Time was when children’s naughtiness had charm but now it’s less Just William, more Horrid Henry. But whose responsible? asks Paranoid Parent
Whose fault is it? W
hen I was a child we behaved. Or, so my mother said. My parents never shouted, used the naughty
step or beat me but I did what I was told because I didn’t dare not to. Te day I was caught lying, my nanny – a paragon of virtue in a blue uniform with fluffy white sleeves – pinned me against the wall while she lectured me on morality. It was scary. One night I had a bad dream. I wanted my parents, but although I stood outside their door for hours, I didn’t wake them up. I won’t say my siblings and I treated
everyone with the same consideration. My father travelled, and my mother went with him, leaving us with a nanny and an indulgent Granny and Aunty who bought us sweeties – as guardians in the background. Well, which would you prefer? We left it a couple of days before we made the call! Te nanny is drowning my brother in the bath. Te nanny’s locked us in the cellar. Te nanny’s boyfriend is visiting early in the morning. Some of these were true. Whereupon Granny and Aunty arrived to sack said nanny and chaos descended. I couldn’t believe they believed us. My parents couldn’t either. Next time, they hired two nannies. But most of the time we were
good. We went to bed on time. OK, I read under the bed clothes. Who didn’t? We smiled and said our pleases and thank yous and wrote our bread and butter letters. So where have I gone wrong? I
watch Supernanny and use the naughty step but it doesn’t matter what I do, nothing works. My children answer back and treat our bedroom like Trafalgar square. It seems to be “respec’ man” but what happened to the T? Tere’s always an excuse. Out of bed, after lights out. “I can’t sleep”. Running around in socks – “the shoe fell off”. Caught hanging over a river on a zip wire (he can’t swim) – “adventurous”. Scattering purple beetroot and emerald brussel sprouts over the neighbour’s snowy lawn – “artistic licence”. Disrupting the alarm drill at school. Actually, I have run out of excuses. A Scottish friend told me proudly that her children had gone feral, and before
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My heart sank when the builder told me the owner loved it. Fortunately, I discovered another roll in the cupboard. But these are the good ones… it’s my youngest who terrifies me. He’s adorable. Arriving in my bedroom
every morning to wrap his arms around me and give me a huge cuddle. He tells me I look pretty and his big blue eyes shine charmingly. But so often, he teeters along a fine line between mischievous and wicked; more Horrid Henry, less Just William. Like the time he trashed the garden gate with an axe he had found in the wood shed.
we moved to the country, I envied their freedom for my own, but now I am not sure. Now my children are feral and I am terrified about what they will do next. We should put out a red alert to all newts, voles, moles and crayfish. My son catches them by sticking his fingers down holes. When they pincer him, he pulls them out. He hides decapitated mice under the bed. We caught him stashing a trout in a pillow case. My other son’s favourite tipple is painting. On everything. Tere’s this wallpaper in the hall of our rented house.
Somehow this was beyond punishment. Te naughty step couldn’t cut it. Hubby and I just looked at each other at a loss for words. Where do you go from here? But it isn’t just my children who seem to
have lost respect. I collected my eldest son from a film party the other day. Luckily, I was early. Te film was blurring away in the background while my son was being chased around a dark garden by a tribe of ruffians in the middle of winter, socks off and freezing. Blood was pouring from his lip where he had fallen over. While the parents stood by, nice children with good manners had morphed into Lord of the Flies’ monsters who had set up a nasty club, with an even nastier password. Not much consolation when they called to apologise the next day. So I wonder whose fault is
it really? I took my daughter to a schoolfriend’s disco party
recently in a local church hall. Nothing pretentious. Te mother had worked really hard for her daughter’s special day. Te girls were dancing neatly in a chalked out circle but the boys were at the other end of the room, where the food had been laid out. By the time I got there, they had rearranged the plates and were tipping over the chairs, one by one. Napkins were flying. I told them off. “Te party’s over there,” I said sternly, “go and join in.”
But when I turned round, I found my words had been clocked by three mothers. Tey looked horrified, not
at the boys’ behaviour but at mine. I had dared to tell off a child. Last month, a boy went to school in a
skirt because he wasn’t allowed to wear shorts. It’s a silly rule to say no to shorts in summer, but it worried me more that the boy’s rebelliousness made newspaper headlines. Surely he should have been told off and sent home to change? Are we so insecure that we haven’t the gumption to tell children when they are out of line? Shouldn’t we teach them “respec” – with or without a T? Or is it just that my sons are so much naughtier than theirs?
Paranoid Parent returns in the next First Eleven. Summer 2011 FirstEleven 59
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