Yesterday was the first day of the new school year.
A couple days before, I found myself speaking out loud “It’s been twenty years now, uhm.”
“Twenty years since what?, bunny.” Chimes Don in from under his other laptop.
“Since we prepared our first kid for her first school year opening. Remember?” Looking at his face, I doubt that he does. “And a first too.” I stress to stir his next question.
“It is our first year, Don!,” I raise my voice to hijack his attention, “in all these twenty years, when we didn’t rush to buy stationery for the kids. Yet!”
“When do you plan taking me to Tesco?” Says he, not even moving his eyes from the screen.
“On Friday afternoon. After the twins will come back from their first day at school and write down their lists of demands. We’ll go biking because, after 50, you’re better off biking than driving. I read this somewhere, something about the grandma of Cameron Diaz.”
“Friday it is. Biking it is, honey. Did you know that sensation of déjà vu that one gets from TV shows, years after they end, when seeing stuff on the news?”
“Such as the iconic David Palmer from 24 metamorphosing into Obama?”
“Uh huh,” why am I still talking to him? Shutting my mouth, obeying the few ‘sshhh’ whispered by my little daughter, I return at watching Friends, the sitcom, together with her – she’s doing it for the first time, me for the n-th time.
So yesterday afternoon, with two small stationery wishlists at hand, I take Don biking to Tesco. When back home, we’re told that the little sister and the big sister got into a fight, to the delight of the little sister’s twin brother. Who ate the extra muffin anyway.
Ten years apart, they live in different worlds and with different perceptions – of reality and of parents. Too little to make for a generation gap but enough to contextualize the unease of a latent conflict between the first born and her (his, accordingly) little brothers and sisters.
Well documented ever since Biblical ages, being the big brother (or sister) sounds like no fun at all, it makes you an early babysitter, a surrogate parent, a scapegoat, a forcibly maturing teenager, an early adult child having to unceremoniously leave home and set for an independent life.
Willy-nilly, the three little ones are pushing you out of time, into your own life.
My first child is doing fine professionally, she is in the middle of her PhD, swimming in Academia like a golden fish in a bowl of glass. A water where girls are smart, way too smart for the boys around (not surprisingly). What I didn’t see coming, although I should have, is the parent-averse attitude — a common aspect in most twenty-somethings, I suppose.
Well, learning from my mistakes, from my temper, from the inherent ingredients of life, I’m trying (not without visible efforts) to spare my little one from sorrow moments like this.
Selena Gomez – Fetish
Knowing that life is not a zero-sum game, I get that everyone can have her cake and eat it too. Contrary to popular idiomatic thinking, there is more than enough cake out there, that we fail to recognize as such.
Meditation is a mark of maturity. Connecting your mind to a cloud is a bit harder than doing the same thing with your phone. Achieving self awareness requires years, if not decades of life experience, with trials and errors, ups and downs, ins and outs.
No human science, no practical method, no support group can fix the individual psyche the way this Guy can.
Because of control freaks and their cults, He is too often perceived as a ‘cop’ in spite of His own view of Himself as a ‘fireman.’
Citizens having to deal with authority, like children having to deal with parents, often mismatch the fireman with the cop. Hence the dramas and the pain.