press 5 for a childhood meltdown

• By Alison
• 4 January, 2010
• 12 Comments

The children have learnt how to push each other’s buttons. Or more specifically, the 8 year old has figured out what will wind up the 5 year old to the point of implosion. She’s also mastered the art of doing it quietly with the illusion that if we can’t hear her, then she’s not guilty.

It shows how sneaky she’s grown to be. A cunning and guile that I can’t help but be impressed by. As well as a nastiness that horrifies me.

And yet, it’s something I recognise.

Miss Trouble Pants knows that the best way to upset Miss Comic Relief while playing is to introduce into the roll play some kind of exclusion for the toys they are playing with. Most often it’s Playmobil characters.

“Mine are playing on the swings and having a campfire”
“Mine are playing too. ‘Wee, this is fun!’ “
“No, yours can’t play with mine, they have herpes.”
“No they don’t!”
“Yes, they do, and they are lepers, so they have to live over there in that box.”
“WWAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!! MUUUUUUUMMMMMMMY!” * THWACK!*
“AAARRRRRGGGHHHHH! MUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMY! SHE HIT ME!”

Ok, so maybe the words herpes and lepers were not actually used in the making of this scenario, but you get the point. It ends in screaming and fisticuffs, and I wasn’t referring to the children there.

It’s a scenario I know oh so well from the annuls of history.

My little brother was 6 years younger than me. If you need the exact age difference, it was 5 years and 10 months, which caused a huge problem with some newly concreted steps created in the 2 months where the 6 year apparent gap closes to 5 years.

So much of a problem, that I scratched “Alison – 11 years” into the new concrete despite being still only 10. My brother had scratched “Andrew – 6 years” above mine, and to commit to stone etched record the smaller gap was unthinkable.

I lived to regret that, as under our etchings, the year was also added, and one of the things I was (am) very proud of is the fact that being born in 1970 means my age evenly matches the last digit of the year. To have “11 years” sitting there beside “1980” was actually more painful than showing a 5 year age gap between my brother and I.

Isn’t my life tragic?

But that’s completely and utterly unrelated to the point of this post (other than to illustrate some essence of mental instability, which may or may not enlighten you about the rest of my childhood motivations!)

I knew intricately how to wind my little brother up to a point where he’d blow up in a massive and hugely satisfying catastrophic blowout. I may have mentioned this quite recently.

I have a memory of a car journey that shows quite clearly where my 8 year old daughter gets her sneaky, cunning and downright nasty plows from. We were on our way to Budgewoi, where we went caravanning every year (Sunnylake caravan park on Lake Munmora, near Toukley – it’s the slideshow of my youth!)

My family loves to sing. Car journeys were always set to a soundtrack of Gilbert and Sullivan or “The little white duck”, a tape which has long since been melted in the Australian sun in a forgotten glovebox, but included the lyrics “We have a small surprise for you… And if you want another clue…” (and if anyone can track it down for me, I’d toss in a reward! A packet of digestives perhaps…)

Often we’d drive along, singing merrily together, a family of harmony.

But on that particular drive there was no harmony in the car. A small black cloud was simmering in the backseat, namely my brother.

He did not wish to sing or be jolly. I could see that clearly. I am very empathetic that way. So I did the best thing I could do.

I started to sing.

Oh so sweetly.

I glanced at him and fluttered my eyelashes. I made him know how specially I was singing for him. It was ALL for him.

He reached over and slapped me.

I cried.

The roaming adult hand came suddenly snaking from the front of the car, seeking a target, and found his leg.

He cried.

“I was just singing!” I proclaimed, with wounded innocence, as I started to hum, giving him a through the lashes smirk.

* SLAP * He struck again, and then * TWHACK! * came the front seat arm.

And so it went on. I hummed, sand and whistled until we were both black and blue and there was pinching going on.  The car had even been pulled over to the side of the road as if the “we’ll put you out of the car and leave you there” threat was ACTUALLY going to happen today. Was it worth it? Who knows. I won. He got in trouble, I was the lovely singing golden girl, but I couldn’t wear shorts or short sleeves for a week.

So when I see Miss Comic Relief’s face contorted in fury, or hitting Miss Trouble Pants for no apparent reason, I know better than to assume she’s the guilty party. I know just how conniving a small girl can be.

And I know what I have to do…

Find out what Miss Trouble Pant’s buttons are, and then teach Miss Comic Relief how to press them!

Then lock them in a padded room and go out for coffee.