Adding to the word count…

..on the Pope’s progressive approach to child discipline.

Under controlled circumstances, I imagine it’s entirely possible to raise a child without ever smacking. From what I can see, the majority of parents and guardians in my tribe and beyond are determined to pursue this way of family life. But I’m not sure everyone manages it as efficiently as they would claim. It’s a sound philosophy, if you can apply it. I would like to think we will achieve it.

The reactionary smack on the part of the frightened/exasperated parent is always wrong, but sometimes extremely difficult to control; so long as that reaction is not foul then it’s entirely forgivable. I would hope the Mexican wave of moral outrage won’t drown out these quandaries surrounding parental discipline. After all, the majority of parents currently enraged are in pursuit of support for their peers in their child-rearing role overall.

Closer to home, I would hate to think of my Mother feeling guilty for the odd slap that was more of a reflex action. She needn’t feel guilty about them; she probably saved me from more serious harm in those incidences. Sometimes they were unavoidable. That said, a child should always be apologised to regardless of the circumstances. It’s when that reactionary smack or aggressive reaction is violent, systematic, and a form of discipline, that it becomes obscene and grossly wrong; a critical issue about the parent’s lack of self-control.

We will have to learn to make judgements on when to apply the reasoned let’s-talk-it-out approach; when that is futile, and how to balance keeping the child safe from danger in an instant with managing the boundaries she’ll naturally attempt to push. The odd lapse in judgement seems inevitable somehow.

If nothing else, Mr Red Socks over in Rome has succeeded in raising discussions on child abuse, which is always a good thing. We have come a long way in advancing our understanding of child psychology and the cyclical nature of violence. It is the combined experience of the child, parent/guardian and guidelines that counts, and it is from these controversies that the sharing of common challenges that lie beneath the aspiration of a smack-free home should be possible. That said, there’s always a danger of this opportunity being eclipsed by the tip of the scales of anger. To obscure the difficulties of parental self-management and discipline would be a pity.

I’m often struck by the differentiation made between physical and verbal punishment. The differences are easily understood, but to a child, being roared at by an adult must be a terrifying experience; one in which their esteem and confidence takes an almighty bruising. For the older child, it becomes a subtle but insidious and crushing weapon of ridicule. I was smacked by one teacher in primary school, but like many of my peers, I met a number in both primary and secondary level who were a bunch of bad tempered, short-fused fuckers who should never have been allowed to work with young people. If I met one of them now, I’d probably be tempted to give them a serious mouthful. They taught me well. There are children and young people caught in verbal storms in homes and schools everywhere; yet a hand will never be raised to them.

Let’s wag the finger surely. Wag it all around.

So what do you think of the situation in Chechnya?

I couldn’t give a fuck, Jones.

Admit it, we all have occasions where we’re compelled to gag our inner Daniel Cleaver by mimicking the other person’s disgust and flexing our impressive empathy muscles. This is best achieved through a slo-mo head-nod and a momentary gaze into the middle distance to figure out how to change the subject without getting busted. A delicate manoeuvre that takes years of practice.

Some recent examples…

Friend: That Iona Institute crowd are just mental. Aren’t they?

Me: Absolutely. Bonkers. Madder than two mad things stuck together with Vatican-endorsed adhesive.

[I mean this sincerely, but am unable to sustain the outrage without getting hungry, or have conversations about them through outbursts of 140 characters or less from a person sitting right next to me; especially when 60 of those characters tend to be hogged by exclamation marks]

*momentary gaze*

Fancy sharing a slice of lemon meringue?

Friend: G’wan then

[So weak]

*************************************************************

Dad: I see Topaz has a sale on petrol. You’d be better getting it this side of the border. It’s far cheaper. How much is it in the North these days?

Me: Ermm

*momentary gaze*

[My Da is gearing up for a full-on rant on the price of fuel. These are occasionally subtitles for ‘I love you’ in Father-of-a-certain-generation Irish. So is ‘how’s the job going?’, and ‘how’s the car going?’. Chances are though, he will quickly veer off into the realm of the “scandalous” way the energy companies have been slow in reducing the cost of domestic oil. We’ve been here before. Speckles of red mist are already forming on the horizon. I do sympathise. But having been raised in a house where this obsessional interest in ‘the price of oil’ was considered a conversational piece and something reflected on during that five second window the priest gives mass-goers for their own special intentions, central heating was relegated to the basics in my hierarchy of needs early on. Consequently, I can’t get worked up about it to quite the same psychotic extent.]

Hmm. Not sure. My car is diesel and sure that’s always cheaper anyway.

Dad: I’m going for a walk.

[A cruel move of me, I know]

*******************************************************

Colleague: You…like…you’ve never ever even tasted tea? Like, ever?

Me: Never

*momentary gaze*

[For some inexplicable reason, there is a cohort of Irish people who deem this an unpatriotic act and recoil in horror at the casual way I cause the architects of the Easter Rising to twirl in their graves. Was this what they fought for? Our freedom to show outrageous indifference to the national tipple? That’s me in the dodgy photo-fit flashed on the screen on Crime Call last night by the ever radiant Gráinne. I am the one. Kill me.]

I have tickled a pig under my arm though, and had a wank with a shillelagh.

Colleague: Seriously?

*******************************************************

Friend: You’re from an Irish-speaking county, do you not think it’s absolutely ridiculous how few gael scoil places there are?

Me: Absolutely!

*momentary gaze*

[No offence, Peig, but I couldn’t give a shite. But this is not the time to challenge the middle-class aspirations of my nearest and dearest. I’d probably risk leaving myself open to charges of hypocrisy down the line when I start protesting about Electric Picnic taking place before the new school year starts. Sigh. Besides, I got hit by shrapnel from a stray ‘absolutely’ at an open evening at a pre-school the other week. Nasty.]

Have you watched Catastrophe yet? Hilarious

********************************************************

Mum: Would you look at that amadan *points to Enda Kenny* He’s a liar…

Me: *momentary gaze*

[Uh oh.]

*leaves room*

Mum: …would you look at the state of him. Like someone who wandered out of the ploughing championships…

Me: *gets into car*

Mum:…and they give out about Fianna Fail, but sure they’re just as bad…

Me: *drives away*

Mum:..I can’t STAND him….

Me: *arrives home*

Mum:..sitting there in the Dail for the last umpteen years and what did he ever do?…

Me: *turns off bed-side light*

Mum:..keeping the farmers sweet and nevermind the rest of us…

outrage

Sheryl was outraged to discover she had only 3 characters left

Personal specification

I’m gearing up to recycle my own bullshit for the umpteenth time. What’s new, says you, the occasional reader of my posts that come in various shades of the same old shite. With two months in my current job remaining, I am back revising the CV and hovering over the two-hangered section of my wardrobe that is supposed to radiate confidence. Diligence. Conscientiousness. Success. All I’m getting is desperation, and someone dangerously close to one pair of trousers away from a M&S twin-set and a life-time allergy to heels.

That’s the problem with the bogus feeling of immortality in your twenties. Freedom is just another word for not conforming, until not conforming becomes an inescapable by-phrase for harbouring an overdraft, a love/hate relationship with your potential, and a willingness to at least Google ‘pension plans’. Usually from around the age of 36 onward. In my field anyway.

The nature of my work puts a stranglehold on any notions of security and direction. So, with any luck, I’ll be back before a panel of managerial all-sorts soon working that enthusiasm. Working it good. Working it so good that sometimes I don’t notice I’ve brought the wrong USB key and the panel is looking on non-plussed at my family photos as I gabble on at the speed of bluffing it (“We regret to inform you..). Or I go completely blank and just walk out (“Please accept this cheque as a token of thanks for attending and a contribution towards your travel expenses”). Or I turn up two hours late apologising profusely after the plane was unable to land due to fog and go off on one like Spud from Trainspotting (“We are pleased to inform you you have been successful”). One just never knows what will wing it.

spud

“Well, I can parallel park and lip sync to ‘So Lonely’ by The Police with perfect precision”

The stakes are higher; the pool of potential competition wider; and my ability to suffer fools who claim not to suffer fools is waning rapidly.

The definition of defeat: When the idea of becoming a civil servant/teacher/nun doesn’t seem that bad an idea after all.

Of course I’m only half-joking.