Assistant Parent

Very often when I am struggling to reason with one of the children, I give up, and hand over to Ben. He seems to be able to reach them in a way I can’t, particularly with Patrick. Ben is nearly eleven now, but he has always been very mature about these things. It is quicker to get Ben to get Patrick to do whatever it is I need him to do, than to try and persuade him myself. If Patrick is having a meltdown about something, Ben somehow manages to distract him, or reason with him and create calm. Lately the issue is school again. One morning, when the children aren’t ready, Patrick is refusing to cooperate, it is time to leave, and I am starting to lose my cool, Ben pipes up “Mum, do you want me to deal with it?”

“Please do” I say, as I continue readying bikes and scooters and distributing school bags. I stand with the girls at the bottom of the steps, waiting for Ben to work his magic, and the boys to emerge from the house.

No joy, this is taking too long. I race up the steps again all ready to wade in. “We’ve got to go now, come on Patrick!”

“Mum!” says Ben “Don’t come in all shouty and stuff, I’ve got this.”

“Fine,” I say, “You bring him to school. Catch us up,” and I leave with the girls.

A little way up the road, I feel I need to double back and check Ben’s been able to convince Patrick to come and that they are on their way. The girls go on with a neighbour. I see no sign of the boys, but hear their voices as I approach the house. I duck into a neighbour’s driveway and hide. As Ben pointed out, it is better that I stay out of it. I’ll only make it worse, if Patrick sees me, there might be an escalation of tears and tantrums and I’ll be forced to carry him to school.

I watch, as Ben piggy backs Patrick down the steps, (this looks ludicrously dangerous, he seems almost as big as Ben.) I then eavesdrop on his persuasion techniques.

Ben “Shall I race you Patrick? I’ll run and you go on your scooter.”

Patrick (obstinately) “But I just don’t want to go to school”

Ben “If you’re not well, maybe Mummy can bring you home again. Shall I play Minecraft with you after school?”

They set off, Ben talking to him all the while. I shadow them, still out of sight, feeling faintly ridiculous, until a parent spots me and starts a conversation. The boys turn and rumble me. By this time though Patrick’s protest has dissipated somewhat and is now only a low murmuring of discontent. Ben did it, (enough for me to get him into school that day anyway.)

A few days after, Ben let me in on his secret.

“Mum?” he asked on the walk to school one morning “do you want to know how I get the others to do what I want?”

“Yes, how do you?”

“Well you know the carrot and the stick?”

“Yes”

“Well, I have a really big carrot, and NO stick.”

PGL - The Aftermath

I don’t know whether PGL actually stands for Parents Get Lost or whether that is just a rumour started by some kid that has become fact through popular belief.

Anyway, the parents did ‘get lost’ for the duration of Year 5’s trip, and so it was with some excitement that we all awaited the arrival of the coach from the Isle of Wight bringing the children back to us.

As anticipated, I had heard nothing from Ben at all. I gathered from another mum whose son did write, which boys he had been sharing a room with, but nothing else. I knew all the climbing and physical challenges thrown at them in this sort of trip would be right up Ben’s street and was keen to hear all about it.

I wasn’t really expecting a change in him, but the boy who sauntered off the coach with his backpack nonchalantly thrown over one shoulder and a heavy silver skull ring on his finger seemed a little older than the Ben who went away.

He accepted my hug, though I didn’t particularly feel the love in return, that’s not new, in public anyway.

I asked him how it was; “Brilliant,” but he didn’t offer any details. We joined the throng of people collecting their luggage, Ben was getting impatient and once we had his bag, he didn’t want to hang around.  “Mum, can we just get out of here now!?” he said, with all the charm of a moody teen.

We did, and on the short car journey home, after a lot of questions from me, I began to get more of his news. The highs – all the activities and challenges, and being one of the only kids to make the ‘leap of faith’ jump from pillar to trapeze, the lows – being put in a group with his least favourite boys, getting soaked when he tripped over a mop and bucket in the canteen and being sick. I got the impression he’d had a great time though. When I pulled out a half written letter from his bag later, which was scrawled on a page ripped from his small notebook, he wrote that he hadn’t time to write a proper letter, as he was having to (sic) much fun.

When we got in, he greeted his sister in a slow lazy drawl;

“Hey Emilia, high five.”

That, I thought, is definitely a child who has spent all week with his peers.

This ‘coolness’ has since rubbed off though. He just ran past me making helicopter noises and chasing Patrick in a very noisy game involving a small wooden helicopter and some trains. I am so glad the trip didn’t make him grow up that much.

He felt different though. When he was in bed that night I walked past his room and he told me in a reflective moment;

“I think I learnt a lot from the Isle of Wight experience.”

“Did you Ben?” I said, surprised at this uncharacteristic confession, “Like what?”

“Well, more independence I think.”

“Oh well, that is good then,” I said. He didn’t add any more and I turned to go.

“Oh Mum?” he called “Could you just get me a glass of water?....and could you just turn the light on while I drink it....and could you just turn it off again afterwards?”

Yup, I thought, real independent.

Other details of the trip gradually emerged – some from my foray into his rucksack – there were some seriously muddy clothes, but many unworn, so I figured he’d basically worn the same thing for five days, including the jeans that were meant for the disco. It had been specified on the kit list, that jeans were unsuitable for activities, but he obviously worn them anyway. He had managed to lose his towel – which I had foolishly bought new for the trip, as I found we didn't have an appropriately sized one.

There was a photo of him, taken on his disposable camera, apparently cleaning his teeth, so at least there was some level of hygiene maintained.

He lost some jogging bottoms, which turned up in another boy’s luggage and gained a pair of socks belonging to a different boy in his bag, but otherwise, did quite well, in terms of responsibility, and managing himself without me there to remind.

Ironically, on questioning, it appeared he had never even used the brand new towel. When asked when it was, he had last had a bath or shower, he replied “I dunno, but it wasn’t in the Isle of Wight.”