Today I did a pile of maths homework. My daughter had left her homework to the last minute and fell ill. The homework was utterly ridiculous. There were thirty two sums, none of them particularly difficult but at the end of the sum, you had to invert the calculator and it would spell a word which you then had to insert into the worksheet.
Well the arithmetic was a cinch but this reading-the-final-figure-upside-down to work out a word was impossible. Even when they told you that 4 upside down was an h, and 6 upside down was a 9. One of the answers was "Biggles". 5316618. I'm sure my daughter doesn't know who Biggles is. I'm hoping I get an A* but I might only get an A. Cross your fingers for me.
Meanwhile, beloved daughter lay in bed with a high temperature and coughing her heart out. I fed her aspirin and hot milk and honey. She didn't want me to leave her. Did it take her being ill before we could have a sensible conversation?
Sunday 1 November 2009
Friday 30 October 2009
The road not taken
I found myself restraining my daughter tonight as she attempted to hit her father with a tennis racquet. I was worried about his safety. She's got a very good backhand.
It's not easy restraining a furiously angry twelve-year old. I stood behind her and encircled her with hopefully loving arms and tried to make soothing sounds. Making soothing sounds was difficult. I was struggling to find the right words to say whilst she was twisting and shouting "I hate you and I wish you were dead."
"Well I'm sorry about that because I love you" is the sort of response one gives to toddlers, isn't it? Not that she ever said that when she was a toddler. I settled for the shorter "Well we love you". Except I couldn't quite finish the sentence. Face distorted with tears of rage, she sank her teeth into my arm and bit down hard. The "you" turned into a caterwauled "yeOW".
This is what happens when you try to separate an overtired almost-teenager from her laptop at 10.30. Or rather this is what happened to us. There is a point at which the roads diverged and we took the wrong path somewhere.
Sobbing hours later, hours of talking, she allowed me to usher her up to bed. Of course I wanted to kiss the tears away but that's not allowed any more. At one point, I told her how beautiful she is. I got a terse negative. The marvel of her. Long colt-like limbs, heart-shaped face, huge eyes, glossy hair. And the self-doubt, the anger, the need to assert independence. There's a whole new emotional vocabulary for teenage kicks.
We'll go into town tomorrow. I've promised frothy milky coffee and steaming hot chocolate. She wants to find a book and I want to find my daughter. I hope Waterstones has what we need in stock.
It's not easy restraining a furiously angry twelve-year old. I stood behind her and encircled her with hopefully loving arms and tried to make soothing sounds. Making soothing sounds was difficult. I was struggling to find the right words to say whilst she was twisting and shouting "I hate you and I wish you were dead."
"Well I'm sorry about that because I love you" is the sort of response one gives to toddlers, isn't it? Not that she ever said that when she was a toddler. I settled for the shorter "Well we love you". Except I couldn't quite finish the sentence. Face distorted with tears of rage, she sank her teeth into my arm and bit down hard. The "you" turned into a caterwauled "yeOW".
This is what happens when you try to separate an overtired almost-teenager from her laptop at 10.30. Or rather this is what happened to us. There is a point at which the roads diverged and we took the wrong path somewhere.
Sobbing hours later, hours of talking, she allowed me to usher her up to bed. Of course I wanted to kiss the tears away but that's not allowed any more. At one point, I told her how beautiful she is. I got a terse negative. The marvel of her. Long colt-like limbs, heart-shaped face, huge eyes, glossy hair. And the self-doubt, the anger, the need to assert independence. There's a whole new emotional vocabulary for teenage kicks.
We'll go into town tomorrow. I've promised frothy milky coffee and steaming hot chocolate. She wants to find a book and I want to find my daughter. I hope Waterstones has what we need in stock.
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