Bad Parenting and the wannabe orphans

Bad parenting  is about  perspective. From the perspective of my teenagers I am a bad parent.


I am able to readily list my bad parenting, as I am often reminded, well should I say, I survive threats that when the revolution comes there is  a list, due to this list of misdemeanours I am condemned, I will be the first living parent  of orphans.  So topping the list......


I am associated with child abuse by torture, I have used allegedly torture techniques on the teenagers, such as sleep deprivation, or what I called waking up to go to school. 


I am accused of  forced child labour which I use to call  doing homework.


I am accused of stealing his socks. There is unfortunately little evidence that they are actually my socks, since I have refrained from needlecraft involving sowing "Dad" in the inner sock area, but trust me they are my socks. Much as I may need to get in touch with my inner karma, my foot needs to get in touch with its inner sock. Besides all else I have paid for all socks.


I have apparently caused short-sightedness of vision because I am no longer called "Dad" but like several other acquaintenances, I am now called "mate". Maybe I need to sow "Mate" in my socks to at least get a chance of retrieval.

The Chilled War is in Need of Thawing

My home apparently is now in a state of Chilled War. I may have lost a son and gained  complete control of the remote control, at least when sis is not in a fightin' mood. If he turns up downstairs, this may count as a miracle and I could start a new religion. I am checking his water-to-wine making ability, which might be a damn sight more useful at times of economic crisis, than forty nights in the wilderness of freely deposited clothes and CD boxes.

My son is hibernating, cacooning himself in a room, chilling in Teen-land. When he appears in the flesh, perhaps to take sustenance of, say, a digestive biscuit or two, I have to rush to stop the publication of the missing person ads, apologetic in telling the police it was an "easy mistake to make" and suggest the face on the milk cartons were not a good likeness anyway.

The good news he appears to be still alive, if  the noises that blabber from his room are actually his breaking to broken voice. I am assured by those in the know, his sis', that he is not talking to himself, he is not medically insane and I should  slowdown on my need to double check his room for belts, shoelaces and ties. It is not a sign of madness, I am told, but Playstation internet chatting to mates, real mates he could physically touch if he walked around a block, took a bus ride.

School boys networking after school by technology that comes in camouflaged digital worlds and death is without pain, you get points.

My point is I am now happy, would like to give up the remote control a bit.

Do as I say, not as I do

I was, back in the day, quite good at school, I most of the time did things quite well and I have the odd certificate to prove it. I would like to think I have passed on this zeal to learn  as a gift to the younger generation. A gift so indelibly linked on my 50% of their DNA that I would gladly give up an aunt saying they had paternally  inherited  say, a commonality of a nose, an dual shading of eye colour or the cute dimple on a Pryce chin.

So I, today, I am discouraged, as there are apparently better things to do, on a warm Sunny Saturday than study for say six to eight hours. Exams can damn well wait until the clouds come back apparently. I am reduced to utterances that they~ the kids ~ they ~ the students ~ they should be like me.

Unfortunately intelligence can manifest in many forms. Apparently if I want her to be like me, she confidently tells me she will put on thirty kilos then.

Ooops.