The Arseface dollies meet the Kouklitas

Dear Andrew Yang,

I must write and tell you that today, you made the lives of my three daughters, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger, complete.

They are off their faces with joy.

Or, more specifically, a sort of superior we-told-you-so satisfaction. Some people might even say that Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are now treating me, their mama, with a certain amount of condescension. In fact, since we came away from viewing your exquisite exhibition of rag dolls at Joyce, my daughters have done little but glance at me sideways to throw me their expressions of patronising superiority. Mixed with nose-wrinkling contempt.

As a result, I am now left feeling more deflated than a punctured whoopee cushion.

I'm afraid I'm laying this at your door. You have taught them that mama was completely and utterly wrong. Yet more. That the three rag doll sisters, Vanessa, Diana and the other one (whose name I can't remember but who remains in England face down in a fabric box), are not what mama says: the Arseface dollies. No. They are creatures of captivating elegance.

Now, that last glance I just received from Squirrel possibly suggested that my daughters await only my public, formal retraction. To the effect that Vanessa, Diana, and the other one, are not home-made rag dolls resembling monster wreck creatures from the swamp but are, in fact, goddess spirits drawn from the skies. The first, unblemished daughters of Prometheus. Divinely created; possibly visiting us in their worldly form.

I have lost the power to argue otherwise. For the first time in their lives, my daughters know for sure that someone else looked into the soul of the rag dolly and saw past the sightless eyes, sewn on nose, and static lips. They know what someone else knows - instinctively, surely, passionately, madly, deeply, truly - that rag dolls are not mere fabric and stuffing. They are living creatures, who are us, who are life, love, and everything.

But something more important and profound took place too, today, when Shark, Squirrel and Tiger gazed upon your collection of hand stitched dolls (which I do confess are all incredibly beautiful). My children knew that someone else understood them. Someone, other than mama, knew their inner motives, heart-felt passions and daily pursuits.

I have lost my role. You are now their new prophet. They may seek to follow you. Everywhere.

This is going to cost me dearly. Just think, Andrew, what you have done, and what you have inspired. Now Shark, Squirrel and Tiger know their destinies. They can prove it, simply by pointing to you and what you have done. There will not be a single day or night that passes when it is not dolly this and dolly that. I will be handing down deep into my pockets to satisfy the thirst for buttons, bows, gold brocade, furry trimmings and more cotton thread.

I do not know whether I can thank you for that.

But I must look on life's bright side. So there is something for which I can thank you. You have taught my children that the most rewarding path to walk in life is your own. Possibly bonkers, probably obsessive, guided by inner conviction, and I'm betting on stubborn resistance to all those who try to pull you from your course.

Perhaps I can thank you for that. But think of me in my declining years. While you have made their lives complete, you have made mine impossible. The mama proved wrong. The mama who lost her powers. The mama who will be bankrupt by expensive fabric from the offcut bins.

The mama who now has to swallow her pride, publicly accept her humiliation and say that the Arseface dollies are sisters in souls, if not in looks, with the angelic creations who are the Kouklitas.

Yours etc., Grit.

My parental authority came to an end

There are many techniques to maintain power and authority as a parent, are there not?

Well, I can tell you that I have tried most of them.

But I sense the power balance is changing round here. I may not be the powerful authority figure I once was, some sunny and distant afternoon past when I held all the chocolate fingers. No. Sadly, I think my many techniques to maintain parental control are coming rapidly to an abrupt end.

I have a brief time to think quickly, plan, and develop a whole new power-rule-strategy if I am to maintain a hand in this game over the coming years. Or be kicked aside, probably.

I cannot suck in plutonium, lay my hands on kryptonite, or do anything like walk up walls using sticky pads for hands while wearing red lycra knickers, so don't suggest it.

But I need to do something. And quick.

I look back to see what I already did, from Year Zero, to keep order.

1. Baby balancing.
Compared to everything that went before, like giving birth, this stage of parental power was peasy. I tucked one baby under each arm and balanced the third on my flat head. Then I called out for a takeaway. This was easy authority indeed.

2. Rope trickery.
Babies grow! Within a year or two, each had the size, gross motor activity, and locomotive purpose of an adolescent badger. Yet I found I could maintain some form of parental control. Even without the constraints afforded by a triple container van of a custom-made buggy. I simply used straps, ropes, chains and string.

To reach the Co-op and buy food I simply tied all badgers together, manoeuvred them in the right direction, crossed four roads, negotiated a back alley where the residents keep their fridges and sofas, and made it back home with the day's shopping. (Remember that I have only two hands. I am proud no-one died at this delicate stage.)

3. Resolving conflicts by physical control.*
I maintain that any fully-grown adult human female who is reasonably determined can overpower a badger. Even when it is having a temper tantrum.

Example:

Grit: You don't want to leave the Co-op, little girl? Let me show you how I can HELP YOU.
(Badger merely screams and makes the shape of an ironing board.)
Grit: But now you are easy to carry! HA HA HA HA HA! I WIN!

Problem solved. In any conflict situation, simply exert parental authority by picking up the little badgers and marching off with them. (So long as you do not have to carry more than one ironing board badger at any one time, this works.)

4. Using physical control, discreetly.
A tricky way of maintaining parental authority, because the small beings begin to show their superior, wily intelligence. My own little creatures could outwit me. They realised that the physical shape into which they contorted themselves could be moulded to their advantage. With this technique, mama could be made to do stuff.

Example:

Small child, you can unbuckle your child-proof safety belt and bend your little body into the shape of a Roman archway while travelling at 50mph on the A241. You sense power! This makes mama stop the car in great panic!

Aha! This circumstance needs all my dark arts and subtle skills as parent power keeper, because we are all going to die unless the small being sits back down and I can double lock those straps with triple combination security padlocks and duct tape. A knee gently bent towards the stomach can do the trick. (And don't tell me, reader, you never did this one.)

But of course children grow out of most forms of physical power. Worse, they develop mouths that adopt attitude. This leads to the next phase of my power and control system.

5. Distraction.
At first, this seemed an easy way to maintain my authority.

Small person: But I want an ice cream!
Grit: Look! There is a snail!
Small person: I WANT AN ICE CREAM.
Grit: Aren't the snails pretty? Come here Mr Snail!
Small person: Mr Snail! Mr Snail!

Alas! It is a short-lived triumph of power.

6. Bribery.
Grit: Do not put the snails in your pockets. They do not like it.
Small person: But I want Mr Snail! I WANT MR SNAIL.
Grit: Look! There is ice cream. Give me Mr Snail, then I will buy you an ice cream.

Bribery is a fragile hold on power, I know. And it is such an ugly word. You can call it reward in advance if you wish. I know I do. And don't bother telling me that bribery is nothing more than a downward spiral of shallow low-life sneaky mean-handed trickery to get your own way without resorting to physical violence. Just enjoy it, that's what I say. Because this simple stage passes all too soon.

7. Reason.
I actively sought out this technique early. I thought that as soon as the alien beings could link one idea to another, then I could pretend to reason with them, and get my own way sneakily. Hoodwink them, and be authoritative as the parent all at the same time. Then I could call this being reasonable.

But it never worked. The small beings often developed their own independent theories which led them in an entirely different minded direction. And if you home educate, you are really stuffed, because they go off and get all the missing bits in their arguments from Wikipedia and present you with the entire debate. Basically, they win.

I have also found that when you are on the losing side, it is no use resorting to bribery because they can suss this out too. Their compliance comes at an ever escalating price. The experience is humiliating. Especially as even at this late stage they may be dressed like Flipper or a wombat, and it is embarrassing to lose to someone in an argument in this condition while you are standing in a public place like a Post Office queue.

8. Adopting a posture of parental authority.
Yes, I have tried to gain the upper hand by this Because I Say So method. I have sought to maintain power by calling out to my many long years of experience. A sort of Because I know best attitude.

Quite frankly, I would say this approach is as crap as false reasoning. It never works because someone always knows better than me, even if they are aged eight.

Then a strategy that started out as a means to gain power actually becomes a means by which I am humiliated once more in a power knowledge game where I always lose. Needless to say, these days I don't try it very often.

9. Appealing to the heart.
Life as a parent is hard. It is difficult. Sometimes I have very little authority, control, power, presence, or integrity. So I am not above pleading, bursting into tears, and offering my sacrificial heart on a plate.

In fact, this is how I know life has changed. My parental power is weakened, too soon.

Today I consider Squirrel's response to my tactics 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9.

Mummy. Stop that immediately. You know it does not work. And you can stop that crying noise too, because I know that is called emotional blackmail. I read about that in a book.


*Sadly, not by personality, intelligence, charm, or charisma

Triumph in my heart and despair in my soul

Here's a typical home educating day. In bringing about this alternative learning experience for Shark, Squirrel and Tiger, I am both a fantastic success and a miserable failure.

Because I am a success, I deserve a medal. Sometimes I think my medal should be in the size of a rocket launching pad, made of 43 different varieties of chocolate.

The rational, sensible, thinking side of me knows that is a stupid medal to want.

Sensibly, I should want my medal in the shape of a pair of new shoes. I want them in the exact shape and foot fitting size of Tod's loafers. Then I could wear my medal with pride. It would look a lot better than a fat mentally disturbed Grit rolling joyously naked around in 43 varieties of chocolate.

I tell myself home education success comes from having many qualities. Like commitment, resourcefulness, determination, fearlessness, the willingness to exploit opportunities around us, the energy to get out of bed. Then I have bite-proof knuckles, a bloody mind, a diary, a reckless spirit, a brass neck, and a car holding petrol.

Qualities like these lead to me depositing Shark on the lake for a two-day sailing course.

She is in a larger boat, and she has to use the tiller extension. Whatever that is.

Shark is worried about the tiller extension. I sympathise. She says it is a nightmare. I think maybe it is big and hairy and shaggy shapeless, growling with sharp yellow teeth. It looms out from behind shower curtains and roars.

But I am a successful home educating mother! I will tame the hairy growling tiller extension! I will kick its hairy ass! Whatever that is. This morning, at 8am, I calm Shark's fears. Then I deliver her, with new wet shoes, packed lunch, and sunscreen, to the right lake at 9.30am. That is success.

My motivation comes from a strong desire to see my daughter develop her individuality, her confidence, her abilities. I want to see her work alongside other children and adults, explore her interests, grow in her personhood. And I already paid for the course.


Success!

Then I succeed again in the evening. I deliver all my three children to a local wildlife club held in an ancient barn. There is a quiz, game, award, show, talk, tell and show. I want a lake of chocolate and a pair of Tod's.


But I fail. I am useless. Squirrel and Tiger fight each other all day long. They are wrapped up in a sibling rivalry struggle. I feel responsible for that, and I tell myself they fight because we chose to home educate. This puts the family close together every day.

Now I have thrown my children together in an intense childhood relationship that will doom and damn and curse them forever. I am the means by which they are psychologically damaged, can never be normal, will never master the 8 timestable, will live on the streets, take drugs, turn to prostitution, be homeless, die early. These are my nightmares. I hide them in cupboards and under the stairs. I cannot keep them in the shower because that is where the tiller extension goes.

I also have tickets for this afternoon to hear Jeremy Strong talk about his writing and his books. Shark, Squirrel and Tiger adore God Jeremy. They read My Mum's Going to Explode until the words faded on the page under constant eyeballing devotion. I want Shark, Squirrel and Tiger to write like that. I want to write like that. I tell myself that this afternoon will help develop their creative story writing.

I looked at the tickets, picked them up, counted them, put them down and, in the middle of the next sisterly fight, totally forget about them. We never go.

Total failure. Prepare the noose now. Maybe just give me the chocolate medal first?

Facing up to my adult responsibilities

One of the envelopes waiting in the mail mountain is about the Naughty Driver course I have to attend.

Dig says I am foolish. I should have my day in court and escape on a technicality.

1980s epic courtroom drama would be good. Grit, nuclear-fuelled power shoulders and plastic puffed up hair reveals the surprise witness! Let me now uncover the sinister webs of lies and deceit! I stare, bouffant, steeled vengeance. My witness nervously ropes her hair. The wooden panelled courtroom holds breath. Is it he who hid the CD case under the toilet waste pipe? Stare. IS IT HE? Tick tock tick tock. Hear the seconds: the sword of truth and justice falls.

The other way is more likely. An elderly bloke sporting an official-looking badge peers sternly at me. I have done something naughty. I am aged four. I cower, trembling, burst into tears. Pee dribbles into my sock. He is only the usher.

Anyway, I do not have a good defence, I tell Dig. I could not argue it through. Hopelessness would show on my face.

The nub of the problem is, that the conviction is for Holding a Mobile Phone Whilst Driving.

That is nonsense. I was doing no such thing. I have never done that. I am the irritating cow that flicks the finger at you if she sees you doing that while you spin your 90mph Audi to the M1. You look pathetic, driving your car like it's negotiating triangles while you wheeeewheeewheee in first gear clamping a mobile phone to your punk hair-do. You should stop.

And anyone who knows me, knows I could not possibly be on the phone. Because I am phobic about phones. Over a phone, I cannot see your face. I do not know if you despise me. Your mouth only does the talking. I need to see your eyes. They might not smile. Even Dig falls into that category. With him, Skype only and full video access to his hotel room. The only person who can make me hang on a phone is Oo. And that is because of her bezzymate status and the fact that she does most of the talking while I go off to make a cup of tea.

Phone? Clearly not. I was speeding. 36 in a 30 zone. Downhill, enjoying the company of my children, radio playing. Which I accept is no great defence. No defence in court. I cannot be convicted for phone holding, because, Your Honour, I was speeding at the time. It is a bit like saying I could not possibly have stabbed the bystander with a poison-tipped parasol, because right at that moment I was busy, bludgeoning the old lady to death with a cudgel.

It is too late for court. I already accepted a Naughty Driver course. Now I must be grown up about this and book the whensandwheres.

You can ask why I went for that route.

The points do not matter to me much, because I am not yet at 12 naughty crosses. I can have 12, can I? I already got six, expired.

The first time, four days after my mother died. I was a wreck. I probably was driver dangerous, swimming around in a blurry tear-filled head, sweeping floods from my face. My eyeballs alone would have needed the automatic washers and wipers. It was a 30 zone and what speed was I travelling? I can't recall. 39? 45? 2,740? Makes no difference.

The second time, an art exam. I was late, and stressed. It was all a blur. One minute I was lecturing Dig on how the correct mushy broccoli consistency can avoid killing your ggg toddlers, then half an hour on and an unmarked white van with a man and a hairdryer blipped me at 76 in a 70 zone.

I did get a NIPs after the smash up following the trip to the psychologist, but that doesn't count. They never prosecuted me. I reckon they thought about it and took pity on me: prosecution would be like violence committed upon the helpless and hopeless; like torturing a sick puppy about to die in your arms. And anyway, I had done them a favour. The other car in the mix was driven by one of their local crims, and it was me Lord, what brought them to book.

I'm taking the Naughty Driver course for all the wrong reasons. Of course they will already know those reasons and humiliate me with them when I get there.

I can humiliate myself, quicker and easier, so here goes. It will lift me out the house for an afternoon. Dig must stay at home to take the children. I get to be lectured at, hopefully by a nice-looking man with a firm chest and big hands.

And a friend of mine might be on the same course. The type of friend I so dearly wished I had misspent my school days with. We would have made a fantastic pair. She would have made me sup cider and cherryade from a tin can underneath the staffroom window. I would have made her shop-lift Bay City Roller fanzines. I would like that still. We could even make a day of it. We could meet up early, do our Naughty Driver course, then hang around the precinct. Good day out, and much better than court.