'Mothers should always listen to their children'
I awoke this morning feeling good as a chink of sunlight crept through a slight gap in the curtains and brushed past my face. It came to finally rest behind my bed head, forming a silhouette of my head. I knew it to be just a mere outline of the day to come and that over the next half hour, birds would have been coaxed out of their nests to seek food for their chicks, rabbits would be on the scurry back to their warrens before full daybreak alighted and the worms and all the garden insects would seek out a place of camouflage between the flowers and the foliage, knowing that it was they that the birds would first seek out. How could I possibly lay idly in my bed as nature unfurled her first siren of the day, telling all that it was 6.30am and time to get up?
I give a wry smile at the sight in store for me as soon as I look out of my bedroom window into the back garden below. With a final stretch of determination, I spring out of bed towards the window, full of eager expectation. Drawing the curtains all the way back, I open the window wider and take in a deep breath of fresh air: nature's nectar. It feels good. It is good. It is good to be alive on a day such as today, a beautifully fine morning filled with much promise.
I give a wry smile at the sight in store for me as soon as I look out of my bedroom window into the back garden below. With a final stretch of determination, I spring out of bed towards the window, full of eager expectation. Drawing the curtains all the way back, I open the window wider and take in a deep breath of fresh air: nature's nectar. It feels good. It is good. It is good to be alive on a day such as today, a beautifully fine morning filled with much promise.
Looking towards the field that lies beyond the hedgerow boundary to my property, I can see the horses as they also start to stretch their legs. There are five horses; four brown chestnuts and one black that occupied the large expanse of field to the back of my house. Knowing the ground to be owned by the Council, it has always surprised me that they'd be prepared to accept a modest rental fee from the horse owner instead of 'cashing in' and selling off the land for house building. Still, this is middle class Mirfield and with the field being within view of the beautifully ancient 'St. Mary's Parish Church', it is little wonder that the Tory-run council wouldn't choose to upset its loyal electorate and property-owning voter. I often think that if Mirfield ever turned 'Labour' that the fields would turn brown overnight, builders would move back in large numbers and no more would I be able to wake up daily to the neigh of horses in my green back yard. Long live the Conservatives in Mirfield!
As it approaches 7.00am, I emerge in the back garden armed with a nice mug of tea and ready to to inspect my modest pretentions at being a gardener. As one of my best friends had been the television gardener, the late Geoffrey Smith, my neighbours naturally expected me to win the annual 'Best Garden in Mirfield' competition without putting in any effort. I keep telling them that I'm no more a good gardener because of knowing Geoffrey Smith any more than I could adequately play Hamlet on the stage and screen just because I'd happened to meet Alan Bates or Richard Burton!
If the truth be known, I love gardens and always have done, but I have never yet ventured to grow a bean or plant a flower or a shrub successfully from seed. I am well able to transplant flowers from the pots of the garden centre into my small garden, and I have been known to successfully take a plant cutting and grow on, but that's about the extent of my horticultural skills. If I do happen to possess 'green fingers', then it's all down to my Irish birthright and not my gardening capabilities. Indeed, the only success I have ever experienced with propagating cuttings have been with those hardy specimens that would willingly grow in the wilderness of the Welsh scrublands, even if they were randomly thrown to the ground by a drunken shepherd during a Saturday night drinking session in the middle of the Brecon Beacons.
If the truth be known, I love gardens and always have done, but I have never yet ventured to grow a bean or plant a flower or a shrub successfully from seed. I am well able to transplant flowers from the pots of the garden centre into my small garden, and I have been known to successfully take a plant cutting and grow on, but that's about the extent of my horticultural skills. If I do happen to possess 'green fingers', then it's all down to my Irish birthright and not my gardening capabilities. Indeed, the only success I have ever experienced with propagating cuttings have been with those hardy specimens that would willingly grow in the wilderness of the Welsh scrublands, even if they were randomly thrown to the ground by a drunken shepherd during a Saturday night drinking session in the middle of the Brecon Beacons.
By 7.30am I am drinking my second mug of tea and the peace that graced my back garden one hour earlier is starting to fracture. The nearby church bells of St Mary's Parish Church ring out as they do at regular intervals throughout the day. Shortly after the church bells begin to peel, they are joined by the musical occupants of my garden and nearby field. It is as though each new entrant to the garden's composition has gradually filled its stage to capacity. By 8.00am, nature's full orchestra has warmed up and is ready to play its part.
The horses in the field prance around majestically with the grace of movement that no cripple will ever possess. The birds drinking from the bird bath have quadrupled in number and the poor worms are involuntarily flown from ground to nest as the beak of the mother bird transfers its catch to the squawking throat of its bald-bodied offspring. As the sun comes out more and more, it is as though the heads of the flowers gladly opened up until the bees have an easy access to the nectar. In nature's swap that follows, the bees take the nectar from the flowers and leave pollen from another plant, which facilitates propagation around the garden. Thus, through nature's cooperation, my garden continues to grow with very little intervention from my humble self. As I grow older, I come to realise that humans don't grow gardens: we just tidy them up!
The horses in the field prance around majestically with the grace of movement that no cripple will ever possess. The birds drinking from the bird bath have quadrupled in number and the poor worms are involuntarily flown from ground to nest as the beak of the mother bird transfers its catch to the squawking throat of its bald-bodied offspring. As the sun comes out more and more, it is as though the heads of the flowers gladly opened up until the bees have an easy access to the nectar. In nature's swap that follows, the bees take the nectar from the flowers and leave pollen from another plant, which facilitates propagation around the garden. Thus, through nature's cooperation, my garden continues to grow with very little intervention from my humble self. As I grow older, I come to realise that humans don't grow gardens: we just tidy them up!
Two mugs of tea now prove to be enough liquid intake the first thing on a morning ever since I gave up the habit of smoking tobacco. However long it has been since I last smoked a cigarette, I can still remember the sheer pleasure that paradoxically could be derived from going out into the fresh air of the garden with one's first mug of tea in order to inhale poisonous fumes into one's lungs. That first mug of tea, accompanied by that first cigarette of the day, just cannot be beaten. As a past smoker of fifty years habit before I eventually stopped, I know how hard it is to break the addiction, even though most smokers truly know that it is an addiction that will eventually kill them and that the habit represents early deaths, coffins, bereaved children and widows in the making!
I started this morning feeling good. Then as I saw the sun spread itself across my garden, that made me feel even better. I see a blackbird scavenging for its young’s breakfast from a table of worms that occupies the base of the hawthorn tree that adjoins my boundary with the field of horses beyond. It feels good to know that many creatures have already breakfasted and fed their offspring before the rows of human alarm clocks have woken up the surrounding neighbourhood with their call to join the morning rush to work and school.
After using the morning shade to water my tender plants (the very first gardening tip that Geoffrey Smith ever gave me), I started to water the small area of garden at the front of my house. It is now approaching 8.45am and the silence I’d imbibed since first coming into the garden is broken by the excited exclamation of a 7-year-old boy holding hands with his preoccupied mother. The mother is talking on her mobile phone as she hurriedly walks him and her 5-year-old daughter to a nearby school. She has her mobile phone in one hand while she pulls her son along with her other hand. Besides being preoccuppied talking on her phone, she is also issuing instructions to her son and daughter (who walks on behind), as well as eating an apple intermittently throughout. I didn't know as she exchanged her mouth from apple to phone and vice versa, whether it was her mouth or the apple that were voicing the words I heard.
According to her loud conversation I overheard, she was expressing her anger to a friend on her phone about her violent partner whom she'd rowed with the previous night. She was telling her friend he'd hit her and her son. She told her friend that her son was resisting going to school that morning and she was having to drag him there. Throughout this conversation, her 5-year old daughter continued to cry unattended behind mother and son.
“What’s that, Mummy?” the boy asked, pointing to the four horses in the adjacent field to my house. The horses were eating hay that had been strewn in the field by their owner. "What are they eating?" His mother ignored his questions and continued to talk to her friend about the aggression of her partner, after a night out at the pub. The boy asked his mother again and this time, she did reply, but not in answer to his question.
"For God's sake!" she yelled at the boy," Just button it until I've done talking to ....."
"But Mum," the boy started to protest.
"For God's sake!" she yelled at the boy," Just button it until I've done talking to ....."
"But Mum," the boy started to protest.
Without looking around, the woman continued to speak to her friend on the phone as she randomly let go of her son's hand and swung it in the direction of his head and clouted him. As her hand struck, the boy winced and his younger sister behind seemed to do the crying on his behalf. It was at this moment that I saw the boy already had a black eye; having been presumably hit by his mother's partner recently. I also suspected that the young girl's tears were not unusual to behold on any day of the week and that her mother probably ran a close second in the 'aggression stakes' to that of her partner.
"What's that Mummy?" came the question again from the boy's mouth. This time, his mother, who saw me nearby and being within my hearing distance, suddenly ended her phone call abruptly and answered him. Being observed, she tried to compose herself and even fastened her hair back in a nonchalant manner, as though nothing was amiss. But however casual she now tried to be, she couldn't disguise the anger that still lurked in her face.
"Oh, that’s nothing. We're going to be late if you don’t come now! Susan, grab hold of this hand now and stop that stupid crying!” she replied whilst hurrying off towards the school before the assembly bell went.
"Oh, that’s nothing. We're going to be late if you don’t come now! Susan, grab hold of this hand now and stop that stupid crying!” she replied whilst hurrying off towards the school before the assembly bell went.
As she and the children hurriedly made their way down the road, I began to feel sorry for the two children by her side. Being a lifelong student in aggressive behaviour, it was evident that she was one half of a violent relationship and that her two children would constantly find themselves in the middle of household rows as a matter of course.
I started to speculate how long she'd been on her mobile this morning as she walked her children to school. I wondered how many questions the children had asked her along the way and if she'd bothered to answer any of them? I even started to imagine the mobile phone being stuck to her ear with the length of time it had undoubtedly been pressed to the the side of her head since she'd left home earlier.
I started to speculate how long she'd been on her mobile this morning as she walked her children to school. I wondered how many questions the children had asked her along the way and if she'd bothered to answer any of them? I even started to imagine the mobile phone being stuck to her ear with the length of time it had undoubtedly been pressed to the the side of her head since she'd left home earlier.
If only that mother knew how important to his healthy development her son's innocent questions had been, she would have terminated her air-wave chat to her celluloid friend and answered him immediately. If only she’d had given him ‘that moment’ of her undivided attention, she would have been in the production of happiness and emotional stability. She would have provided her children with a type of sustenance that all tree branches get from the mother trunk that feeds them.
As for her little girl who walked on behind like a stray waif, she could have so easily run out into the road and been seriously hurt. It doesn't bear thinking about the type of existence her innocent childhood is comprised of or how much quality of life's pleasure she was most likely missing out on. Of one thing I can be sure, if the nature of her life experience doesn't change as a child, both she and her brother will be in danger of repeating the same pattern with their own children in later years.
As for her little girl who walked on behind like a stray waif, she could have so easily run out into the road and been seriously hurt. It doesn't bear thinking about the type of existence her innocent childhood is comprised of or how much quality of life's pleasure she was most likely missing out on. Of one thing I can be sure, if the nature of her life experience doesn't change as a child, both she and her brother will be in danger of repeating the same pattern with their own children in later years.
I began to think that the birds of nature could have taught that mother how to look after her young. I couldn't imagine any bird abandoning the attention of her chicks, even for one moment, while its young cried out. A mother ought not to be stingy in the time she gives over to the inquiries of her children, for if she deprives them of attention at so early a time in the day, what is she going to be like at sunset when the children are ready for bed and she is truly overtired with the daily weight of her responsibilities? If she is prepared to abandon their attention at this early stage in their life, will she ever find the time for them, whenever big problems come along in their adult lives?
Though she may easily forget her oversight of giving her young children the care they needed during development, they possess long memories and are most unlikely to ever forget the lack of protection and attention offered to them during their childhood years.
As Oscar Wilde once remarked in one of his more cynical observations, “Children begin by loving their parents: after a time they judge them: rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.”
The children, when they grow up, may grow up as a perfect representation of their parents and are very likely to commit the same folly with their inquiring young as they had committed against them. Thus, as the poet Philip Larkin starkly reminded us in his poem of ‘This be the verse’:
Though she may easily forget her oversight of giving her young children the care they needed during development, they possess long memories and are most unlikely to ever forget the lack of protection and attention offered to them during their childhood years.
As Oscar Wilde once remarked in one of his more cynical observations, “Children begin by loving their parents: after a time they judge them: rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.”
The children, when they grow up, may grow up as a perfect representation of their parents and are very likely to commit the same folly with their inquiring young as they had committed against them. Thus, as the poet Philip Larkin starkly reminded us in his poem of ‘This be the verse’:
“They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had.
Then add some extra, just for you.”
And yet, I know from deep within, that nothing is pre-determined in this life unless one is determined to make it so. If one determines it 'not to be' then it won't! And if one determines it 'to be', then it may just happen!
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had.
Then add some extra, just for you.”
And yet, I know from deep within, that nothing is pre-determined in this life unless one is determined to make it so. If one determines it 'not to be' then it won't! And if one determines it 'to be', then it may just happen!
As I held that thought in my head, I saw a mother blackbird fly into the hedgerow with a juicy worm that it popped into the mouth of one of its young and I knew once more that the world was a good place to be. I knew that life was good.
I also knew that though we be known as 'human' and all the creatures of the wild called 'beast', when it comes to protecting their young from all manner of foreign prey, it is the animals and creatures of the planet that win hands down on every occasion. Mankind has much to learn in the art of good parenting from the birds of the air and the beasts of the field.
I also knew that though we be known as 'human' and all the creatures of the wild called 'beast', when it comes to protecting their young from all manner of foreign prey, it is the animals and creatures of the planet that win hands down on every occasion. Mankind has much to learn in the art of good parenting from the birds of the air and the beasts of the field.
So mothers, be vigilant and responsive during the moments of your children's early years, for they will only come into your experience once. Do not waste the questions of your children for it is you who shall be their most impressionable teacher. Always listen and do not reply in haste or without due consideration as their delicate feelings can be snapped in two with less sound than the aggressive flutter of a butterfly's wings.
Copyright William Forde April, 2012.
