getting up each morning gets harder and harder. At the moment, I'm running about an hour behind my usual schedule and getting into work at 9 instead of 8.

Partly because the boy takes so much effort to get parcelled into bed at night. He pops in and out more often than I can keep track of - I call it 'pfaffing about.' He's the king of pfaffing, and tries to stretch each minute out with the flimsiest of excuses:

"I'm thirsty."

"I've got a headache."

"I need to set my alarm."

"I don't want that music, I want the other one."

" I just need to get my A B or C..."

For crying out loud. By the time I sit down at night it's 9.30pm and I've missed all my favorite programs so I end up watching rubbish just to unwind. Then I sit up too late - usually I'm in bed at 9.30 and up early in the a.m.

Then there's the mental exercises you have to constantly engage in just to stay 2 steps ahead of whatever he is up to. You've got to be able to anticipate what his next move will be or what his reaction to something you are going to say will be, and how you can minimise it.

Not to mention the repetitive nature of most conversations:

"Please don't run."
"Go and brush your teeth."
"Pick that up."
"Finish your dinner."
"Do your homework."
"Please don't hit X."
"Put the cat down."
"Please don't fart at the table."
"Or burp."
"Please use your fork and don't lick the plate."
"That's rude - please put it away."
"GO TO SLEEP!"

My girl is like a ghost in the background sometimes as he unwittingly gets most of the attention. She was never like this and it makes me so grateful for her presence. I tell her often how much I love her.

If only the boy had the same love to go home to he could leave. But he doesn't and he can't.

touching the raw

Lordy, what a night it was last night.

Another hissyfit but with outstanding results, if I can phrase it like that. Once again, a tiny, insignificant thing set the boy off - we asked him to pick a small piece of paper off the floor.

"It's not mine, I didn't put it there!", he yelled.

And he was off. Who knows what he was thinking at the time, but as mentioned previously, he has issues with blame. He can't accept blame for anything but I think this is part of his defence system where he anticipates 'bad stuff.'

Anyway, there he was on his bed, crammed into the corner facing the wall and doing the usual routine. At first, I stood over him and, raising my voice just slightly, told him that he really had no reason to treat us this way. That it is completely unfair. That he had nothing to fear with us. I'm determined not to yell at him as I know that sets him off even worse. This is a great lesson in self control if nothing else!

He was actually listening so I took it further and sat on the floor next to the bed, lowering my voice and just talking, talking, talking. I can't remember what started the turn in conversation, but suddenly he was talking about his biological dad.

I can see that underneath his blustering and noise and rudeness, the boy has been deeply hurt by that man. We talked about forgiveness and he shook his head.

"No, I can't forgive him."

"Why? Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, you don't wanna know."

"What do you mean? I don't want to know about Fred (an alias)? What did he do?"

"You don't want to know what he did."

I spoke softly. "Do you want to tell me?"

He shakes his head and his bottom lip is trembling. At this point I am crying. He says I don't really care and I show him my tears. We hug with real emotion and I tell him that I understand. I understand why he is like he is, and it's okay. I ask him if he believes that things will work out.

"Not really."

"Yes, they will, but you have to believe it. Believe in your heart. I know it's like you are full of gunk right now, but bit by bit it will come out."

He nods and I tell him I love him. He's tired now, and so am I. I feel exhausted.

I give him my old childhood teddybear, which he knows is special to me, and ask him to look after it for the night. He snuggles down and is at peace.

I go to bed wondering what Fred has done and I am afraid.

101 knots for boys

I've noticed that the boy does NOT like to be hit, tapped or biffed in any way unless he is absolutely sure you are playing a game with him.

On the otherhand he is a dab hand at headbutting you in the guts if you are not looking. The man of the house was encouraging this as a blokey bloke thing but I've had to put a stop to it pretty quick smart. Turns out the boy was running up to our girl at school lunchtimes and giving her a quick headbut when she wasn't looking. I told her if he didn't stop as requested that she was quite entitled to push him over. All has been quiet on the western front so far...

If you do happen to tap him for some reason he immediately thinks he is under threat and whips round on you like a small terrier, teeth snapping, "Don't hit me!"

My mind has gone back to something I said to him early on in this jolly escapade, when he was playing up somewhat (at the time his head was in the corner and he was in a mood):

"You need to think about what is the worst thing that can happen to you if you're naughty. We aren't going to smack you because I think you are too big for smacking."

He turned around in tears and said, "Well you tell that to my Mummy..." in a distressed tone.

And he has mentioned being 'hit' at other times.

Let's face it, we've all smacked our kids at times, but it sounds like this was more heavy duty as he's quite traumatised by it.

So now he's built up this wall about any kind of physical contact other than a hug, although it's interesting to note that he shuns affection in times of distress. He also gets quite thingy when you try to dust him down before school, or fix his collar. So I think all this is a form of self-protection - again, he's preparing for an attack and getting ready to defend himself.

I need to talk to him about this.

Although I hate these little tantrums, I have to admit that they are opportunities for discussion and helping to think about problems in a healthy environment, something he has not been able to do at home.

So many knots to undo, so little time...

noticed: The moral decay of Australia, transcript of a speech by Peter Costello on our National Day of Thanksgiving