I think that there may be something wrong with my new best friend Tina. Today she took my children on a Cub hike, and then offered not only to keep them for the rest of the day, but to feed them dinner and then drive them home again as well. This in itself is above and beyond the call of duty, but what concerned me, was when we were leaving, she thanked me for my children. Maybe she was strung out on cold medication, or had nefarious plans to sell their organs on EBay, but I don't think so. The issue ? No one has ever, ever thanked me for my children before. Indeed, back when I birthed the little buggers, even my husband didn't thank me ! The ungrateful RB. So I do hope Tina isn't becoming unbalanced. Of course after she reads this, she may have some choice words to unbalance me.
I have to say though, my children are really enjoying the Cub activities. As a leader, Tina has some fantastic ideas, and a endless supply of patience. The other evening when they came home from their meeting , Sidney actually came up behind her brother and gave him a hug. She wasn't even trying to give him a wedgie. It was a proper hug, heartfelt even, not like the perfunctory clinches I insist they give each other in the process of apologizing for a transgression. I have discovered that for my children, being forced to your embrace your detestable sibling, can sometimes be the worst punishment of all.
The one concern I do have however, is the part of the Cub uniform known as the "Necker". This seemingly inoffensive accessory might just as well be labelled "Noose" and come with a big flashing neon sign that says "Choke Here". I am always telling my children "Don't put that around your neck, you'll strangle yourself" Just one of those admonishments as a parent you are expected to use. But now, as they get dressed in their uniform, I am just waiting for that day when Grady casts dispersions upon Sid's efforts as a fellow Cub, and her hands will be tightening on his necker quicker than stink. But hey, that's what memories are made of.
I will be taking a short hiatus from blogging. I have unwittingly taken on full time employment, albeit temporary and it has seriously cut in to my blogging time. I will return as soon as I can. Thank you for reading.
Wednesday 3 October 2012
Tuesday 2 October 2012
Mayhem At The Roundabout
So continues the saga of why I am not in a hurry for my daughter to learn how to drive. If you read yesterday's blog, you'll understand why I did not look favourably upon my bullying driving instructor. Determined they could do better, two of my friends decided that they would take upon themselves, the task of teaching me how to drive.
I should mention that these friends were in the Royal Engineers, and part of their job was to drive the huge army transport lorries (trucks) around England's winding country lanes. I guess when you are behind the wheel of something that size, you just have a different perspective of the road. But I was in a small car, not a three ton truck, so many a time I found myself getting close up and personal with a hedgerow, because even I didn't dare to play chicken with the double-decker bus barreling towards me on lane ways that were little wider than a goat path.
Take the English roundabouts for example, normally you need nerves of steel to navigate those circular merry-go-rounds of terror, but not the way I was educated. Apparently there was only one way to successfully maneuver those road blocks, and that was head on. I was instructed to race up to the roundabout with reckless abandon, and if the way was clear, rocket off around it. If not, then you slammed on the brakes and hoped for the best. What can I say ? At seventeen you think you are invincible. To be fair, these somewhat unorthodox driving lessons (and I can honestly say all parties were sober, we were crazy not stupid) did take place in the wee hours of the morning, when the roads were pretty much empty. Even so, it took a couple of near misses, the second of which was with a police car giving chase (I think army sappers and the police were taught to drive in pretty much the same manner), that gave me pause for thought, and I wisely decided to move indefinitely to the passenger seat instead.
It was only with the imminent arrival of Sid that I was forced to move from passenger to driver. Rob had a recurring nightmare of driving endlessly around town dropping off three children to multiple activities, while I stayed home and did, well whatever. So although wiser now, and obviously far safer behind the wheel, I haven't forgotten what it was like to be seventeen and fearless, and that alone is a good enough reason for me to want to keep Lindsay off the roads.
I should mention that these friends were in the Royal Engineers, and part of their job was to drive the huge army transport lorries (trucks) around England's winding country lanes. I guess when you are behind the wheel of something that size, you just have a different perspective of the road. But I was in a small car, not a three ton truck, so many a time I found myself getting close up and personal with a hedgerow, because even I didn't dare to play chicken with the double-decker bus barreling towards me on lane ways that were little wider than a goat path.
Take the English roundabouts for example, normally you need nerves of steel to navigate those circular merry-go-rounds of terror, but not the way I was educated. Apparently there was only one way to successfully maneuver those road blocks, and that was head on. I was instructed to race up to the roundabout with reckless abandon, and if the way was clear, rocket off around it. If not, then you slammed on the brakes and hoped for the best. What can I say ? At seventeen you think you are invincible. To be fair, these somewhat unorthodox driving lessons (and I can honestly say all parties were sober, we were crazy not stupid) did take place in the wee hours of the morning, when the roads were pretty much empty. Even so, it took a couple of near misses, the second of which was with a police car giving chase (I think army sappers and the police were taught to drive in pretty much the same manner), that gave me pause for thought, and I wisely decided to move indefinitely to the passenger seat instead.
It was only with the imminent arrival of Sid that I was forced to move from passenger to driver. Rob had a recurring nightmare of driving endlessly around town dropping off three children to multiple activities, while I stayed home and did, well whatever. So although wiser now, and obviously far safer behind the wheel, I haven't forgotten what it was like to be seventeen and fearless, and that alone is a good enough reason for me to want to keep Lindsay off the roads.
Monday 1 October 2012
My First & Very Nearly Last Driving Lesson
Lindsay turned fifteen this summer, and in only eight short months she can apply for her driver's licence. That thought fills me with dread. I think sixteen is far too young to be behind the wheel of a car. I first started driving in England when I was seventeen, and it was another country and twenty five years later before I actually got my licence.
My godparents paid for my driving lessons when I turned seventeen. My instructor, an ex-policeman, who unbeknownst to my well meaning godparents, was a bully, as mean as the day was long. On my very first lesson, he picked me up from college and took me to the middle of Winchester, a busy city with a confusing array of one way streets and little old ladies with blue hair and drag along shopping carts who thought nothing of stepping out in front of a moving vehicle without warning. After five minutes of dodging wayward pedestrians, I was hyperventilating and in a near faint, but the fun was just beginning.
My instructor decided to get his jollies that day by having me try a hill start in a standard car. Clutch, brake, accelerator, gear shift, was he crazy ? How the the hell was I supposed to figure that out ? So there I am at the lights, with a big assed Euro bus right behind me, trying to figure out how to get the car from "stop" to "go". The angry French bus driver went from shaking his fist to shouting obscenities at me, as the traffic lights turned from green to red, again, and again and again. He obviously didn't see (or didn't care) the big red "L" hanging on the back of the car, and no, it wasn't for "Loser" but for "Learner". My instructor, not to be outdone by the bus driver, starts shouting a few rude words of his own. I had never been called a "Stupid Bitch" before (I told you he was a bully) and I didn't much care for it.
Finally, and I don't know how, I managed to get the car up the hill. As soon as it was able, the bus came roaring past me, only to run out of lane, and proceeded to sideswipe front end of the car, as he tried to pull in front. You could say my first lesson had come to a crashing end. But wait, there is more to come. Stay tuned for tomorrow's installment.
My godparents paid for my driving lessons when I turned seventeen. My instructor, an ex-policeman, who unbeknownst to my well meaning godparents, was a bully, as mean as the day was long. On my very first lesson, he picked me up from college and took me to the middle of Winchester, a busy city with a confusing array of one way streets and little old ladies with blue hair and drag along shopping carts who thought nothing of stepping out in front of a moving vehicle without warning. After five minutes of dodging wayward pedestrians, I was hyperventilating and in a near faint, but the fun was just beginning.
My instructor decided to get his jollies that day by having me try a hill start in a standard car. Clutch, brake, accelerator, gear shift, was he crazy ? How the the hell was I supposed to figure that out ? So there I am at the lights, with a big assed Euro bus right behind me, trying to figure out how to get the car from "stop" to "go". The angry French bus driver went from shaking his fist to shouting obscenities at me, as the traffic lights turned from green to red, again, and again and again. He obviously didn't see (or didn't care) the big red "L" hanging on the back of the car, and no, it wasn't for "Loser" but for "Learner". My instructor, not to be outdone by the bus driver, starts shouting a few rude words of his own. I had never been called a "Stupid Bitch" before (I told you he was a bully) and I didn't much care for it.
Finally, and I don't know how, I managed to get the car up the hill. As soon as it was able, the bus came roaring past me, only to run out of lane, and proceeded to sideswipe front end of the car, as he tried to pull in front. You could say my first lesson had come to a crashing end. But wait, there is more to come. Stay tuned for tomorrow's installment.
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