As I watched the man-child and the child who yearns to be a man battle with their latest acquisition, I couldn’t help laughing. The pair of them had mysteriously disappeared at the Arts and Craft Fair and came back clutching a sword. A Sword! The son looked chuffed, and the father sheepish, but there was no denying that the sword would long play heroic roles in imaginating battles in the home.
Some things just need to be.
They were swishing themselves hoarse around the dinner table, when the daughter and I exchanged glances. Hers exasperated, mine indulgent.
“We should’ve bought two swords!” said the husband. He was brandishing a very seedy looking drumstick instead of a sword, while the son revelled in his sword.
“I need shorts with belt buckles so I can stash the sword cover!”
“Scabbard.” I said.
“Huh?” he said with a nifty jump from the top of the sofa to the carpet beyond.
“That’s where you put the sword away – a scabbard.”
“What you need is a belt to hold up those pants – scrawny little fellow!” she turned towards me, “Why would you let this fellow buy a sword, as if he doesn’t jump and swish around enough!” she huffed.
I couldn’t help thinking of the book I’d read recently, Bertie’s Guide to Life and Mothers – By Alexander McCall Smith.
It is a gentle book about some folks who live at 44 Scotland Street. Humorous and lilting – it makes for pleasant reading. I think the writing could’ve been crisper in parts and the book could’ve tied the plot-lines up a bit better. But I cannot deny that I enjoyed his portrayal of Bertie’s mother. Poor Bertie Pollock is gearing up for his 7th birthday, though he would like to gallop straight to his 18th, just so he could have his own life. What he wants more than anything else is a Swiss Army Knife, but Bertie’s mother is appalled at the violence inducing toys that boys these days play with, and instead gifts him with a UN Peacekeeping set & a figurine (not G.I.Joe, just Jo) instead. Poor Bertie is appalled.
Quote:
"Will I get any presents?" he asked. Irene smiled. "Of course you will, Bertie." "I'd like a Swiss Army penknife," he half- whispered. "Or a fishing rod." Irene said nothing. "Other boys have these things," Bertie pleaded. Irene pursed her lips. "Other boys? Do you mean Tofu?" Bertie nodded miserably. "Well the less said about him the better," said Irene. She sighed. Why did men and little boys too-have to hanker after weapons when they already had their . . . She shook her head in exasperation. What was the point of all this effort if, after years of striving to protect Bertie from gender stereotypes, he came up with a request for a knife? It was a question of the number of chromosomes, she thought: therein lay the core of the problem.
Don’t we all know someone like that? Well intentioned, spouting psychological theories, and ensuring that their children’s choices are the most scientifically determined ones, only to find that they comically clash with the innate nature of the child in question.
I looked at the daughter who was obviously waiting for an answer. While I did agree with her, I told her, “Ah! Boys will be boys and a plastic sword does not a warrior make!”
“Yes! But it does a headache give!” said the smart-quipper.
Some people don’t need swords to slash.
Nourish-n-Cherish 