Robot/Child

Kids can’t just be kids anymore; they have turned into little advertisements for their parents. 

From page 158 of The F Word: How we Learned to Swear by Feminism by Jane Caro and Catherine Fox

from here

I used to think that kids were like robots, and if you did the hard work of figuring out their operating instructions, you could program them so that they’d happily do whatever you asked them to and would never scream at you or decide you were no longer their friend. I thought that when we were out my perfect little robot would perform beautifully and strangers would ask me how I did it and then they’d tell me how impressed they were by him, and I’d hear all of their praise for him as praise for me (“He’s just so well behaved and polite!” they’d say, which I’d hear as, “You truly must be an amazing mother!”). I’d write books and travel the world telling people about how to program robots raise children to look exactly like mine, and everyone would wish they could be more like me. That’s what I wanted.

Up until this year my robot programming was going great guns; of course, there were times when Moses had his technical difficulties, but he was mostly a delight and ran fairly smoothly. I was proud of myself for figuring him out and programming him so well. I must be really good at this job, I told myself regularly. And then Moses turned three. (Or maybe it’s that his little sister was born; I still can’t tell whether it’s the age or the circumstances that cracked him/me.)

I’ve spent a lot of time this year scrambling to work out which settings to adjust to get Mo back to being my good robot again so that I could carry on with my plan to win awards for superlative mothering. I’ve spent a lot of time getting frustrated at my inability to control him and make him the perfect performer once again, and I’ve wondered if maybe I’m not that good at this job. I was supposed to be the mother who Moses would mention, upon receiving some prestigious award, as someone who was always there for him, a rock, constantly sweet and peaceful and helpful, an inspiration and encourager, rather than someone who often felt like yelling at him, “YOUR PROBLEMS ARE NOT ACTUAL PROBLEMS!!!” This was not going according to plan.

After months of wanting to return this faulty robot to the factory and demand a better replacement, I’m starting to untangle what’s Moses and what’s me, and slowly let him go and grow without feeling like everything he does is an advertisement either for or against my ability to look after him. I’ve realised that though controlling a robot would be far easier than dealing with this little person, deep down (like, really deep down) I appreciate the fact that I can’t simply adjust settings or push buttons to have Moses behave exactly how I’d like him to, but that he has a choice. It means that when he acts in ways I’m proud of it’s because he’s chosen to, and I can be happy for him taking any praise he elicits completely for himself; I’m good at other stuff, I don’t need to steal Mo’s praise. I’m becoming less concerned with how my child appears to others now, and more concerned with who he is.

I’m seeing that in many ways Mo is already budding into the kind of person I like being around now and will like being around when he’s older: he’s someone who expresses his emotions rather than bottling them up; he’s someone who questions me when he doesn’t understand my request or feels it’s unfair; he’s (mostly) respectful despite the fact that I’ve never demanded respect from him. He doesn’t jump to do whatever I say just because I’m The Authority and he must therefore submit immediately and happily; he thinks logically and critically and engages with what’s happening around him, and sometimes this means he tells me he thinks I’m wrong (apparently it’s inconsistent to vacuum up the daddy long-legs spiders if I really think that killing things is bad and daddy long-legs spiders are good for eating other bugs). 

As the years go by he’ll make choices I disagree with, he’ll yell at me in public, and one day he may even run away from home or join the army or a rugby league team or assert his independence in some other way I’m not a fan of, and I may be tempted to think of him as a robot again and wonder, “What did I do wrong? What buttons should I have pressed instead? Which dial should have dialled? Which lever should I have levered?!” And I’ll have to remind myself that he’s not a machine, and so why on earth am I asking me those questions as if I’m the programmer responsible for his crazy decisions? 

Or he may always say ”Please” and look after those around him, and one day he may ace exams and become a champion for worthy causes and win awards and kick bazillions of literal and metaphorical goals or assert his independence in some other way that may tempt me to think, “Look at him doing so well! It must be because of my awesomeness!” And I’ll have to remind myself that he’s not a machine, and so why on earth am I patting myself on the back as if I’m the programmer responsible for his wise and good decisions?

Of course, I’ll play some part in shaping the person he becomes, as will Alan and many others along the way. But it’ll be a guide-y part rather than the control-y part the parenting books so often talked about. This way involves far more analysing and second-guessing and explaining, but we’re learning a lot together, and (contrary to what I’ve feared for a while now) I think we’re going to be okay, my little non-robot and me, his good-enough mother. At the very least, because he’s a person rather than a robot, I can believe him when he says, “I love you, Mum.”

New vs. old

Mo and Alan playing pirates in HMAS Hammock

When we first moved to Carlton I was surprised to find myself explaining to a friend that I felt less isolated than I had in Glenmore Park; I’d never realised how disconnected I’d felt out there. I loved our place, and the people we met and the memories we made out there: I was expecting to crumple in a distraught heap after we moved out, and even took photos to add to the soppy love letter blog post I’d inevitably be writing. We’d lived there for two years! Hazel was born in the lounge room! The neighbours were friendly and kind; the family across the road brought us over a copy of Metallica lullabies to welcome our new baby, and Kath next door was exactly the type of neighbour you’d want living in a house whose balcony comes scarily close to your toilet window (i.e. lovely, and slightly deaf). But after the move, my crumpling had little to do with leaving that house.

The other day Alan told me he missed having people over regularly; we had two groups meeting for Bible studies at our old place, one on Wednesday nights and one on Sundays. I realised (though I enjoyed those groups and looked forward to them each week) that having people over regularly is one of the things I miss least. That and the redback spiders. I do miss the backyard, and having a washing line approximately 13 steps from the laundry. I miss the hammock. Alan had always wanted one, so when he heard that Moses and I had been talking about them and that I was wanting to show Mo what they looked like, Alan shot out the door for Bunnings before I had time to say, “I meant on the internet.” I miss being able to park in our own driveway, and not having to walk up any stairs to get from the car to the front door. I miss not having to worry about Moses disturbing anyone outside of our family by racing down the hallway at 6:30am. I miss the food waste bins! I still feel guilty pangs as I scrape food scraps into our regular bin, and we’ve been here 4 months now. 

All of those things were nice, but I felt no urge to write them letters when we left, which surprised me – surprises me still, actually. This new place feels more like our last apartment did, which felt more like home, and more like me. I don’t know why; maybe I still don’t feel grown up enough for a dishwasher and a garden shed? I find all of this really interesting, partly because I’m still not sure why I find this so interesting. I was hoping that now that I’d reached the conclusion end of this post it would become clear to me, and I’d be able to say something profound. But no.

God knows

You shall not murder. (Exodus 20:13)

You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, ‘You shall not murder, and anyone who murders will be subject to judgment.‘ But I tell you that anyone who is angry with a brother or sister will be subject to judgment. (Matthew 5:21-22)

In primary school, I was sexually “interfered with” (as a counsellor once put it) by a man who remains a friend of my family’s. These lines from Service Fee by The Waifs often come to me: “Don't ever ask me, don't you dare begin | I'm not going to talk about it, but God knows I'm gonna sing.”

When I have a horrible dream, I force myself on waking to rewrite it so that the story ends in peace rather than terror, control rather than passivity on my part. It calms me down so that I can fall asleep again and dream of sweeter things. When my mind wanders back to that moment (and how I try to keep my mind away from the memory, for it sickens me), and I’m once again that little girl, frozen in confusion, fear and betrayal, with that man’s fingers searching for a way further into my underpants, the noise of his racing heart and raspy breath in my ear, I order my mind to STOP. And then I start rewriting. 

In my ending, I am suddenly filled with an overwhelming rage, and, Hulk-style, I am no longer vulnerable or powerless; I rise up strong, gripping a knife (which I always find lying conveniently next to my left hand), and I turn on that man and I plunge the blade into his heart, over and over and over and over, screaming,

HOW

FUCKING

DARE

YOU.

And I look at him bleeding, dying, and I feel no remorse.

For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins. (Matthew 6:14-15)

He asked for my forgiveness. It was night time, and I’m not sure if I felt dazed because I’d been sleeping or because I’d been lying for so long in the dark that my eyes were simply adjusting to the light or because I wasn’t expecting or prepared to see him in my bedroom; whatever it was, I remember nothing of what was said except that he asked, “Will you forgive me?”

I said yes, I had to; it was the only answer we’d been taught to give to that question. (Your brother hits you, apologises and asks for your forgiveness; you say yes. Your sister steals your chocolate, apologises and asks for your forgiveness. You say yes. A trusted man puts his hand in your pants until you find the courage to say “Don’t” enough times and he finally stops. He apologises and asks for your forgiveness. You say yes). It wasn’t a choice.

Even now I have no idea if I’ve managed to forgive him; what does forgiveness look like? Is it supposed to leave me feeling like the slate has been wiped completely clean, or am I allowed to still despise the thought of him touching me again on the rare occasions I see him and he reaches for a hug? Is the fact that I’m acutely aware of the placement of his hands on my body and the passing of every millisecond a sign that I’m no closer to forgiveness now than I was all those years ago? How do I stop feeling nauseous when I see him, or when I hear or say his name? Am I allowed to break down and sob at the possibility of one day having to let my daughter sit on his knee?

Or what if I think in terms of love rather than forgiveness: what is love in this case, what should love look like? Is allowing myself to be hugged “loving my enemies”? Is it enough simply to act as if all’s well so that his family doesn’t suspect anything, protecting his name with my silence (except when very drunk, it must be admitted) and forced smiles as I’ve done for the better part of my life? Or will it only be counted as love when I start to feel any kind of sorry emotion attached to news of illnesses or injuries that befall him? Does love come first, or forgiveness? I don’t know.

I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.

But God knows I’m gonna write about it.

Study #2

from here

I was told last week that along with each baby you give birth to half of your brain, but when I noted out loud that that left me with none, my friend clarified that it’s not half of your original brain you lose each time, it’s half of what’s left. So I still have a quarter. (She’s not a scientist but it feels like it’s true, so I’m just going with it.) Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure the quarter I have is the one that remembers unnecessary things like the lyrics to songs I haven’t heard since the 90s rather than important things like CLOSE YOUR EYES, ALAN remembering to take the car keys out of the ignition while you go shopping at Westfield OKAY YOU CAN OPEN THEM AGAIN NOW. 

I really don’t know if the quarter that’s left is able to write essays. I’m enrolled in a hermeneutics subject this semester – my final class before my Grad Dip is over and done with!! HOPEFULLY. I’m freaking out about studying again with less brain than last time, but I’m also quite excited about finally (HOPEFULLY) finishing up and being free to move on to my next (more employable) qualification. My poor quarter-brain is very confused with these mixed emotions. This could go very badly.