Tough Mother

My dad has dementia.

It’s one of those things that seems sudden, and not.

Living in the UK, it’s usually a while between visits. In fact, about this time six years ago, dad came over to see us. My sister had to accompany him, but he was still entertaining everyone with, admittedly, similar stories to when they met him on my son’s first day of school.

My first trip home after Covid, he was still on his mission to distribute apples that couldn’t be exported around the local community, organising a “grandad’s army” to pick the rejects – as he’d say, they’re still tasty though. We started cleaning out the garage, while he cracked on with his soduku and was adamant he’d never leave that house.

Four trips ago, there was sneaking out to give an ‘urgent’ message to mum when he knew he wasn’t supposed to. At that point, I didn’t have teenagers but that’s what he reminded me of – with the heightened blood pressure (mine) to go with it. 

Then we made it back for my parents’ 55th wedding anniversary and to help move them into a new home. We weren’t sure he’d make it after cancer several years before, and it was touch and go that trip when he landed in a hospital a few times in short order.

Then, he told me loops of stories, mostly from when he was at school. Some I hadn’t heard before… But he was focused on celebrating their wedding milestone. And, within days, moved on to recovering from emergency surgery and reaching 60 years.

This last trip though there were no stories. 

While he was always an oasis of calm in the midst of mum’s busyness, he also always had plenty to say. 

So the quiet was pronounced. 

There were moments where I could see his spark, where the dad who used to find any opportunity to sneak up to surprise you, would stand on the sideline in his farm gear and pompom hat, who ran a half marathon with me when he was 60, or who took his pocketknife to Buckingham palace (and surprisingly got it back afterwards), was still there.

But the usual stories, the ones I moaned about more than once, have gone. 

We’re going back soon for Christmas and I worry about how the kids will find him. But he is a tough old bugger, with a bit of stubborn on the side, and a few more years until their 60th anniversary so I hope we find more spark over soduku.

I recently spent some time in New Zealand and had the opportunity to join my friend and her 15 year old kids during some water skiing practice, along with some others who were also visiting the irrigation pond/water ski lake (not often these go in the same sentence!).

This was a new experience for me and I had nothing more taxing than enjoying being in the boat during practice, while my friend drove. We were also joined by another guy, who it soon became clear knew a lot about the sport.

It didn’t take long to realise I was observing a master class in coaching. 

I’ve been reflecting on what made it so effective and I think it came down to three things:

• seeking input. He watched what was happening and asked curious questions of my friend and the kids – which he listened to. This was very relaxed, which prompted very open and unselfconscious critique.
• focusing on one or two things and not moving on until they were both happy that they got it. This was broken down into simple instructions which were multi-sensory – tell, show, as well as how it should feel.
• stopping on a win. This wasn’t waiting for mastery or perfection, it was gauging when something clicked, and importantly, before the student got tired, frustrated or hungry. A fine line when dealing with my teenagers at least!

As a parent, every day is a learning opportunity, however it can feel like it’s more of a slow burn feedback loop (I hope they get it by the time they’re 25!), so there might be a fourth and probably most important thing… it was my friend spotting an opportunity to have someone else coach the kids!

When I was younger, I used to think that running an ice cream shop must be a way to bring joy to people every day (this might have also been when I was a few hours into tractor work, flat batteries in my Walkman, warming water, not enough sunscreen, and several more hours to go).

Now I’m (a bit) older I can see the queues + heat + impatient kids and grown ups might detract somewhat from this sprinkling of joy.

However, out of the blue early this summer, my son tried a couple of times to make ice cream. It was a bit of a failure frankly. More crystals, less creaminess. 

We were then very lucky to have a gelato master stay with us for a few days, who was very happy to share his passion. This was after very clearly (and with more passion) expressing the shortcomings of our “ice cream maker”.  In fairness, it might have been older than my son and clearly technology has moved on…

So, for his birthday, my son had researched possible alternative machines that were acceptable, and also within mum’s budget.

Since then we’ve been benefiting from the experimentation as he develops his business plan to take over the world via ice cream.

Chocolate, coffee, mint chocolate, cookie dough (although this requires a profit share with his sister to help with the dough apparently), and even a foray into mango and raspberry sorbets.

While he still needs to work out some of the finer details, perhaps we’ll be able to keep the summer vibes over winter after all!

We told the kids recently that we’d booked a holiday to France. I didn’t get the excited reaction I expected.

Instead the almost 15 year old was worried about missing out now his friends were getting back from holiday, and my almost 13 year old was worried she would pack the right stuff for the time away.

I think I’ve a pretty good memory of growing up, but I can’t remember being reluctant to go on holiday with my parents. Although, I do remember being particularly excited when they thought I was responsible enough to be left behind to look after the farm.

However, given I was in New Zealand, I wasn’t being “dragged” to another country.

I thought we’d reached the acceptance stage but the kids managed to quietly and not so quietly show their reluctance. One dragging their feet packing, and the other dragging it out at the other extreme!

Similarly, I’d thought we’d largely left the twilight zone behind as the kids moved off to secondary school, but there is something about getting out the door on holiday that brings out the worst in everyone. So much so, that the cloud hung over us til we arrived 12 hours later at our destination (thank goodness for noise cancelling headphones).

That said, as we arrived the clouds lifted. Sun, sea, and sand worked their magic and as digital roaming was not switched on, some actual roaming was carried out – after 11 as they’re both (almost) teenagers after all. 

My dad used to say it’s three weeks between a good haircut and a bad one. He should know as he used to cut our hair, and I have the family photos to prove it!

I had the opportunity to use that advice when my 14 year old son turned up to the table for dinner wearing a Star Wars-esque helmet. 

Obviously, I’d missed that chapter in the parenting manual so, as I was trying to determine what was going on and the appropriate response, a couple of things became clear:

• he had taken himself for a haircut (yay!)
• he was very unhappy with said haircut (bad),
• but that he had sought advice from his sister (yay!),
• and she was actually being reassuring and supportive (cue warm fuzzy feeling as she can also cut ice with her eyes if she wills it, and is not known for holding back),
• and he could actually cut food small enough so that he could eat without taking the helmet off (impressive…).

As you can imagine, he was not particularly taken with my dad’s advice or the fact that we’d probably really like the haircut (just the day before, I’d thought it would be nice to see my child’s face again).

You’ll be pleased to know that it was much less than three weeks (it’s impossible to play football wearing a helmet after all) and we did like it (although he still isn’t impressed by that).

As part of my son’s Duke of Edinburgh challenge, he has to learn a skill, move (do a sport that increases his heart rate) and serve.

It’s the last one that’s been the most challenging. 

After lots of ideas, and not a lot of follow through, he (we) settled on an hour of picking up rubbish a week. 

On our first day out, he asked whether it was volunteering if you ‘had’ to do it. 

The philosophical conversations have continued from there, including what Trump has been up to (endless content there!), how to resolve an argument (first question do you need to ‘win’?), and the relative benefits of different water pistols (developing his sales skills…).

It’s also given me some time to muse about the effectiveness of marketing. I’m not just talking about water pistols, but the impact of the ‘be a tidy kiwi’ campaign. Apparently it started before I was born but I definitely grew up with it, which means, to this day, I hear it whenever I walk past rubbish. That’s a lot less comfortable in London than in the much less populated (by both people and litter) part of NZ where I’m from. 

I’ve noticed my son has generally been wearing his NZ t-shirt when out on our missions, so I wonder if it will be part of his cultural inheritance as well?

I was out recently with my almost 13 year old daughter when she asked me when is it ok to swear?

It’s obviously very context specific…

Grandparents and teachers lie this side of (almost) never (we needed to leave room for exceptional circumstances…).

With us parents, we thought a little bit closer to sometimes as long as it was in relation to a) something surprising, b) painful, or c) funny, and not aggressively.

Friends, up to your judgement. But it probably doesn’t make you sound as cool as you hope…

And in a situation fast getting out of your control?

Maybe. But she thought the most effective thing might be sticking with your friends and finding the quickest and safest exit.

My job here is done. 

Though I’m still waiting for evidence that she can judge the context correctly…

My son is currently doing the Duke of Edinburgh bronze award. One of the challenges is to go on an overnight expedition (or tramp if you’re in NZ).

His teacher sent out a message to parents to remind them to make sure that “your child understands the importance of independence as part of the trip”.

So taking this to heart, I left him alone to sort out his kit the night before (to be fair this was mostly still scattered across the floor from the practice run). We then did a quick check as he packed the next morning (the frozen milk (?!) could only go in at the last minute so obviously the rest of the bag couldn’t be packed too early). 

We then calmly exited the house with plenty of time to get to the train station and buy a ticket. As we strolled happily, I happened to ask what his plan for lunch was. 

That bought us to a sudden stop.

No panic, as the train station shop has sandwiches. 

Unfortunately, these were apparently too big. 

So he asked if I could run home, make sandwiches and get back to the station, while he bought the ticket. Following a quick mental calculation (5 minutes + 3 minutes (I’m not eating them) + too long, unless I jump on the bike…which still left a few minutes in case he mucks up the purchase), I handed over my bank card and set off.

Having successfully reminded him of the train station he was actually going to and made sandwiches, I then got a call to say he was on the train… with the following response…

I really enjoyed standing in the middle of the morning commuters on the train with my bike and bag of sandwiches. Having already had friends highlight similarities to Paddington bear given my usual carting around, or requests for, honey sandwiches, all I really needed was a hat…

As we made the exchange, I think I got a thank you as he focused on trying to hold on to the sandwiches and find space for him and his backpack. 

It was a very relaxing cycle home in the sunshine with my bank card safely secured, quietly pleased that I had moved my morning work call.

And absolutely confident that he would find his way home… 

For those of you who have been reading along, you’ll know how delighted the kids are to go on a family walk. No drama or exaggeration at all… the ‘who would get eaten first if we never made it back to civilisation’ was a real highlight.

However my husband and I persevere, and even tried to spice it up this time in San Sebastián, Spain, with a zip line experience.

That was enough to get them out the door pretty easily until they realised we left out that the zip line was at the top of a hill. 

My daughter quickly realised, and her pace seemed to be inversely related to both the gradient and her complaints.

This wasn’t helped when we passed another family coming in the opposite direction who told us there was no way to the top on the road we were on. So we had to retrace our steps to find the right path… which together with the perfect storm of hot, steep, and sub-standard snacks, was not the recipe for familial harmony and good cheer.

At this point, my husband, usually the most patient person I know, volunteered to go ahead to reassure the company that we were actually on our way. As none of the rest of us had our phones, this risked us not showing up at all. Perhaps a calculated move?

My son also found his halo, pointing out if we hadn’t indulged (!) his sister, she would have been powering up the hill (like him obviously).

All of which had the net result of both children receiving the benefit of my wisdom on important life lessons while I, mostly figuratively, pushed them to the top. 

Luckily, this was all put behind us as we zipped around the course and enjoyed the views.

Until next time…

The other day I was hunting for something for my daughter. Even to the point of digging around under my bed, where I came across a pair of my son’s shoes instead.

The soles were worn almost smooth, there were no ‘inners’ at all and they gave new meaning to ‘threadbare’.

I remembered I’d stashed them there a couple of years ago, so he might have been 11 or 12.

We’d purchased a replacement pair that had sat pristinely on the mat by the front door for at least two weeks. 

It’s times like those when I hear the voice of my mother-in-law in my head asking me if he’s really going to leave the house dressed like that… the answer was usually yes…

However, I’d obviously felt the need to take more drastic measures. 

Now at 14, he’s matured and that would never happen again…

My husband was also (pleasantly?) surprised that I hadn’t just thrown them in the bin…