Oh Freddy, I'm Doomed
Today started well. The children were up first, and after a quick shower, were discovered watching cartoons in the living room. A thirty minute warning was issued for “leaving the house for Rugby”, met by incredulous stares from Miss 11.
“But 30 minutes is ages”
“Not for you to get ready – go find your kit, your boots, your scrum-cap, your mouth guard, a drink, and a snack”.
Five more minutes went by, and I had to start raising my voice.
“You can watch as much of this as you want as soon as you're ready”.
They didn't get a chance to watch any more television, because – quite predictably – it took them all of the remaining minutes to prepare to leave the house. There were shouts of “where are my shoes... oh, there they are”, and “where is my coat?... oh there it is”, before we finally tumbled out into the morning air, and began the walk to the rugby field.
Rugby itself was interesting today. A nearby team were visiting, with a mixed group of children. The first game went well for the group I was watching – running in 8 tries, and pretty much flattening the opposition. What occurred afterwards will stay with me for a long time to come. As one of the opposition kids left the field his Dad marched up furiously and pushed him in the chest – shouting questions at him, and coming very close to physically shaking him by the arms. I don't know how I kept my mouth shut. The Dad was about 5'5”, with a thick woolly bobble hat, thick glasses, slightly overweight, and an obvious case of anger management. I kept an eye on him – at a distance – for the rest of the morning. He remained standing on his own, arms folded, staring at his child throughout. Why? Why do some parents do things like that? Whatever happened to finding positives? Whatever happened to letting the children play, and catching themwhen they fall?
I'm not quite sure what happened when we got home. Within moments of walking in the door I overheard an argument between our younger children.
“You're a goody goody
Miss 11 hadn't quite hidden herself behind the bathroom door on my arrival, so I started making decisions fast.
“You are grounded. You are not going out to play this afternoon.”
“But it was an accident
“Oh Freddy, I'm doomed. I'm DOOMED
Throughout all of it, the eldest had been trying to surpress laughter at her sister's antics, but was was now growing tired of it too, and went to fetch her phone – to begin recording.
For some reasonknowing that they are being recorded is a magic fix for maniacal children. Perhaps it's something to do with the YouTube generation?
As I speak, the bath is finally running upstairs, and Miss 11 is having a bath in return for “getting TV back”. She had remonstrated tearfully with me that she “needed more fresh air”, but given that she had been running around a rugby pitch all morning, it kind of fell on deaf ears.
Apparently I am a “rubbish Dad”. I was informed of this repeatedly during the screams of “It was an accident”, “I want Mum”, “I hate you”, and various other pronouncements.
At least I'm not doomed though, hey...