Okay, I am a white, middle class male, in and around my middle years. So of course, I am prone to bouts of dissatisfaction and I like to think I am articulate enough to express those feelings. Whether or not anyone is interested in hearing me rant and occasionally, rave, is not my concern.
As the season begins to turn, the sticky, at times oppressive heat and humidity giving way to the cool and damp of the Winter-less North, I can feel the invasive spread of SAD…Seasonal Affliction Disorder. Much like the creeping spread of mold, in our beautifully positioned, but sadly decaying, Hokianga slice of paradise, I can feel myself starting to shut down for the coming season. I am at risk of stagnating, if it wasn’t for the kids.
One and Two head off to school. Their outlet. For seven or so hours a day, keeping them entertained, informed and inspired, is not my problem. That falls to the lovely ladies and gents at the local Primary, all passionate and inspirational people I am sure. Thing is, when those big kids get home, to join the E-Bomb and Wee-Man, we’re all left virtually twiddling our thumbs.
Summer means hours of lazy days on the beach. It is sprinklers and water pistols and afternoons dodging the sun, reading to the back drop of whirring fans, moving heavy air from one side of the room to the other. Not hard to drain the kids of their seemingly endless energy.
Without the bright hot sun, the damp clings to everything. That will at least take care of the flies and the fleas, even while a few crickets are still clinging to the promise of a summer which has abandoned them. Spiders know, creeping into the house in ever greater numbers, looking for a nook or cranny to curl up in and while away the winter drag. A sure sign winter is coming. An unwelcome one.
A sense of malaise sweeps over me and it’s partly because I can’t be drawn into the types of things which entertain the kids with such ease. I’m not a television watcher, outside of sports and I am certainly not a gamer. I get down on the floor with the little two, engage and join in, clambering about making out I am the type of tiger Katy Perry could only dream of being. I draw and scribble and meld play-do and read aloud and fill the basin with suds and all the rest of it. It is fair to say, before long it is me who is bored.
Bored stiff. Not from a lack of interest or a failure to engage. Stiff because joints and muscles find it difficult to get up off the floor. But yes bored. Repetition is the killer for an adult imagination it seems, mine at least, but is the fire for a young burgeoning one. Maybe they see a new and exciting thing every time, maybe they are excited by the familiar and the comfort of the known. I have lost count of the times I have read the same books, had half an eye on the same movies. It is a frightening thing to open your mouth in the shower and find you are nutting out a Disney classic you had no idea you knew the words to.
Therefore I don’t buy into the premise having kids around keeps you young. It is even possible they age you quicker. There is no hiding the fact I am less tolerant now than we we first started breeding but back then, I had distractions of my own. I worked and I played. I was still young enough and dumb enough to be involved in sport more actively. I went out the door each morning and stayed out until the evening rolled around, gainfully employed. I had the outlet afforded to number’s One and Two, if not quite as educational. And now I find, the more the we are forced, as a unit, to stay in each others space, to permeate it, invade, the less likely I am going to be such a big, fluffy, friendly tiger.
The capacity to force it never ceases to amaze me though. Especially where the kids are concerned. Fake the smile and the laughter as much as you fake the tiger’s growl. It can be extra tiring, putting up the facade for your kids, while all the time you wither and die inside, curling and browning at the edges like the autumnal leaves giving up and dropping to the ground all around. Okay, maybe that is all a bit too melodramatic, a touch too melancholic, and in truth by the time I reconcile these feelings of low and slow festering, like the mud and quagmire our yard is becoming, the sun will start shining again, the mercury will rise and I will wonder what the hell the problem was.
Some people put on weight over the cooler months as they tuck into ‘comfort’ food. Others just shift their patterns, opting for different pass-times, alternative activities. It may be seamless, it may be a conscious shifting. Our kids don’t seem to notice it much, not directly. They don’t dress appropriately for cooler weather any more than they did for the heat. Their desired choices of activities don’t change either, still fixated by the idea a movie will provide all the excitement and mental stimulation their growing brains are craving. From Number One down they are not asking for the beach as often as they used to, only a week or so ago. There is even the occasional, wary inquiry ‘What is the day going to be like?’
The day is going to be what ever you make it. Just like the one before, or something entirely new, exciting and different. No, we are not going to the beach. No you cannot watch a movie.
While I pray for greater flexibility and wonder just why it is kids have to yell at me when I am right next to them, as I snatch moments to achieve things over the course of days which should take no more than an hour, when the rains come and I manage to convince the kids to brave the elements, squashing them into last seasons gumboots and rain coats, readying them for a torrential downpour the last drops of which dry up just as the final zip is fastened, I may take a moment to rock back and breathe, mind fading to a sunny summer day now gone, not forgotten, and one I know will return.
It is amazing, when you have to force and fake the smile, how readily it can stick.