Why is it the things you worry about most just don’t register with your young? Is it just a boy thing to totally dismiss something really brave as a “whatever”?
In a state of extreme anxiety I heroically curb my tongue as we walk back to the car on Friday afternoon, longing to ask a myriad of questions about how the talk on epilepsy went. Did everyone understand? What questions did they ask? Have any of them been horrid since?
Tell me I want to scream tell me everything and if any of them have been beastly then just let me at ‘em!
I get a shrug of his shoulders and a whatever look and I begin to feel that The Boy is perfectly aware of my agitation and is studiously skirting the subject, scuffing his feet along the ground so that I am soon telling him to pick his feet up properly and not to ruin his shoes:
“Do you know how much they cost!” I bark, “Honestly money doesn’t grow on trees you know. They were brand new only a week ago! Now look at them!”
Bog Boy skips ahead without at care in the world calling out to me how his shoes aren’t all scruffy are they Mummy, in an attempt to gain my approbation and a little of my attention too.
The Boy scowls and scuffs some more muttering under his breath how much he hates his little brother.
“Boy! Have you been listening to me? Pick. Up. Your. Feet!”
Despite the bright sunny September sun, the mood is cloudy by the time we all reach the car and it crosses my mind that this is not what I wanted at all. I want to be the caring Mum, the one who listens, the one who they turn to and here I am being Nag Hag. All I want to do is help and it galls me to think my kind of help is not wanted. I am obviously doing something wrong.
A change of tack is required.
“Who wants sweets?”
Scuffed shoes, annoying brothers and prying mothers are forgotten and as we wander our way along the lanes back home with music blaring and sweets being chomped I get an answer of sorts.
“O says he gets rashes…”
The comparison of ailments I must conclude is a good thing then…