For those of us who don’t do it, parenting is a bit of a mystery. A strange, magical, glamorous mystery that we imagine is bedevilled by all sorts of complex and exciting challenges. What a mind-blowing experience it must be to manufacture another human being and steer him into the world, we think.
Which is why it was such a disappointment looking after a friend’s teenager for a week. I now realise that parenting involves only two things: persuading a child to eat and persuading a child to put on a coat. That’s it. There is nothing else involved. Which is not to say that it is a simple matter. Oh, no. I have discovered that there are few things more challenging, exhausting or dispiriting than trying to force another human being to put food in his mouth and a coat on his back. I have discovered that hell hath no fury like a young person who does not want to eat or wear a coat.
I have sat locked in the loo weeping in near suicidal despair during particularly savage bouts of eating and coat refusal. How do parents put up with this? I take my hat off to them for fighting this war of attrition for years. I’ve done it for seven days and I’m a basket case. I have expended every last ounce of energy on eating and coat persuasion techniques to absolutely no avail.
I’d be interested to know if I’ve been doing something very wrong. I admit I approached the whole thing from an entirely selfish perspective. My coat persuasion technique went something like this: ‘Aren’t you going to put on a coat?’ ‘No.’ ‘But it’s blowing a gale outside.’ Silence. ‘I really think you should put on a coat.’ ‘I’m hot.’ ‘All right, then.’
I wanted to leave it there. I didn’t want to nag. The problem was that the freezing teenager then walked alongside me all afternoon, shivering and very loudly chattering his teeth. Suddenly the streets seemed to be full of smart women leading children dressed in sensible quilted jackets. I got child envy. Their offspring looked warmer and better looked after than mine. ‘Are you sure you don’t want that coat? It’s in the car.’ ‘No.’ ‘But you’re shivering.’ ‘It’s hot.’ ‘All right, then.’
I really, really wanted to leave it there. However, the freezing teenager started to turn blue and shudder with hypothermic convulsions. ‘Please, please, I beg of you, put on a coat or someone is going to report me to social services. I’m not ready to feature in a centre spread on Broken Britain. Please, I’ll do anything…’ ‘No.’
My eating persuasion technique was barely more sophisticated. ‘Aren’t you going to eat breakfast?’ ‘Not hungry.’ ‘But we’re going to be at the stables all day.’ ‘Don’t eat in the morning.’ ‘But you’ll faint.’ ‘No, I won’t.’ ‘I’ve put mini-cereals on the table.’ ‘Don’t eat cereal.’ ‘Toast?’ ‘No.’ ‘Left-over pizza?’ ‘Ugh.’
When we arrived at the stables the yard owner was having a staffing crisis. The moment she saw that I had brought an able-bodied youth she threw a shovel at him and told him to start mucking out. By midday he had mucked out three stable blocks and I was starting to panic. Not only was he not wearing a coat in near-freezing conditions, but he also hadn’t eaten since the night before.
This is where my lack of knowledge of children leaves me badly exposed. I know how long a horse can go before needing food and water but I haven’t a clue what the fuelling logistics are for a large adolescent. How long did I have before he collapsed and I got prosecuted? In the end, he finished mucking out, then rode for two hours, then got off the horse and stood lingering by the tea room watching everyone else stuffing their faces with cakes and biscuits.
Whereupon I pulled some sandwiches I had brought with me from my handbag and presented him with an ultimatum. ‘If you don’t eat I’m going to cry.’ He took the sandwich and nibbled a tiny bit of it but didn’t do anything like eat it.
Then salvation came, or so I thought. The yard owner lit the barbecue and started cooking burgers. Surely my problems were over now. When the first ones were sizzling, I attempted to push him towards the serving table, but he said ‘no thanks’ with a disconsolate shrug.
This was too much. ‘Burger!’ I exclaimed, like a mad woman. ‘B-u-r-g…’ and I actually started to spell it out. ‘Not hungry.’ Shrug.
I looked over at my horses with a new-found gratitude. There they stood, happily munching their hay, wrapped up in their Newmarket rugs. I know they give me hassle sometimes, but they’re good kids, really.
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