The Viking in the Schoolyard.

There was something, a little spark of evil in his eyes, that made me think, “He is actually going to throw that chair at my head!” So I did the best thing I could think of - I walked away as if completely unphased. I was quickly followed however by the sound of a chair flying through the space I had just occupied and bouncing on the ground behind me. It was at this point that I’m pretty sure the blood that was quickly rushing to my head, in fact hard-boiled my brain like an egg, because I think I might have blacked out for a second. When I came to, I had that awful panicked moment of not being able to think of a response that would be appropriate – it was a little chair but a chair nonetheless. What is the punishment for throwing a chair at your father?

The strangest thing is that I can’t really even remember what started the argument. It would have had something to do with the speed at which Little Mango 1 operates in the morning, or the afternoon – in fact, pretty much all the time. He’s on island time. And because we’re on the biggest island, that’s pretty damn slow. And it all really comes back to the routine – this unbreakable boot camp routine that I have enforced, that needs to go smoothly for several other things to happen in the day. It seems so simple to me – get up, get dressed, have your breakfast, brush your teeth, then you get to watch television until it’s time for school. Simple, hey? Not so simple for a five-year-old – they cannot always see the BIG PICTURE as easily as I can, they cannot understand that to get to do something they like, they must do something boring first. It’s a terrible thing, I know, but it’s life. As a child, I never really understood it either – why can’t I just do what I want? But time and experience gives you the wisdom to make your child’s life a living hell as well; as a parent so many things rely on this crazy train of forward momentum, that the world might quite possibly cease to spin if it fails. Anyway, the fight was really about nothing very important at all. But that’s just the point, most of the time the best fights I have with my kids (mainly Little Mango 1 obviously, although Little Miss Mango can keep her own in an argument – it’s tough to argue with a someone that’s shouting at you in a language you don’t know, but at least that means I have counter-arguments ready and waiting for Little Mango 3, just give him a couple more months:) are literally about nothing.

It’s just this thing that happens; you say something, it gets ignored, you say it again, it gets notice but not adequate response, you raise your voice, they say something nasty, and you know where it leads from there. It’s clash of the titans – there’s lightning bolts shooting all around you, the ground has turned to lava, fireballs flying across the room, people around are screaming and running away in fear, you know. It’s actually very hard to remain calm when this is all going on; there’s this person in your stomach – it’s actually like this: End of the second half, the victory is in reach but not quite, there’s this person on the sidelines who could absolutely win it, without a doubt – he’s a viking. He’ll do anything to win, he’s got everything it takes, he’s got a helmet with horns and wears a polar bear skin and is built like an army barracks, and he’s only job is to sit on the bench and wait till he’s needed. At this point, when everything’s going mental, he sneaks up to the coach, who’s just come back from quadruple bypass surgery and is starting to feel slight tingles in the fingers of his left hand. The viking says, “Come on, Coach – put me in the game!” And the coach looks at him, and the temptation is there, and the seconds are ticking by and the game is being lost, the tingles in his fingers are creeping up his arm. What does he do?

For me, the viking in my stomach came up to my hard-boiled brain and talked to the coach – he’s said “Gimme a chance, Coach!” My coach thought hard about it, but then dropped down dead from heart attack. BUT, the assistant coach who has been caught in traffic through the whole game, suddenly appeared, saw the coach down dead and realised his chance was finally here. And he looked out on to the field and saw the game for what it is. The viking was still there and he stepped over the dead body of the coach and said, “gimme a chance!” to the new coach. The new coach looked back and said, “But, we’re playing against five-year-olds!”

So suddenly I have my clarity, I know what to do, I have the upper hand. I say very simply, “Go away from me – I don’t want to see you.” He doesn’t move. I take a step closer and say “I don’t want to see you – go away or……” and I’m stuck. Go away or what? A few examples run through my mind:
“Or…. you can’t go to school today!” (Nope that won’t work)
“Or… there’ll be no Wii for a week!” (Nope, you already did that – that’s what started the fight)
“Or… I’ll give you a belting!” (Nope that’s me from the 1950s speaking)
“Go away to your room and stay there!” (Maybe, but then come out again in a couple of minutes cause we really have to go!)

And so I said “Or else.” A term that neither threatens nor even really describes what the punishment is and a history of examples of my parents saying this to me came flooding back to me. I realised that everyone has these moments of anger with their children when their brain leaves them completely and they come out looking foolish. And I looked around to make sure that no-one else had heard this incredibly weak comeback.

The only person that heard it was my son. And he went away, just like I told him to. I suddenly smiled.