I would like to publicly apologise. Again. (This is becoming something of a habit.)
The other day, in light of his current, various and numerous annoying “quirks”, I found myself describing my son -out loud- as an arsehole. Repeatedly. This was not in a fit of frustration, nor was it as a direct result of anything he had specifically done at that particular moment in time. No, it was a general description of the young man I adore, am proud of (mostly), gave birth to and am raising.
Yes, I called him an arsehole.
I regret calling him that. He is much more than that. He is clever and caring and funny and sensitive. He’s a brother, an inventor, a singer, a Cub. He loves hugs, hates mashed potato and remembers everything I have ever told him (if he was paying attention when I said it, that is).
But he is also, sometimes, if I’m honest, an arsehole.
That’s not a very nice word. I apologise again. But it is, as my neighbour pointed out, quite a cathartic one to say; it contains harsh phonemes, two syllables and a dark, murky connotation that transfers the bad feelings out of your mind and into the world, and thence they are gone. Swearing is magic like that.
However, my guilt is now exacerbated. Because my lovely little boy has shown how mature he can be in recent days – not for anything major, but for one of those little disappointments – the likes of which he will face often in life.
On Friday, The Four Little Seymours and I went shopping. Now, my children know not to expect too much – for we have a house to build, and precious little to build it with. They don’t go without though – they go to jumble sales, don’t forget. And their grandparents are very good to them (Grandma E had just treated them to a McDonald’s, so they were jubilant). But they know Mummy is a bit tight. “Do you really need it?” is a question they often are asked, before they huff and walk away, resigned to the fact that one day, their sacrifices might be rewarded with a bedroom of their own, or maybe even just a proper bed, as opposed to a mere shelf on which to sleep.
But on Friday, I got a little bit carried away. I went crazy and bought Numbers One and Two books by their favourite authors. New books! Not even ones from a charity shop! And for Boy Seymour? We spied the most exciting thing ever. There, staring out at us from a massive poster in WHSmith’s window was only The Terminator! The T-800 endoskeleton, with its red, blazing eyes and its humanoid teeth. Almost a metre tall! With an exceptional level of detail! Easy assembly! 1:2 scale! High quality zinc alloy and ABS parts! Plus it plays the movie theme tune! And there’ll be a free Westinghouse M95A1 Phased Plasma Rifle thrown in, too!
Now, I’m a child of the eighties, and Boy Seymour is a chap who loves stuff like that, so, into the shop we went…
I should explain that I am constantly on the hunt for things that will engage Boy’s brain. He has staying power, but often, he can’t find it. He has the ability to be careful – but mainly just breaks stuff. So this – a kit to follow each week, pieces to care for and with an ultimate end-result to assimilate, seemed like a good idea. And all for ONLY £1.99!
So, we bought the magazine. My son was even willing to pay for it himself. And I had every intention of finding a news agent hebdomadally, where we could obtain the next installment, pennies in hand and expectant grins on our faces.
Before we even got home, Boy Seymour had even given his metre-tall, future Terminator friend a name (Bob), and had (true to his arsehole form) terrified Mini Seymour with threats of placing the scary, laser-eyed beast at the foot of her bed at night. Once he’d built it, of course.
But Mini Seymour needn’t have worried. It seems she will be safe from Bob The Terminator. Because, even if we signed up to the scheme, she’ll probably have moved out by the time he’s completed. There will be no trips to the news agents for us, because the only way to really guarantee us acquiring all the available parts, including the bonus free ones, is if we sign up by mail order. It turns out there are 120 issues, at approximately £8.99 each. That works out to cost about £1050! It’ll take two and a bit years to build Bob! And would involve far more trips to WHSmith’s than I’m prepared to commit to.
And this is where my son did me proud. He accepted that this was too much money. He also accepted that receiving Bob in piecemeal would be frustrating. He will take his T-800 eye socket and mask (from issue 1) to Uncle Matt’s farm, where, he says, he will make his own robot. With the welder. And bits of old tractor.
I should have known, really. I saw the poster and had glorious visions of my clever little boy, patiently building something he would keep (and terrorize his sisters with) forever. These schemes have been going on for a long time – I remember getting very excited years ago about a dolls’ house kit, with a free pram and a cheap first issue. I wonder just how many people see these things through to the end? I am sure it’s an excellent idea for organised people with a passion for model making and time on their hands, but I suspect it is a very specialist market…
So, all that remains is for me to find something else that will engage my boy in a much more suitable manner, so that I don’t feel obliged to refer to him as an arsehole ever again. Suggestions, please?
UPDATE: I have just chatted online with The Terminator people. Apparently, the target market is men, over the age of thirty five.
Thirty five? What happens to a man at thirty five that makes him more capable of building this model than a twenty seven year-old? And what if you’re a woman with a penchant for small metal men with red eyes?
Maybe this magazine would be better marketed in pubs, where nine-year olds do not often venture.
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