I don’t think that I’m the worlds greatest Dad, I’m not even on the shortlist. Every now and again I get to feeling like I should be though, mainly when confronted by the kind of person who sat opposite me on the train the other day.
To be fair the first reason why she wasn’t on the greatest Dad list was due to being disqualified for gender based misrepresentation. I’m fairly certain that the greatest Mum list is safe though.
I’m not here to preach on how people should raise their kids, I’m sure there are plenty of people who would be disgusted with my own approach. We have all gone off the rail at some point and can look back with hindsight knowing where you went wrong as I’ve detailed before. I’m fairly certain, however, that in this case she probably is just not my kind of Mum.
From the offset I can’t deny I was guilty of judging her a little on presentation; obese, smelly, home made tattoos and very badly dyed bright pink hair. From this first view then, she was going to have to pull a Susan Boyle quality bit of mothering out of the bag in order to impress anyone from the Mother of the Year inspectors. They had 2 of the seats in our group of 4 reserved and she told her Son to sit next to me. I happily got up and let him in by the window. Mum stayed stood humphing loudly. The gentleman on the other side eventually took heed and rose to ask her to sit – clearly assuming she was a lady of class, unused to not being presented her seat in the proper fashion.
Please assume all her spoken words were said brashly and loud.
“I can’t sit down can I? – I’ve got stuff down the other end!”
As soon as she said it she disappeared with no more words. Her boy (probably 10 or 11) stayed put, sighed and put his head on the table. This remained the case for nearly 20 minutes until Mother Earth returned, plonked herself down and started texting with not a word to her treasure. Brooklyn (that may not be his actual name as it was never said so I’ve had to guess) eventually broke the stalemate by pointing out that he was a little on the bored side.
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Well what can I do?”
“Nothing, like the rest of us – just be quiet!”
“Well can I play on your phone?”
“HUMPH”
Minutes passed and then his time was up and the phone urgently needed back to send another text, presumably a tip for Madonna on how to swing the XXXX courts round. Eventually Brooklyn – who I have to say never put a foot wrong, as far as could se he was a pleasant kid – asked if he could have a drink.
“If you can be bothered to walk all the way down the train to get it you can, if you really need one?”
“Yes please”
“Say ‘excuse me’ to the man then and go!”
Some cash was plonked in his hand and off he went. On his return he put the bag on the table and made his way back to his seat. At this point she picked up the drink, opened it and started drinking it – not once offering it to her boy. He sat down then mentioned that actually he quite needed the toilet, this is in itself a minor irritation for me but always a major one for the embarrassed parent. Mum’s reaction though did catch me off guard…
“Oh for crying out loud, why didn’t you go before you sat down instead of FU**ING everyone about now - go on then and don’t forget to say ‘excuse me’!” At least she insists on teaching him to be polite I guess. I stood, shooting her my most critical stare, fed up by this point of the spectacle of motherhood before me. Sadly I think that she miss-read this to be criticism of her pride and joy who she suddenly became fond of. I’m not going to bother writing the string of expletives she threw at me as you can work them out for your self. Suffice it to say that I am apparently fairly miserable. Thankfully she also chose that point to strop off away from us in a whirlwind of disgust.
I considered myself told. So there you have it all votes are in and you Mum’s reading this need not bother entering because Mum of the Year is already as much a cert as Susan Boyle winning X factor.
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