Why I love the trail of chaos left by my son
LAST year, I wrote about the domestic carnage caused by our six-year-old. Since then, many readers have requested an update on our tribulations at the hands of this merciless little man. Prepare yourselves, for it is not easy reading.
First things first: nothing has changed. If anything, matters are steadily getting worse. Indeed, so bad have things become that even he is beginning to wonder where it will all end.
It seems that no matter what he touches simply collapses, breaks or smashes into smithereens. Early each Saturday morning, for example, I calmly bask in the silence of an empty kitchen. There I sit, sipping my coffee, pondering the new day.
Then it happens: the door crashes open and, in his loudest voice: ‘Good morning!’
Very cute, you might say, and you would be correct, except for the fact that the rest of the house is fast asleep.
Moreover, however many times I caution him to whisper, the same thing happens – every single Saturday.
I calm my nerves only to see him reaching for the cereal box. Good: a sign of independence!
But, in this case, independence comes at a terrible cost for his father. Invariably, the full cereal bowl ends up on the floor.
And, each week, it’s the same story. First, the tears slowly trickle down his face, only to be followed by the plaintive howl: ‘It wasn’t my fault.’ When I inquire whose fault it was, he ruefully replies: ‘I don’t know, but it wasn’t mine!’
Strolling around the house recently, I noticed that nearly everything he got for Christmas is either broken or damaged or on the verge of mortal decline. Even those things which are most precious to him endure the same sad fate. Sooner or later, they end up on that great scrapheap which, for us, is rapidly becoming a monument dedicated to destruction.
And then we endured what I call the ‘potion phase’. Even writing those words sends me into a nervous spasm. It happened shortly after Christmas, but the effects on my wellbeing are still very raw.
‘Can I make a potion?’ he inquired with his big eyes and beaming smile. I must have been possessed of Yuletide merriment when I agreed, albeit with strict conditions. The first potion was innocuous enough, consisting, as it did, of a small vial containing some water and washing-up liquid.
The fact that there were no spillages lulled us into a false sense of security. Like two innocents abroad, we looked at him adoringly and exclaimed: ‘Ah, bless him, isn’t he so creative!’
In our deluded state, we didn’t notice that the potions were becoming more experimental.
Gone were the vials of Fairy Liquid. Now, there were jars containing odd-smelling mixtures of who knows what. Surprisingly, we still hadn’t had a spillage.
‘Perhaps this is a turning point,’ I reflected in joyful anticipation of a life beyond debris, crumbs, spilled cereal and broken blinds. Perhaps, he is finally taking care and learning from his mistakes. That beautiful dream lasted all of ten minutes.
IFOLLOWED the foul smell until I found a watering can full to the brim with a noxious ‘potion’. Seeing my revulsion, he screamed: ‘Will I pour it away?’ Nuclear waste would have been less harmful to the environment.
Son: ‘Yes, I did it, but it wasn’t my fault! I didn’t know it would smell so bad.’
Dad: ‘And what about the container of liquid that has spilled on the carpet in your room?’
Son: ‘Oh, I put that there, but I don’t know how it spilled’.
Dad: ‘That’s it: all potion-making is now banned!’
And yet, despite it all, I genuinely believe that he doesn’t mean any harm. I have come to see that this loving, caring and funny little boy just can’t help causing carnage. Like Mr Bump of Mr Men fame, he just can’t help having ‘little accidents’.
When I am down on my knees cleaning up cereal on a Saturday morning, it is not easy to look at things calmly. But as the mists clear, I realise that my youngest son is teaching me something essential. Amid the ruins of a oncepristine abode, I am learning greater levels of compassion.
I find myself looking at my own Mr Bump, and smiling and giving thanks for such a wonderful child. Yes, the devastation makes one want to cry out in despair, but he more than makes up for it in kindness and consideration to everyone.
Still, I draw the line at potions.