Jonathan Dodd‘s latest column. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
When my mother wasn’t telling me to stop picking my nails (see previous column), my father was telling me to stop fidgeting. I think all parents do this, because one of the universal truths is that children will always find irritating habits that drive their parents mad.
The thing is that children seldom realise they are doing whatever it is that adults get so hung up about. There you are, just getting on with things, in your own world, and it’s very pleasant. And suddenly an adult voice intrudes, talking about some completely irrelevant thing like tapping your pencil or scuffing your shoe on the edge of the table leg. You didn’t even know you were doing that, and who cares anyway? It completely ruins your mood, and confirms that your parents are totally obsessed with trivial things and enjoy making you feel stupid.
The constant tap-tap or sniff or scuff
Now, of course, that I’m older and wiser and have been both a child whose world was totally dominated by unfeeling adults who only cared for me to be silent and still, and a father who was irritated beyond measure by the constant tap-tap or sniff or scuff that disturbed my own concentration, I can see both sides of this situation.
I did have habits that annoyed my parents. Quite apart from the nail-picking and the knee-jiggling, I had other more furtive bad habits, that I couldn’t stop myself from doing, that happened away from the ever-watchful eyes of my parents, and always felt like a guilty pleasure because I knew the day would come when I would be discovered.
Rearrange the evidence
I was always a picker-at of things. Loose threads, a tassel that was hanging off the corner of a cushion, the edge of a piece of paper not fully glued-down. These were always impossible for me to leave alone. After doing the thing, I always tried to rearrange the evidence in a way that looked like it had happened naturally, and I learned, like all children, to assume the blank face when asked about the broken plate or the missing card from the pack or the ragged book-lining.
There must have been numerous examples of this. I can’t remember most of them. The one that I remember with the greatest mixture of guilt and pleasure was the crack in the outhouse wall. We had the usual bathroom facilities in our house, and also an outhouse tacked on to the back of the kitchen. You had to go outside to get to it, and it was unheated, but its great advantage was that it was private and I could read out there. The problem was that there was a crack in the pink-painted plaster.
Like a large spidery ‘Y’
It was like a large spidery ‘Y’ with the conjunction not far from face-height, and the ends going right up to the ceiling and down to the floor. Where these three lines met, the plaster had crumbled ever so slightly. At first I just rubbed my thumb over it, and the edges crumbled just a little more. I was fascinated by the way the pink surface became grey and powdery underneath. But the problem became much worse when I saw the paperclip.
Someone else had obviously used the outhouse, and had taken some papers in with them, and lost the paperclip on the floor. My eyes were so much lower, and I was an inquisitive child, much given to asking difficult questions of my mother when she was busy trying to cook supper, amongst other unhelpful habits, like becoming so obliviously absorbed in a book whilst lying on the floor somewhere so that people had to step over me.
Poking the end into the hole
Anyway, as you will probably have guessed by now, a connection was made in my mind between the cavity in the wall and the paperclip, and I found myself unable to resist straightening the wire out and poking the end into the hole. After a while, the wire hit something hard, and I had to find out what it was, which meant making the hole just a tiny bit larger.
As you will already have foreseen, the hole needed to be quite a bit larger for me to realise that the surface I was exploring with my wire tool was in fact brick. I was young. I didn’t know much about anything. I had no idea about building materials. I was learning about the world. It wasn’t my fault. Someone shouldn’t have left a paperclip in there.
My excavating days were over
I can say this now, and it’s all true. But it didn’t stop my father shouting at me when he noticed once the hole was about an inch across, and the pile of plaster lying like it had escaped from a sand-timer down by the skirting-board. The next time I was in there, a neat new plug of plaster had been smoothed over the hole, so my excavating days were over, but it was never painted, so I was reminded of my sin every time I went in there.
I learned some valuable life-lessons from that incident, only some of which my parents would have approved of. I learned that messing with other people’s décor could be tricky. And I learned that investigating things could be exciting and interesting. I knew that already, of course, but I didn’t know that I knew it.
It can be a good idea to cover your tracks
The other thing I learned was that sometimes when you’re investigating things, it can be a good idea to cover your tracks and not let anyone know what you’re doing. This skill became so important it was almost life-saving at boarding school. But that’s perhaps another column.
I never was able to stop fidgeting while I was living at home with my parents. Perhaps we’re all fated to irritate our parents (and vice versa). It could be one of those Darwinian things that make sure children fly the nest and parents glad to see the back of them. Although, of course, no matter how hot tempers flare, it’s always a terrible wrench.
Until the old irritations resurface
But it does mean that visits back to the parental home by children or to children’s homes by parents are always wonderful, at least until the old irritations resurface. In my early married life I always used to say that visits from or to relatives should be short. Great for one day, all right for two, but disastrous for any longer. I seem to remember that idea ran true.
My knee-jiggling always annoyed my father. Unfortunately for both of us, precisely at the stage when I became aware enough of my own bodily habits and their effects on others, I discovered pop music, and it morphed smoothly into toe-tapping or hand-drumming to whatever record was playing itself in my head. And after that we were into that teen-rebellion thing and the volume of my music became a battleground
I think it reminded them of the War, or something
I sometimes wonder how my parents stood it. They weren’t very musical, so they didn’t put their own records on, and if there was any sound in the house it would be the old BBC broadcasts like Uncle Mac doing Children’s Favourites, or Housewives’ Choice, or the programme they used to run on Sunday mornings after Church, playing requests for soldiers in Germany – the BFPO (British Forces Posted Overseas). I think it reminded them of the War, or something.
Then there was I, playing Beatles records on the old wooden radiogram, and Bob Dylan, and graduating to Jimi Hendrix, turning into some alien being with long hair and speaking some foreign dialect. And worst of all, tapping my feet and jiggling my knees. All the time.
I am grateful. Really
I do sometimes feel sorry for my parents, having to put up with me for all those years. In exactly the way I used to feel sorry for myself, having to put up with them.
And I am grateful. Really. Thanks, Mum and Dad. And thanks to my own children, for helping me realise all this.
If you have been, thank you for reading this. And stop fiddling with that pencil!
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