Connected disconnection
the lines of obsession with my children
When people have got to a stage in their acquaintance with me where they want to be cruel, they will say that I am cold and judgemental. I am not very emotional, they say.
And, no, I’m not. I cry when things are really sad, but I try not to just, like, splurge my feelings around all over the place because I think it’s a bit rude and, also, I’m not sure I actually have that many.
I like my friends tremendously and want them to be well and flourish but, generally, yes I confess it. I feel quite disconnected from people and I think that perhaps includes my own children.
I have tried to see this as a strength. When your children bring you terrible and difficult feelings, the thing to do is turn yourself into a bin for those feelings. What you must try not to do is give them back some of your feelings, your own bullshit sorrow or disappointment or rage or whatever. Not being a totally overwhelmingly feeling person helps with this.
I am a maniac about the administrative details of family life. There is never a form unsigned or a school trip deposit forgotten. I am completely available. But perhaps I am compensating for something. Am I a bit disconnected otherwise? I’m not sure I am 100% cuddly. Maybe 75%.
And yet. There are some moments when I feel a physical connection to my children that is quite unbearable and overwhelming.
I will give you an example. Last Wednesday Sam came to me telling me that his ear is blocked. I wouldn’t be totally surprised if it was a piece of sweetcorn, a nub of Blu-Take or a cricket ball, but it was mostly likely wax. It’s a family-wide issue, these terribly waxy ears. I put some drops in to his ear - he writhed and yelled like I was going to cut his ear fully off - and then the next day made him an appointment with these guys, who vacuum wax out of ears with a weeny tiny vacuum. I have had this procedure myself, what with my own troublesome wax, and it’s amazing.
Asif welcomed us to the treatment room and looked in Sam’s ears. “Oh,” he said, regarding all the wax. “Wow. I’m surprised you can hear anything at all.”
“What?” said Sam.
“I am going to suck all of this out of your ears,” said Asif, putting on his triple-layered goggles, a ziggurat of ever-smaller lenses, “but I will leave your brains in, okay?”
My son is a great kid but he is a real fusspot about this sort of thing, so I issued strict instructions. “Don’t flinch,” I said. “Don’t scrunch your face up, don’t do this with your shoulders.” I bunched my own shoulders up round my ears.
“Mummy is freaking out,” said Asif to Sam. “Like I’m going to do something bad. It’s not bad.”
I was suddenly gripped, as never before, with the urgent necessity of getting the wax blockage out of Sam’s ears. I leaned forwards as the little vacuum went into the ear canal. My mouth may have been hanging open.
“When it goes silent, that means it’s got hold of the wax,” murmured Asif, in a sort of professional trance, as he tried to land this giant bung out of Sam’s ear. “Ooh, this one is an elephant,” he said.
After a good five minutes of cajoling and sucking and careful concentration Asif went “Ha!” and brandished the wax plug at the end of his tiny vacuum. “Look at that,” he said, in triumph. “Eleven years of wax, just think of that.”
Sam stared at the repulsive item with horror, speechless with disgust.
“Ewwwwww!” I said in delight. It occurred to me that this might be an explanation for Sam’s constant shouting, the lack of indoor voice.
My point is that I can’t tell you how powerfully I needed with my whole self for that thing to come out of my son’s ear. For the rest of the day I daydreamed about how his ears must be now: so pink and clean, the air whistling through them like a fresh Alpine breeze. I re-live again and again the removal of the canker from my child, shudder at the thought that it had been lurking there this whole time. The evil blackened thing, now expunged!
I recall that I felt the same way when my children had visible bogeys as babies. Or when they badly needed a nappy change. Or when they’ve gone out without a coat and it is cold. Or when they desperately need a haircut, or braces on their teeth. The need I felt to correct this was physical.
So not actually disconnected. Perhaps connection just doesn’t look quite the same for everyone.
How about you? What are the things about your children that powerfully connect you to them? Please leave a comment for the group in the box below. I most enjoy the really long, loose comments where we discover that you were raised by marsupials, survived a house fire or speak fluent Tagalog.
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I remember my mum once telling me how much she was helping my sister out with her business - a smoothie bar and cafe on the Kent coast - and how much time she was spending cooking, cleaning, serving and how tired my sister was and after all the effort she was putting in how slow business was and how demanding customers were when spending small amounts of money etc. I responded with something trite like “well she chose to do this you don’t have to make it your problem or responsibility mum” and she responded back with “you will see your children go through many things in their lives but you never want your child to be ‘disappointed’” and it made to freeze. Because I HAD children and that one phrase encapsulated everything about parenthood for me. I never want to see my child being ‘disappointed’. That word summed it up and somehow *disappointment* seemed worse than all the other things that can or could happen happening. To be disappointed, let down, expectations stymied. Whatever. And that’s when I feel most connected in that heart rendering way to my children and grandchildren. When something - no matter how small or seemingly inconsequential - disappoints them. Maybe it goes back to being told as a child by my parents that they weren’t angry with me, just disappointed….I’m not analysing it too closely but it’s stuck with me and struck me in many interactions with throughout our lives.
My 10yo went on his first school residential last week - just for one night. He's autistic and very anxious, but handled it beautifully. I (unbeknown to him) was in a Premier Inn about 3 miles away in case of difficulty. I fell asleep at about 11 and woke at 1.15am with the most horrendous doom-y feeling. It passed quickly, but I was quite rattled and lay awake reading until almost 5am.
The next day, his teacher told me he'd woken crying overnight, and she'd sat on his bed and held his hand until he went back to sleep. I didn't ask her what time he woke, but despite generally being a pretty logical/rational/scientific sort of person, I am absolutely convinced that it was 1.15am.
I'm not a playing parent. I love taking them to theatre or museums or even just to the supermarket but more than 10 mins of My Little Pony or Thomas the Tank Engine makes me want to run away to sea. I work full-time, my husband part-time around our kids and I am the family administrator, the person who gets shit done and for my son, the person who anticipates his next challenge and either gets rid of it or scaffolds it so that he can manage it.