Odyssey In A Teacup (25 page)

‘Because I needed to poo.’

‘You know that you do poo in the toilet. Why would you think it’s okay to do it in Annabel’s cupboard, in Annabel’s shoe?’

‘Because Thomas said to.’

And there it was. Rose’s perfect, unabbreviated Thomas was destined to live out his imperfections through others, somehow getting them to act out his scatological thoughts, feelings and impulses—hopefully, not always literally—so that he could appear as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Still, Thomas might have told Hannah to do it, but hers was an inspired act. I know this because Hannah was no pushover. She never did what
I
asked of her (apple, tree and all that). Suddenly, I didn’t feel so bad anymore. I decided I no longer wanted to be part of this group where I sat there weekly and weakly, sweating over a few crumbs on a tablecloth. Having your child shit in a shoe cupboard (that was not even her own) put everything into perspective.

When someone talks to you about everyone else, guaranteed they’ll talk about you to everyone else. No doubt, Rose-the-social-policy-maker’s idea of current affairs would now expand to include this state of affairs. I realised it would take a scandal of gargantuan proportions to overshadow it in the eyes of this mothers’ group (and the rest of the community). It was just a matter of time. Meanwhile, I joined another playgroup.

I still didn’t feel as if I fitted in all that well, but at least they weren’t anal-retentive. And if Hannah decided that, once again, she didn’t want to be anal-retentive, I knew it wouldn’t be a major issue. They had all heard about Hannah’s caper—of course—thought it was a lark and said that it couldn’t have happened at a ‘nicer’ person’s place.

Reuben also thought the incident was funny; Ralph thought it was hysterical.

‘Hmm ... kind of gives a whole new meaning to footstool, doesn’t it?’

Ralph adored my kids and they were enamoured of their ‘Unca Raff’. He was godfather to both of them. He had nieces and nephews but didn’t feel much of a connection with any of them. Ralph was upset that george had children (he and Stella had adopted two boys, Cameron and Justin, from Bolivia).

‘It might make him a better person, more mellow, at least,’ I said.

‘Did having children make Albie a better person?’

‘This is different. george had to jump through hoops to get them.’

Ralph didn’t buy it. He’d been reading a lot about the nature versus nurture debate and felt the need to share his findings. I understood bits of it, but mostly, it was all Greek to me.

‘
You know
... Σε ψυχολογικό επίπεδο σχετίζεται με το αν η κληρονομικότητα ή το περιβάλλον περισσότερες επιπτώσεις στην ανθρώπινη ψυχολογική ανάπτυξη.
At least they’ll have a chance in life because they didn’t spring from george’s loins. And ...
Διάβασα ότι υπάρχει απόδειξη ότι η οικογένεια περιβαλλοντικοί παράγοντες μπορεί να έχουν επιπτώσεις στη παιδική ηλικία IQ. Έτσι, ακόμη και αν είχαν γεννηθεί έξυπνη, οι πιθανότητες είναι ότι θα καταλήξετε με σκατά για εγκεφάλους σαν τον πατέρα τους. Δεν είναι τόσο δίκαιο.
But they’re being exposed to him during their formative years.
’

‘You were exposed to Albie during your formative years, and you could not be more differe—’

‘And your nature couldn’t be more different from Sylvia’s, but you delayed having children because you were scared you’d end up like her!’ Ralph had a point. ‘That’s the nurture side. The impact of your environment,’ he added.

Ralph couldn’t relate to Louwhiney’s children either, even though they were biological. She had two daughters, Amanda and Candida. And never mind that they were whiney like their mother; Ralph couldn’t get past the stupidity of his sister naming her youngest after a vaginal yeast infection.

‘I was mistaken. That night my mother dished up brains for dinner, Louwhiney’s was also on the platter,’ he said to me after Candida was born.

‘So, there were four brains on the plate, not three?’

‘Nope. Still three. I was being generous. I credited george and simon with each having their own, instead of a shared one.’

Ralph also believed that this brain his brothers shared had a miniscule cerebral cortex, the part responsible for dealing with higher order brain functions. But he thought that both my kids had large, highly developed cerebral cortices. This made me feel better; to my mind, it justified their behaviour.

Where Hannah
did
outrageous things, Casper said outrageous things. But his ready repartee from an early age was astounding. A very intelligent child, Casper needed extra stimulation, so I started him at day care two days a week (not long after Hannah’s indelible moment).

His first day there was unseasonably cold. Hermione, one of the carers, was a portly, prim woman in her late fifties. She was changing Casper’s nappy in the little waste alcove, which had four change tables and three kiddie toilets in it. Casper was lying on the change table closest to the window that they always kept slightly open. He was nappyless and shivery. And unselfconscious.

‘My balls are cold.’

Hermione was aghast. ‘You must not say that!’

‘Why? They are.’

Hermione reported the incident verbatim to me when I picked Casper up that afternoon.

‘At least he’s got his contextualising down pat.’ I laughed. She eyed me disapprovingly. I stopped laughing.

Joe found my kids’ antics amusing. Sylvia was unimpressed. ‘Good, now you know what it feels like to have a daughter just like you!’ She said this smugly.

‘Hannah’s not like I was.’

‘Oh, yes she is!’

‘No, no, no. She’s much worse. And what about Casper? Both my kids are much,
much
bigger
pests
than me.’ I smiled at her. ‘I’m so proud.’

Her head snapped back in shock. She looked at me like I was drunk on Frobscottle—it’s the green fantasy drink from Roald Dahl’s book,
The BFG
. Fizzy Frobscottle’s bubbles travel downwards instead of upwards, and cause noisy farts—Whizzpops.

I knew Sylvia would have trouble getting her snapped back head around my attitude—it’d seem preposterous to her that someone might have even a measure of pride in offspring who could potentially besmirch the family name. I was prepared to remind her that her Whizzpopping husband had already done just that.

My pride wavered a little over the next three years, though. Rarely a week went by when Casper didn’t say something that might be cute at home, but was cringeworthy when said out loud in a public place. Department stores, doctors’ surgeries, in a crowded lift and, worst of all, on the odd occasion when we were in synagogue. All that fervent socialisation through mixing with other families, playgroup, play dates, day care and kindy went down the crapper not long after he started school.

School assembly was on Friday mornings. Every month (starting from week six on the school calendar), a select few from each class were awarded certificates for good work. Parents were invited to attend when their child was being presented with one. I was thrilled to receive a note telling me that at the first presentation, Casper would be a recipient. I even invited Joe and Sylvia (mostly as a
fuck-you
gesture to her). Reuben couldn’t make it because he was interstate on business, but Ralph wasn’t going to miss it.

There were about sixty people in the audience on this morning. Three children in Casper’s class were getting certificates. The moment arrived. The headmaster, Mr Boaz, called Casper up on stage (using his given name).

‘For excellent, all-round work—Jake Gold.’ Mr Boaz smiled warmly.

Casper looked so cute as he climbed up the four big steps to the big stage in his big uniform. He accepted the certificate, and then ... he opened his big mouth. He asked Mr Boaz to pull his finger.
Oh no!

It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if it hadn’t been heard over the PA system by all the students, all the teachers, all the parents and grandparents. There was a mixed reaction. Mr Boaz smiled coolly; the students roared with laughter—one child
woo-hooed—
not surprisingly, it was Hannah; some of the teachers tittered (the straight-laced ones stiffened); some in the audience laughed (mostly the men); Ralph wolf-whistled; Sylvia glared at me (I felt it without even looking at her); and Joe clapped loudly and with such pride.

It wouldn’t have mattered if there were sixty or only six in the audience. Within twenty-four hours, the word would get out and spread like a forest fire during a heatwave. The extended family reputation was about to reach critical mass, and if Joe Blow’s standing had in any way become watered down through the generations, it was poised for a revival.

On my way home, as I reflected on this god-awful situation, I wondered what drove my son. I thought of that proverb, ‘It takes a whole village to raise a child’, which roughly translates as every person a kid interacts with will have some influence on them and contribute to their socialisation process—family, friends, teachers, librarians, doctors, dentists, religious figures, etcetera. I wondered if maybe Joe, the village idiot, was too big an influence in Casper’s life. Like Joe, Casper shot from the hip (only Joe did it literally and a little southeast of it. Or south-west, depending on which hip you were looking at). Joe wasn’t bound by social conditioning. And maybe Casper would be like him in that regard, but Casper had manners.

‘I felt like Whizpopping, Mummy, but I said please when I asked Mr Boaz to pull my finger.’

This, and the fact that a farting giant was the central character in a children’s book by a famous author made me feel better. And I desperately clung to anything that would make me feel better because I saw lots of staff lip-pursing throughout my kids’ school life. Mostly, it was because of minor misdemeanours. But when I was called in halfway through Casper’s second year at school to see his teacher, Mrs Antinous, it constituted a big’un.

‘Were you aware of the writing exercise I gave the class for homework on Monday?’ she asked me.

‘Er, no.’ Casper hadn’t said anything to me.

She explained the brief: the children had to write a poem about something they considered important in life—desirable qualities such as kindness or compassion or honesty. Mrs Antinous handed me Casper’s paper. He had written the title in brown crayon.

Toilet Paper

Shit
.

The urge to laugh kicked in. I furrowed my brow to make it look like I was already concerned. I read the poem.

We never run out of toilet paper

No we never ever do

Because there would be nuthing left

For us to wipe our poo

We could use daddys hankachiffs

But that would be so grose

And then there would be nuthing left

For him to blow his nose

If we used Hannahs beach towel

Shid have a ferkin fit

Our mum buys lots of toilet paper

So we can mop our shit

That primary urge intensified. I made a show of putting both my hands over my mouth and nose to hide my supposed (and expected) shock and outrage, and tried to think of something sad and depressing. Didn’t work. So I bit the inside of my cheek. Also didn’t work. Then I lost it. I started to laugh. Mrs Antinous was furious. She kept poking the page, specifically the word ‘shit’, with her index finger as she ranted. Thank God she hadn’t picked up on ‘ferkin’.

Reuben knew I swore a lot in the car and he wanted me to temper my language in front of the kids. I’d read the word ‘firkin’ somewhere, looked up its definition (a small wooden tub for butter or lard), and applied it adjectivally as a substitute for ‘fuckin’: ‘You’re not the only one on the firkin road, dipstick!’ ‘Get in the firkin left lane if you wanna drive so slow!’

I tuned into the teacher’s tirade again. She got her point across in a shaming way, banging on about our ‘questionable homespun values’.
That
one worked.
This whole business was like a Miss Parker rerun. After I left the meeting, having duly and dutifully told Mrs Antinous I would have a good talk with Casper, I came unglued. I sat in the car and the rear-view mirror attacked. ‘Bad mother, bad wife, bad daughter, bad sister, bad aunt, bad person ... bad egg!’ Oh, woe was me.

Not for long, though. ‘Hello.
Firk you!
’ I yelled in response (I still had manners).

Goddamit, Casper
had
fulfilled the firkin brief, and then some! My son didn’t pay lip service to kindness, compassion and honesty. He demonstrated these qualities. He knew it would be discourteous to use daddy’s hankies and Hannah’s towel to wipe his bum, and he spelled it out (although that needed a bit of polishing). My kid was considerate! And ...
and
, his rhyme and metre expressing this were pretty awesome for a six-year-old.

I did have a talk to him, though, but I had to be careful not to squelch his irrepressibility (I knew what that felt like and how disheartening it is to do this to a spirited child). Still, his filters needed a little bit of fine-tuning. Hmm ... what to do?

All villages have sanitation workers. Maybe Casper needed more exposure to this lot.

PART TWO:
TEA AND SYMPATHY

CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
CASUAL CHIC

As the children grew, the years flew by. Someone once told me that time seems to drag when you’re a kid because even though a year is still a year, one year in the six or ten that you’ve been on earth is a long stretch in the scheme of things. And time seems to speed up as you get older because, relatively speaking, one year in thirty is fleeting. In forty or fifty, it becomes a blip. Ralph wasn’t the one who told me this. His view was uncharacteristically banal.

‘Time flies when you’re having fun.’