Out in hyperspace without brakes

Oh dear. Oh dearie dearie me. Lawks, even.

I am back in my seven-year old body, all skinny angles and rabbit teeth, watching the big girls rush past in the playground, and thinking I can never be, will never be, even the tiniest bit as COOL as Penelope is. Yes, she was actually called Penelope. Life had dished the sparkles out at birth, when the good fairy had given her an exotic name and the blond mane to go with it.  A purple Raleigh bike with a basket on the front. A mum that let her wear WHITE socks, not itchy grey ones that bagged at the ankles, and bought her Quavers. A secret Rule Book that made her the ultimate authority on Hopscotch, French skipping and IT. A radiant personality. I wasn’t quite sure what that was back then, to be honest, but I was pretty sure that hiding in a doorway wasn’t necessary if you had one.

This blogging lark is that playground, on a massive scale. Since deciding to start a blog was a spur of the moment thing, I thought I should pay some proper attention to those who have been blogging for a while. Try and read the rulebook over their shoulder. Off for a spin and see what the traffic is like out there.

Millions. Millions and millions of bloggers. Right now, right here, their daily moments rushing past me  in an unstoppable tide. Conservatively, 145 million blogs are careering around the blogosphere this very second, their creators sobbing, arguing, complaining, creating, dreaming, reporting, commentating, interpreting life in millions of different ways.

Small. Insignificant. Unimportant. Alone. Back to the doorway.

Back to what it really means to be blood, flesh and bone on this planet. Back to such a dark place that the imagination can’t stay there for long and sets off again, hurtling through the neural overload to make contact. New York, Paris, China, Scotland. Private griefs placed in public view. Public figures and personal analysis. Humour, boredom, materialism, socialism. Literature, Art, Science, politics: the debate of the day reduced to the issue of the moment. Clever conversations, acid wit, informed analysis: everywhere I stop I find another view to admire.

What can I say? What should I think? Do I think at all? Perhaps I only think I think? Does it matter to anyone whether I think or not? So much is out there that I am only  sure of original thought while it is still in my skull. Even then, am I sure that I am original ?

Such a seething tide of individual self-expression has a counter-intuitive effect: it removes the boundaries of distance, culture, belonging, and absorbs each tiny piece of humanity into a giant whirlpool of perpetual commentary. Into a huge playground of shouting, moving figures all with voices to raise and complicated games to play.

As I said, dearie me, girl. What’s the matter?

To be unique. To stand outside. To matter. To survive. To be me.

Back to the doorway. I’m not hiding, Miss, I’m thinking.

Honest.

If we dig Grandma out of her Care Home maybe she can give us a hand…..

What do you suppose is a ‘parenting expert’? I wonder whether I qualify? After all, I’ve so far raised half my kids to adulthood without them being too antisocial. We’ve avoided gangs and drugs, body piercings have been kept to a minimum and they seem to have a vague interest in earning their own living on the right side of the Law.

Job done.

So I wonder what extra pzazz the Government-appointed ‘parenting experts’ announced today  (see link below) will bring to their first class of panic – stricken first time parents and exhausted toddler tamers?  Wow, Samantha darling, taking the register should be fun…

‘OK, Acacia Avenue? Here, Colby Close? Golly, well done, you. Oh dear, no-one from Peckham Towers again? What a shame. Its not as though we don’t make them thoroughly welcome: the box of Baby Einstein DVDs is here for anyone to enjoy, after all”

‘Now, anyone remember this week’s lesson? No-one? Oh come on,  listening skills; don’t you remember? Ah, well, don’t worry, perhaps we should do a little conflict resolution this week instead!’.

Don’t get me wrong. Like many people who deal with youngsters on a regular basis, I am only too well aware that supporting parents of under fives is crucial, and I still remember the panic, fear and exhaustion of those early years chez ApeandAngel, when PND wasn’t just something on a nosy health visitor’s chart but an all-consuming and terrifyingly bleak world that very nearly won. I was lucky.

The days when parenting was a skill that developed with the support and ear-bashing of an older generation have long gone for most of us. The resulting lacuna needed to be filled by more formalised support, and eventually, it was. One of the New Labour ideas that did deserve respect was the creation of Sure Start Centres to give exactly the kind of support that all of a sudden this Government has decided needs to be ‘trialled’ again……having allowed savage cuts to Sure Start Centres across the country as part of its public sector cutbacks.

Sure Start Centres have proved a lifeline for many struggling parents, and an effective support to many children where inadequate parenting has put them ‘at risk’.

According to Children’s Minister Sarah Teather, the Government has a ‘moral and social duty’ to support all parents of under fives. Fantastic. Since the trial lessons are to be available in 2012 it is a fair bet that a large number of children who need support will be lost in the gap between proper funding of Sure Start Centres and the handing out of free vouchers for parentcraft lessons.

But the the aspect of all this that I find most disturbing is the political motivation towards ‘instruction’ in parenthood by a State that believes it has a ‘moral and social duty’ to do so. Last time I looked this wasn’t a totalitarian or authoritarian nation. Should we really support an approach that proposes ‘parenting experts’ teach parents the correct way to ensure their children’s self control and discipline? An approach that intends to shape the way they play, or manage conflict within the home? Now that smacking has been condemned, will the Government do the same for those of us who yell “if you don’t come down this minute it’s going in the bloody bin” at full volume, or who exceed the permitted Pink Plastic Quota on a regular basis?

Most importantly, how will we deal with those who receive the vouchers, but who fail to attend? Detention?

Actually, I’d quite like to apply for the job. Maybe if I do it well enough I’ll stop worrying about the children of the pupil parents who don’t come for lessons. After all, I guess we can always catch up with them  later on in court if things go wrong, can’t we?

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/education-15312216

The birth of politics…

Once Upon A Time, a long time ago, a small infant was placed in the Cradle Of Civilisation. The Gods all crowded around, full of admiration for their creation, and eager to bestow their intellectual gifts. Said One,

‘I give you Consciousness, so that you can develop ideas’.

Another:  ‘Reason, so that you may determine your path’.

Yet another stepped up and said  ‘I will give you Rhetoric, so that you will communicate well with others’.

And the last; ‘I bestow upon you Didacticism, so that you may teach’.

Then, (as is usual in this scene), the unwanted God came up to the Cradle to curse this perfect construct of the Gods. ‘Blessed are you with gifts enough for any man,’ it cried.  ‘Therefore, for all your ideology , I will give you also Bigotry’.

‘Ambition will yet govern your reason. Your rhetoric will be plagued by Bombast,and for all your teachings I will give you Dogma. And in your world there will be no Mirror of Self- Enlightenment for you or your kind in generations to come’.

copyright apeandangel