Parents used to have more social time with friends in the
sixties, seventies and eighties than parents do now.
As kids we ate a yellow TV dinner whilst they entertained
with tinned things on ritz crackers, BenEan wine (or if you were classy,
Mateusse), Neil Diamond on the record player and a blue haze of Stuveysent
smoke. They laughed and ignored us, we
survived it. Mothers and Fathers, hear my Call to Arms. Come and hang out. I will not cook from
Nigella nor entertain your kids. I will
wear lipstick and I may make lewd innuendo in front of your darlings. Ring the doorbell. You might get a ritz cracker with a tinned
oyster while our kids hunt for snails in the garden. When there is whining or
dobbing we’ll ignore them, and They Will Survive.
Ok, so in truth MY mum and Dad did a bit of the above,
though the meal would have been a cooked one for us kids…but yellow, like maybe fish fingers.
But I recall them entertaining. Be it a drop in from
neighbour Margaret that lasted for three hours and a packet of mint slices, or
the more posh dinners, or the family arvo teas or BBQs, the house often had
people in it. Any kids present were left
to their own devices. We got up to some mischief, got bored, whined, dobbed,
but weren’te given the huge amount of air-time that prevents ‘grown-ups’ from
having a bloody life.
I have decided to become a big supporter of Childhood
Boredom, something I’m learning to instil finally (hopefully not late) in my
son who as an only child has ruled the bloody roost for too long!
The best gift my Mum gave me as a kid was boredom. She’s an interesting person. But she didn’t load me up with pre-set interesting
play. I didn’t go to Kindergarten, I
dagged around behind her doing bits of housework. I got bored. I found things to do. I was
eager when schooling started. Later I
learned to make things, draw, colour, hook rugs, tapestry, annoy my brother,
have a fight, survive it etc.
So yeah, forget waiting for an invite for some posh
nosh. Forget me setting up a fun
learning activity for the kids. Come
over. We’ll talk in the kitchen and let them work it out. I won’t ignore them
if they damage themselves, but unless they’re bleeding, murdering or setting
fires I’m going to take a deep breath (and a deeper slug from the wine-glass) and
then I’m going to shrug. Don’t you think it’s time we all learned to shrug again? Ahh, the shrug, that lovely loose physical manifestation of ‘care factor?’ and ‘I dunno!’…
