The New Normal

Stephen Mulholland has got a lot of people upset, with his recent article in the Sunday Times, titled: “Same-sex parents have a special duty to their children”.  I would say, he isn’t wrong.  We do have a special duty to our children – but not quite in the way Mulholland imagines.

Bringing up a child, no matter who you are, isn’t the easiest thing.  The manuals are both incomprehensible and dull.  Anyone around you who has ever had a child is quicker with the advice than with actual help.  It is a lonely sea and you have to paddle it pretty much on your own, on those bleak nights when projectile vomit hits the ceiling and temperatures soar off the charts.  Of course there are the “Little House on the Prairie” moments as well, when all is sweetness and such dazzling light as one could never hope to imagine, let alone describe.

But generally, children of whatever age are a bit of a slog.  You have to hammer away at their spelling and reading and vocabulary and maths.  If you don’t, like a neglected work email inbox, it starts to become impossible to recover the lost ground. You have to bandage the grazed arm, you have to calm their fears.  You have to take them to school, you have to make their supper and then get them to eat it. Being gay or lesbian is neither here nor there, since one does none of these things using one’s sexual organs, or any combination of them.

Each phase has its wonders and each phase seems to have its slog.  It is the dreariness of dealing with nappies and tasteless food that comes out of very expensive bottles in chemists; it is the fighting for space in bed; it is the explaining things over and over again – because, as a friend of mine once said to me long, long ago – “You have to teach them everything!”

Yes – everything.  And what she forgot to tell me is that you have to un-teach them a hell of a lot of things as well.  We have to explain to them that the world is sometimes a very hostile place – where children will laugh at them because of who they are, or because of who we all are as a family.  And we have to explain to them that those children have learnt their cruelty and their bigotry and stupidity from their parents.  And it is very likely that they learnt it all from their parents in turn.

We have to teach them how to deal with a world where some people think it is fine to be one thing and not fine to be another, whether because of race, or religion, or accent or gender.  We have to teach them tolerance, even of the idiotic many who are so terribly comfortable – so unchallenged – so unruffled.  We have to teach them these things, not because of who we are but because of what the majority is, and how it thinks (or doesn’t) and behaves.

So yes, I think Stephen Mulholland has a point, bumblingly made, albeit.  Gay and Lesbian parents need to do a great deal to protect our children from rampant and openly confessed heterosexuals.  They are a dangerous breed, by and large.

And it is the case, holding as they do, a majority of such huge proportions, that they can behave as though there is no-one else on the planet.  They can define what is “normal” and what is not.  They can demand obeisance to the gods of “family values” and “common sense” and “religious principles”.  And they can persecute those who do not conform to a binary view of gender, sex and sexuality.  And they do.  I need not cite the terrible details.  That is what is “normal” in the world in which we as lesbian and gay parents live with our children.

It is not his patronising attitude which worries me.  (I would much rather be patronised than ignored).  It is not even his short-sighted and bigoted conclusions which he reaches on the basis of no discernible argument.  What worries me most about Stephen Mulholland is that he is so god-damn smug and self-righteous about himself.  He speaks, perched so comfortably on the summit of Mount Self Content.  His speaks a hetero-normative tongue, because he simply has never heard any other language.  That is what worries me.  And he is not alone.  You, dear reader, are likely to be with him too.  Now put yourself in my shoes, as a parent.  Would you not have your work cut out for yourself?

The Chinese idea of football

It began with a seemingly innocuous text message from my partner. "Please get a Fussball for G - Red - at the Sportsman's Warehouse". Dutifully, I went to the said Sportsman's Warehouse and asked for a Fussball - Red, please, without any idea of what I was asking for. After some discussion between the shop assistants, I was presented with a very large, extremely heavy cardboard box. The shop assistant seemed eager to assist. They could make it up, if I wanted. I wondered whether or not I could see the finished product - and was shown - to my astonishment a hand football set, as pictured above. Far too large to fit into my modest little car. So I smiled bravely and said, no, it was fine. I would assemble it on my own. No, No, No! I insisted, it would be fine.

Christmas day brought the usual and wonderful excitement. The tree, the clutter of presents beneath it, the lies and deception of the cookie crumbs and drained Amarula liqueur glass, which Santa left behind as evidence of his appearance down the chimney. The indecent ripping of paper and unwise tearing open of boxes containing the only dreamed of treasures. The chaos, the confusion, the joy - followed by the harsh reality that someone, somewhere, needed to put the Fussball thing together. All eyes fell on me.

And so, dutifully, I started with the instruction manual, which, albeit only four pages, had such density of instruction, such complexity of design and arrangement, that I reeled in disbelief. But there was my son Gabriel, staring at me, with such utter belief in my ability, that I simply could not declare the job as one needing an engineer to complete - I had no escape route. I had to do it.

Together we made a start on the first set of instructions. You had to first take the two sides of the thing with holes in them and turn them upside down, so that you would be working on them upside down. Then, according to strict instruction, you needed to thread both of the sides onto the skewers which have various numbers of footballers on them. You start on the one side with the one (presumably the Goalie) then you build up to two, three, five, five, three, two, one - you get the picture. The instructions were extremely explicit - we followed them to the letter.

Three hours later, thousands of numbered screws later, aching knees, wrists and sweating brow - triumphant, we carefully turned the entire apparatus to stand for the first time, right way up. We stood back to admire our handiwork. We started putting the final touches to the construction, adding grips to the skewers, goals to the gaping spaces etc. And then I (hardly the football expert, you understand) noticed that the Goalies were facing their own goals! That seemed a little strange - even to a non-footballer.

Further investigation revealed that just about everything which could be wrong with the arrangement of the skewers of footballers, was. With rising hysteria, I re-checked the instructions, point for point. We had followed them to the letter. And then my eye spotted the country of origin - China. The awful reality began to dawn.

Now, given the fact that it was the very first manoeuvre which we had performed, the entire structure depended on it. To undo it (my hysteria started to rise uncontrollably at this point) meant that we had to undo everything. Absolutely everything.

It was at this point that I noticed the first flicker of uncertainty in my child's eyes. Was it possible that he was staring at an inadequate parent here? Someone who simply could not be entrusted or relied upon to put together a simple Fussball table? Was it possible that he was looking at a bluffer? A fraud? An incompetent? And if I had tried to deceive him about my ability in this regard, what else had I deceived him about?

Now, did I mention that the requirements of putting this Fussball table together required the use of virtually every tool in my toolbox? A cement mixer? A welding kit? Bricklaying abilities? Structural engineering qualifications which would have put the construction of the new World Trade Centres to shame? I didn't? Well, it did!

Did I mention that after round one, I needed a knee replacement? Swedish Sports massage? 6 months rehabilitation and occupational therapy? I didn't? Well, that's what I needed. So, as calmly as I could, under the circumstances, I told my child that we would have to re-do the thing later on.

Of course, I admit, I tried to think of ways never to return to the task again. I rehearsed telling him seriously that the Chinese were like that. They always gave instructions which didn't work and if you don't understand Mandarin, you will never get it right.

Needless to say, tired, resigned and weary, I returned to the job an hour or so later and after another grueling three hours, the task was finally complete.

I am recuperating from the rigours of the festive season. Parenting is not for sissies - and not helped at all by our close ties with China.

Living with Ritalin

Ritalin has a very bad name. In most parents, the very word conjures up images of robotic children, chemically manipulated into silence. I have to say, that was my initial prejudice.

It was indeed a prejudice, because I knew virtually nothing about the drug. When confronted with the possibility of using it on one of my children, my immediate reaction to it was, "I am not going to drug my child". But of course, that was a lie, and it was easily exposed. I drug my child when he has a cold. I drug my child when he has an infection of one sort or another. I drug my child when he has a temperature. And I do it without any hesitation. I have even considered (believe me!) drugging him when he didn't need it, but I have restrained myself. I am happy to get him inoculated with anything that might be around. Flu, Measles, mumps and the rest of it. I believe in drugs!

And besides that, I could never be accused to being drug-free myself! I am, a complete sissy with illness. I spurn "natural" remedies. I have tried them - I really have. But besides the dent in my pocket, I have noticed very little other effect. So yes, I am prepared to accept that if I fed him vast quantities of fish oil, there may have some positive result - but I doubt it. I really doubt it.

Joshua, our youngest son, was kept in the orphanage for three months too long. There were some worries about the size of his head and other things - but the end result was that when we got him, he was a child whose lights had almost gone off. He didn't cry. He didn't complain about anything. He just sat and watched, with large, staring eyes. It was so bad that our childminder called her sister and said to her that she really didn't know what we had brought home. Joshua seemed like a seriously damaged child.

And three weeks later, this child woke up. My God did he wake up! He just wouldn't stop. And yes, he was delightful and charming as well, but as he grew and as he went to school, these became his stand-out characteristics: He was over-busy. He seemed never to be able to complete a task. He became worryingly devious and dishonest. The name "Joshua" would be yelled, shouted, screamed 150 times a day, as you would tell him not to do this and not to do that. We initially put it down to an exploring nature.

But, at the same time, his record at school was also not too good. He fought with others. He interfered with other's work. He got himself and those around him into trouble. His lack of concentration meant that his work was not good, though his intelligence was obvious.

We met with his Occupational Therapist and she seemed to me to be going round the houses on the issue of drugs. Eventually I asked her straight out, making it clear that I was not averse to considering them. She said yes. She thought he could be an ideal candidate. And so we started to explore further.

A friend of mine, a long time teacher, told me what it was like to teach ADD and ADHD learners. She said, if she were teaching something at the front of the class, she would immediately be able to recognise a child with attention deficit. If there was a sprinkler outside on the lawn, every flash of light would get his or her attention. If there was an ant on the floor, then that would. If there was a ceiling fan going round - and so on.

The doctor we consulted described it to us in terms of receptors in the brain. He held out his fingers separating them as wide as he could from each other and with the forefinger on his other hand he pointed to the tips. These were the receptors and past them whooshes a vast amount of information. The job of the receptors is to distinguish that information which is necessary to the present task from that which is not - and to discard that which is unnecessary. The ADD or ADHD child cannot do that.

The drug Ritalin has been found to do that task. It usually works, apparently. We were told that if we did not notice an immediate and positive change in the child, then it was the wrong drug for him. You play around with it until you find the correct dosage and then the child will be on it for as long as it is useful. It isn't habit forming and can be stopped at any time.

But there are, usually and unfortunately some significant side-effects. Sleeplessness is one. Joshua now goes to sleep around 11 pm. This stretches one's patience a good three hours past reasonable endurance levels.

And eating. He has dropped weight fairly dramatically. He eats virtually nothing during the day and with no real commitment during the other meals in the morning and at night. This represents a fairly dramatic change in behaviour for him.

But he has also become quieter, more obedient - in every possible way. Far less dishonest and deceitful. Far less scheming. More careful in everything and less damaging and wilfully destructive. But he now has this curious, uncharacteristic quietness about him. If you tell him to hold your hand - that is what he does.

At the same time, we have noticed a high rise in what is sometimes inappropriate emotionality. He will cry over the simplest thing. And it is real tears that flow.

His interactions and play with his brother has been far less fractious. He seems to remember more and retain more and is generally more polite and more concerned about the wellbeing of the other.

But, for me there is something creepy about it all. I cannot stop thinking about Stepford Wives - that group of women who were chemically dealt with, so that all possible irritating feminist rebellion is brought to a halt. Is that what we are doing? Are we chemically manipulating his brain, to suit ourselves? Or to benefit him? For the present, it seems to be doing both.

Precious - a really difficult experience

Mo'Nique as the Mother in "Precious"

I could not help wondering, while watching this movie, about the story behind Gabourey Sidibe herself - the person who plays “Precious” in the film. Because, I suppose, that is the point behind this rather harrowing film.

Our society looks at a fat person, and judges them fairly mono-chromatically, against the backdrop of acceptably thin people. They are almost never judged on their own terms.

The film is about Precious’ “own terms”. About the fact that she was raped repeatedly by her father. It is about the extreme and extraordinary violence of her mother. About the shocking realities of the kind of circumstances in which she grew up. And about the titanic struggles she engaged in to take herself out of those horrific circumstances. It is about the fact that there was no-one to protect her when she most needed it.

To see her in the street, she would present as only one thing, in the kind of society which we term “normal”. You would see her as fat. Perhaps, you might also see her as “black” and fat. (Let me not disengage here. Let me not say “you”. Let me say me. I would see her thus).

And to do so would be to radically miss the person she is – or the person she has become, by being the person she is. Her size, like her colour, is at once her defining characteristic and the most irrelevant thing about her.

It was a difficult movie, not only because of its content. It was difficult because of the fact that Precious mumbles a lot, in an accent so strong that it is sometimes incomprehensible to a non-American. Her acting is fairly indifferent and she is, both willingly and unwillingly, completely overshadowed by her Oscar winning “mother” – who goes in real life by the curious name of Mo’Nique (no surname – like the author of the book on which the film is based - Sapphire. The book is called “Push” – also one word – and I would be grateful if someone would explain its relevance to me – along with Mo’Nique and Sapphire!)

The bleakness of the social setting is something extremely difficult to relate to, if that is not something you already know. It is a bit like watching Martians going about their Martian daily business. But I realized, while I was watching, that the fact that I have not experienced that kind of life doesn’t mean for a second that it is not commonplace. The grinding poverty. The collusion of silence. The unspeakable perennial horror of child abuse within the family. These are commonplace realities of our society, just as much, if not more so than in America.

What is surprising, is the generosity and tolerance of the middle-class teacher in the film. And that is a harsh criticism of the rest of us, who are not tolerant – who can’t (or don’t, or won’t) see through the fat and the illiteracy. The fact that the tolerant and sacrificial teacher also happens to be a Lesbian, was, to my mind, slightly gratuitous – besides the fact that it showed up how Precious’ mother could hold both moralistic positions on others, while deftly ignoring her own morally abandoned circumstances.

Mo’Nique’s acting in this role was quite extraordinary, both in her rage and in her silences. The horror, for me was that I could see some of her anger mirrored in some of my own performances on the home front. I could hear snatches of myself, bits and pieces in her dismissive sarcasm, in the way she sneered. It wasn’t in the overt stuff. Not in the “get yer Muthafuking fat arse down here” stuff. No, it was in the kind of harassment of accusatory questions, which a parent will pile up, one on top of the other, reducing the child to silence. And suddenly, there it is, spewing from your mouth. There you recognise the echo of words and phrases your parents used, and which were used on them, presumably by their parents. But even worse, I really battled to see anything of myself in the kind, understanding, yet highly focussed teacher that was set in counterposition to the brutal mother. That is who I would have liked to identify with. But sadly, not.

Much as one may not like it and much as one may want to act out a different parental role, the truth is, your parents rise from the dead in you. Both for her mother (and for me) that kind of thing lies waiting in your synapses. What is extraordinary beyond measure, if that it did not rise up in her.

I could identify with Mariah Carey, who played the social worker. Ever so slightly prissy, trying not to be judgemental, deeply professional. She managed to be professional, yes, but she was also completely ineffective. It was the school mates. It was the children of the incest. It was sheer character and courage that got Precious through it all. The social worker had only one thing to offer – the threat or the withdrawal of the welfare cheque. If that were to be removed from her arsenal, she had nothing to offer. And all the cover-up games, the wigs, the children bouncing on the knee to appease her and her cohorts, were paper-thin in the face of what was really there and what she and the system managed to miss completely.

So, it is a difficult movie for me. Not least, because of the extraordinary levels of violence, but more because or the recognition in myself, of my own prejudices; my own “violence”; my own lack of care for others. That is not the kind of movie one can easily recommend.

Hip Hop enters my life

I found myself yesterday evening sitting in a darkened Primary school hall, waiting for a Hip Hop (what does one call it” Show? Exhibition? Display? Performance?) ... choose any of those words ... to begin.

The crowd was standard primary school parent fare. There were the trendy mothers; the matter-of-fact no-nonsense mothers; the mothers with too much time on their hands; the mothers with too little; and some grandparents looking scared. There were fathers as well, some looked a little unwilling, but everyone was putting on a brave front.

The music is not hard to describe – especially for those of us who demand that it is turned off the moment it makes its appearance on commercial radio stations one may be listening to on one’s travels – it is unbearable.

The lyrics ... or perhaps more accurately, words to accompany the unbearable throb of the other stuff are impossible to unscramble. The opening one went something like this:
Da da de Da da ... wanna be a mole; Da da de Da da ... all about control; Da da de Da da ... sitting on a pole; Da da de da da ... lookin’ at a hole.

I have no idea what they might mean, but I could not fail to notice the extraordinary things the dancer on the stage was doing. He was an older bloke of (it’s difficult to judge these days and was a bit hard to see, because his shirt kept on sliding down his torso to cover his head) something like 18 perhaps? He was balancing on one arm, T-shirt around his head and woolen cap having fallen off, naked torso and jeaned legs thrusting and contorting in the air.

For a novice, like me, it was a fairly eye-catching and dramatic beginning to an evening which really was revelatory. Hip Hop is a whole cultural thing, which I have absolutely no idea about. It has happened around me, for the past 20 years, and I have simply been able to turn a switch to get rid of it. There are movements the kids were doing with and to each other, which I have no idea of. Poses, stances, jerks which signify stuff. Stuff like – “well that’s me”; or “I’m done, your turn now”; or “ yes, I acknowledge your clapping out there”.

It was a bit like watching athletics, ballet and mapantsula - all rolled into a Tik pipe and lit with the American flag. But it is, for better or for worse, common culture.

The clothing they were wearing was most improbable – and it meant that the skill was not only in jerking your legs in the air, while you swapped hands in your handstand. But you also needed to make sure your oversized jeans would not fall down when you were right side up, or that the crotch had not fallen down so low, that you would be completely restricted when you wanted to disengage your legs from your hip joints – which you would do often. You also have to manage your cap on your head, when you are upside down.

I was lost in wonder and amazement! And the amount of technical skill was almost unbelievable. I mean, these were not professional dancers, they are kids! Some of them were kids at Primary school and others were from the nearby High school. I could not believe my eyes, when I saw my own, usually somewhat shy child, leaping around and doing cartwheels, in time and in sequence!

So, what do I make of it? It was, certainly, bewildering. And as my partner’s father commented afterwards – “If we had to do that we would need a Hip op!” But the fact is, it was all really impressive. And I saw this phenomenon in a completely different light last night.

Does that mean I am going to allow Hip Hop on the car radio – bloody hell, no!

Protecting our children

I grew up in suburbia in Johannesburg in the 1960s and '70s. Apartheid was at its height. White people were safe and black people were not. And black people didn't come to bother us much in the suburbs, because they had to live "elsewhere".

In this idyllic white world in which we lived, I can remember having freedom of the streets. At first, I was expected to walk to Nursery school and back home - on my own. It was four or five fairly decent sized blocks away. That would have made me 6years old, or so.

My mother didn't trust me entirely at that age, and I found her once, hiding, dressed in green, in a hedge opposite the road. It was most embarrassing - but her motives were pure. She wanted to see for herself that I looked left, looked right, looked left again before crossing the road. And when she was satisfied that I was doing that, I walked there and back on a daily basis, on my own.

As friends in the neighbourhood, we played on the streets, on our bikes. We had wars withe rival groups. We walked to primary school - most of the time alone. Later, I rode to primary school on a bicycle.

I remember this now, because my children are virtually incompetent on the roads. And. I have to say that we have made them to be like that through ensuring that there is an adult with them, every second of their day. They are taken to school, they are delivered home after school and the rest of the time, they are never left to their own devices.

I am not so certain that this is a good thing. Perhaps it may be a necessary thing in a world of child predators and human traffickers, but is it actually a good thing in the development of the child? The fact is, they are growing up in a world where they almost never have to take control of their own lives. They depend on adults all the time. And they simply expect that an adult will be there to deal with whatever potentially dangerous situation in which they may find themselves.

Of course, there is the other extreme. In setting up Public Viewing Areas for the 2010 FIFA World Cup, throughout the Western Cape Province, one of the things we have found (I have to say to my astonishment) is that parents simply come and dump children at the site, and then disappear, leaving the children there for the entire day, unaccompanied by any semblance of an adult. The risks of this are, of course, enormous, but it does not seem that the parents are in any way concerned. What is true, however, is that those children learn street savvy, fairly early on. Probably too early and probably far too much in too many areas. To compare them with my children would be chalk versus cheese. But, in my opinion, both are disadvantaged.

A lesson from Silkworms

I have banned any and all additional living things in this house. This is not Johannesburg. This is Cairp Tahn and houses are built on postage stamps here – given the fact that we are all crammed into a tiny little area around the mountain.

Now I’m not complaining, you understand. It is just that one has to cut one’s animal kingdom according to ones available space – that’s just the way it is. My partner Leon, who has this need to foster everything that breathes, would happily incorporate cats, dogs, hamsters, birds and fish – not to mention more children – into our environment. But I put my stiletto firmly down on this score. I said no more living creatures!

It’s not that I don’t like living things. I do. I have had my fair share of attachments to cats, dogs, budgerigars, etc – but not for here. That’s all I am saying. So when the kids look at me with big brown eyes and say “Daddie, please can we have a dog?” I say “No!” When they beg for a fluffy little kitten, I say “No!” When they look longingly at a fish tank, I say “No!”

They have learnt their lesson and they know that I am serious. Last year, they thought they had all trumped me. I was told that there was a lame bird which had been found. I looked into the box to see the creature which Joshua, the youngest, was force feeding and saw that it was a bloody Starling – the avian equivalent of a rat. I threw it over the fence. They knew I was serious about this thing after that.

But then I relented.

Silkworms, I was told, don’t make a mess. Silkworms can be kept in a box. Every child needs to have Silkworms in order to understand the meaning of life. So, Leon went onto the internet and found some clever entrepreneurial child down the road who was selling them by the barrel-load for seemingly low prices.

They were fetched. They started eating Mulberry leaves by the sack full . One child wouldn’t touch them. The other wouldn’t leave them alone. That lasted for a few days. Then I started noticing that the leaves which they were supposed to be feeding on were looking a bit like that stuff they put around Sushi – rather dry. The poor things were starting to chew on the cardboard box in desperation. Why? Because the novelty had been lost somewhere – and boredom with the endlessly munching creatures had begun to set in. The childminder was sent out, with a child, to get the leaves – and so it continued.

Then the cocooning started. Some of the worms escaped and started making cocoons on the floor, on the wall, on the furniture. Then the 2 week wait and finally those dreadful moths emerged, buzzing and flapping and mating and producing millions of eggs.

Oh yes, there have been one or two discussions about the cycle of life. But not enough, I would say, to justify all the effort. And now, my question is – do we wait for the eggs to hatch next year? Or do we turf them now and just pretend that is where the cycle of life ended? Or should we just buy a nice, clean, worry free – book? Um.. gosh – what a difficult choice! From now on, I am sticking to my rule!