The secret of being a successful adult is to only do things you can do. This is particularly important for people who, for example, build bridges. Or fly aeroplanes. Less important for those of us who don’t do anything that really matters to anyone else. But still quite important in so much as if you want someone to give you money for doing something, it really ought to be something you can do.
Consequently, very few adults do things they can’t, particularly when there’s someone watching. We leave that to the kids. For example, the fact that not a single kid in the class can sing in tune does not detract from the sick-making appeal of the Christmas carol concert. In fact it makes it all the more sick-full. The fact that a kid can’t draw doesn’t stop you pasting its artwork all over the fridge. In fact if it could draw, we’d probably be much less inclined to exhibit its work, on the grounds that being able to do things should really be left to us adults (and we don’t want the little brat to develop an over-inflated opinion of itself do we).
So what happens to an adult when you make it do something it can’t do? It gets scared. Very scared. In fact, having to do something you can’t do is the stuff of nightmares. I know this because I have them, regularly. Little capsules of primal fear, fired forward through time to have another go. To bring me to my knees when I’m least able to fight-back, i.e. asleep. The format is always the same. There's an exam the next day and I’ve done absolutely no preparation. Leaving twelve hours to absorb the major novels of the Victorian period. Or re-master the dark art of long division and logarithms. I awake to discover, with overwhelming relief, that there are no exams after all, and the things I can’t do are safely confined to my dreams. Until know.
You see in a moment of bravado I told the fresh-faced instructor at the climbing wall that I’d done lots of climbing before (actually thirty years ago) and it would be a matter of minutes to bring me up to speed so I can supervise the kids unaided. Problem is he’s taken me at my word and given me an immediate opportunity to prove my prowess.
"Go on then, tie him on."
Which is how I find myself standing there, with a rope dangling from one hand, and the youngest looking on in the expectation that Daddy’s about to do something impressive. Problem is, I haven’t got a clue. Guess I’m too used to feigning competency in contexts where I won’t be found out. Here’s one where I just have been. It’s a life and death one too, and everyone’s watching. I grab the nearest loop on the child's harness and hurriedly fashion what I think could be a figure of eight knot. That’s it - I let the rope drop. Done.
The instructor shakes his head and states simply “That’s not it.” My heart seems suddenly intent on pumping enough blood northward to jettison my head like a champaign cork. It’s possible to bluff your way through most situations where you're required to do something you can’t do. By getting someone else to do it, for example. Or changing it to something you can do. Or pretending you can and then changing the subject. And mostly it doesn’t matter. But with knots, it’s different. Because they’re either tied or not tied. They'll either hold your weight when suspended fifty feet off the ground or they will not. Mine, it seems, will not.
The instructor takes the rope and patiently demonstrates the correct procedure. I watch but without taking it in. For I am lost in a quagmire of self-loathing. I am an inept and deluded liar who is prepared to risk the life of my very own child rather than admit to my own limitations. He shows me again, and I fiddle pathetically with the rope like one who has not yet learned to feed himself, never mind acquire a skill crucial to surviving a dangerous sport.
Eventually we have something which comes close, and I watch the youngest scaling the wall, contemplating the fact that whether or not he survives this totally pointless leisure activity may come down to the quality of my knot. A knot that I learnt to do about ten minutes ago and practiced precisely three times before hanging my child from it. We’ve spent hundreds of pounds with the optician fine tuning his spectacles for perfect vision, consulted with the orthodontics to make sure his teeth line up, fitted in-soles in his shoes to keep his legs straight. And here I am wantonly risking his entire existence for the sake of something to do on a rainy Saturday afternoon.
And he doesn’t even like climbing. What’s more, the idiot instructor has signed a piece of paper certifying my competence as a climber. A piece of paper that will allow me to come back and do this all over again - with God knows how many small and vulnerable children - completely unsupervised. How can a society that refuses to sell him glue or beer, or let him watch a film unattended if it’s got blood in it, allow me to bring him and his friends here and dangle them willy-nilly from the top of an artificial cliff? Do we care so little for the wellbeing of our youngsters that we let incompetent and deceitful half-wits like me gamble their lives away? I’ve a good mind to complain to the leisure centre about its rank irresponsibility and disregard for public safety.
The youngest springs backwards off the top of the climbing wall and I wince as the knot takes the strain. For him that’s the best bit. The thrill of throwing himself off a cliff face, safely. All thanks to Dad’s knot. So trusting. So uninformed.
But then I wonder if this is actually quite a useful exercise for him - and for me. Life is, after all, about living with the fact that your very next breath could be your last. Who knows when you’re going to meet that drunk driver on the wrong side of the road? Share a carriage with that randomly placed rush-hour explosive device? Cease to exist thanks to that genetic time bomb that’s been lurking undetected in a dark corner of your DNA. We live our lives looking down the barrel of a revolver. I’ve just popped an extra couple of bullets in and given it a spin.
Already I’m beginning to harden to his predicament. He’ll probably be okay, but if he isn’t - well, c’est la vie. What can I do? Sooner or later he’s going to face dangers I can’t protect him from. Face the lottery of life unguarded. And if that knot gives, he’s on his own. I wonder if I may have stumbled upon something here. Perhaps there’s a gap in the market for Child Endangerment Services. Helping over-protective parents cut the umbilical chord. Or at least tie a knot in it.
@jesoverthinksit
For more existential introspection involving a child in extreme danger help yourself to a Free Lunch.
No comments:
Post a Comment