short story – KN J Tales and Snippets

JOURNEY TO MATURITY

During lockdown, we bought a Nintendo game called Animal Crossing. Have you heard of it? It’s a popular social simulation game where you play a customisable character that willingly moves to a deserted island run by a (shady-ass) raccoon named Tom Nook, the island landlord. He gives you a tent and some tools. You make ‘money’ through selling fish and bugs that you catch. Pillaging and pilfering for resources from smaller islands and trading on the turnip stock market gets you the big bucks (ahem… just a tip). You can recreate your own dream island filled with friends, fruit and money trees, a museum and a clothing store. If you don’t mind repaying exorbitant mortgage loans to Tom, you can turn your humble tent into a three storey house and hoard furniture and clothes until your heart’s content.

Anyway, I’m getting off track. The point is, the kids love this game and so do I. It’s fun, friendly and ever so addictive. Whenever my three-year-old son has a turn, he likes to take off all his character’s clothing and run around in his underwear. Whenever my seven-year-old daughter has a turn, she likes to go to the clothing store and spend all her money on unnecessary fashion.

It’s painful to sit and watch them play. I have a habit of telling them what to do. I remind them that there’s fruit to harvest and sell, weeds and fallen sticks to pick up, mortgage loans to repay, and island star ratings to consider.

My husband always says, “Let them play their game how they want.”

You see, I forget that each child is playing the game to their level of maturity. Each person is unique in their definition of success and their journey to maturity. What a three-year-old boy finds interesting is different to that of a seven-year-old girl. And the same goes for adults.

My son is a hoarder of fish and furniture. He has a room filled to the brim with fish tanks and furniture stacked randomly inside and outside of his house. My daughter has questionable taste in fashion and wallpaper. She will spend her entire savings at the clothing store. But that is their game. That is what’s important to them. That is where they are in their journey.

As an adult, I am used to running on that pesky treadmill of life (obviously not literally because sweating and I have a hate-hate relationship). I am much further along in my journey to maturation, having experienced some high and lows of this rollercoaster called a life. Sometimes I forget to have realistic expectations of my children.

I need to remind myself to give my children the freedom to grow emotionally, socially, spiritually and intellectually at a pace that meets their needs. They will have plenty of years to be burdened by the complexities of life but as a parent, I can try to shelter them as best I can. Hopefully, in a way that doesn’t turn them into precious snowflakes!

In the meantime, I’ll wait until they’re asleep to log onto Animal Crossing to harvest all those unpicked fruit, make some money and pay off their loans. Hey, I’m not addicted! Someone’s gotta do it. Well, that’s the excuse I’m sticking to.

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SQUARE CUT

Most people will fork out the money to have their hair cut and styled by a professional. Why? Because unless you have eyes behind your head and extra limbs, it’s pretty hard to give yourself an even trim or a styled haircut. A DIY dye job? Yeah, achievable for the majority. DIY highlights? Doable for some. For most people, the cost of a trip to the hairdresser is insurance against sporting a hair fail that will take months to grow out. That’s not to say that disastrous results don’t happen at salons but you’d think the odds are lower.

So why are we quick to grab the kitchen scissors and offer our services to hack someone else’s hair? Why do we think we can do the job a professional is trained to do?

When my daughter was two-years-old, I convinced my husband that trimming her hair would be easy peasy. It would save us money and time, and spare her the trauma of facing a stranger wielding sharp scissors. Luckily, I succeeded in giving our daughter a decent hairdo. As a result, my husband readily agreed to the next cut.

Only something terrible happened. Maybe it was the pressure of expectations. Maybe I had a bad pair of scissors. Maybe the three cups of coffee I had prior made my hands shaky. If I’m being totally honest with myself, the first time was probably a fluke.

Whatever the case, I gave my almost three-year-old daughter a sixteenth century Trappist monk-like haircut, minus the bald spot. You know the one I’m talking about? AKA a mushroom cut or a bowl cut. I kept trying to correct the uneven bits and instead of cutting my losses, I pressed on. Eventually, I had to stop because I ran out of hair to cut.

My poor little girl lost her wavy brown tresses and had to sport a Dumb and Dumber look for months. A beanie became her best friend. Suffice to say, my haircutting privileges were revoked, never to be returned. We learned a valuable lesson from this mishap.

1. Less is more.
2. Know when to quit.
3. Sometimes accepting mistakes is better than trying to fix them.
4. Some things are best left to the professionals.

When my three-year-old son needed a haircut last week, I didn’t think twice about booking an appointment. Unfortunately, our usual hairdresser was fully booked for another month and given that Henry’s fringe had started impinging on his sight, I felt the urgency in getting the task done. We visited two hair salons before dropping into the nearest barber.

Poking my head into the shop, I asked the man if they catered for children. The man looked at Henry and said, “It depends. Will he sit still? Will he behave?” I should have listened to my ‘this is a bad idea’ instincts and backed the fudge away but I hadn’t wanted the time spent searching to be in vain.

After reassuring both the man and Henry, we proceeded with the haircut. My only stipulation was that he didn’t use a hairdryer or an electric razor as Henry is sensitive to the noise. The last time Henry visited the hairdresser, he spent the entire time with an anxious scowl, watching for any movement towards the dreaded handheld hairdryer.

The man complained that it would be difficult to execute a good cut without them. That should have served as a second warning from the Universe but like a stubborn mule, I ignored the tingling bells.

This man was like Edward Scissorhands reincarnated. He snipped and clipped at a furious rate. Poor Henry had his eyes squeezed shut and shoulders bunched for the whole duration. I could understand his reaction because it was terrifying to watch. I kept saying, “You’re doing so well buddy. The man’s a professional. He knows what he’s doing and he WON’T cut you.” I was tempted to pull the plug half-way through.

Ten minutes later, twenty bucks down and Henry walked out physically unscathed but sporting a professional crooked square haircut. You know the one I’m talking about? Unintentional blunt bangs that was in desperate need of some texturing and a leveller, and jagged sideways lightning bolts around the outside of the ears.

I don’t know what is worse; a DIY Trappist monk inspired haircut or an expensive haircut from a barber with the fine motor skills of a preschooler.

Anyway, it was my bad. Again. If I’m not prepared to drop into any old salon and get my hair styled by an unknown hairdresser, why did I subject my kid to that treatment? I chose the fastest way to solve a problem at the cost of my son’s comfort. I learned another valuable lesson here.

When my son asks, “Where are the photos of my first days at kinder?”, I’m gonna have to say iCloud got hacked but only those specific photos got deleted.

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FREE WILLY

How do you know if you’re a prude? Secretly, I think I might be one. I cringe inwardly while watching sex scenes. I cringe inwardly while listening to my friends discuss their sexual anything. I cringe at seeing people being overtly physical in public. I cringe at seeing too much flesh – like boobs threatening jailbreak or underbutts playing peekaboo. It would seem that I cringe a lot.

I blame my parents for this cringing problem. Perhaps if my parents had understood the importance of being open with discussions on sex, consent and STDs or healthy body image and relationships, maybe I would be more confident within my own skin. And therefore, I wouldn’t be prone to cringing as often.

My three-year-old son started on-site kindergarten this week. On his second day, my husband found a car park in front of the vacant lot next to the kindergarten. I remained in the car with our daughter while he lined up to retrieve our son.

A black SUV swerved into the spot in front of us and out climbed a woman in a worn grey drop crotch baggy pants (the crotch was dangling between her knees) and an off-the-shoulder sweat top. She milled around chatting to the other parents (minus the appropriate social distance) before dragging her boy to the boot of her car.

“I hope she’s not going to throw him in the back!” exclaimed my seven-year-old daughter, Mandy.

The woman did throw the boy into the boot but not because she ran out of passenger seats. Instead, she stripped him of his clothes while loudly cursing to anyone who would listen about how he had wet his pants. She proceeded to take her butt naked son to the nearest tree to pee, which happened to be on the vacant lot. The only tree was located next to the footpath where parents were lined up for kinder pick-ups. It was also in our direct line of sight.

The duo didn’t go behind said tree or go towards the bushes in the back of the lot. The woman stood in front of the tree with the boy facing the footpath. His penis was in full view. His spray hit dangerously close to those waiting nearby. The mother had absolutely no compunction about her son peeing in public.

“That’s weird,” commented Mandy.

Weird was an understatement. I mean, really? I’m all about free Willy but was there no shame? I get that when a young child needs to go, they need to go. And sometimes, a tree is the only option. But come on! Turn the other way for goodness’ sake!

Honestly, it was like watching a train wreck. I couldn’t have looked away even if I wanted to and you can bet that I cringed. I cringed so hard my face got a stitch. But you know what? This doesn’t make me a prude. Nope, no siree!

Who wouldn’t cringe watching a naked three-year-old boy emptying his bladder while his mother casually chats to people standing nearby? These people didn’t ask to be within spraying distance!

Whatever happened to being discreet?!

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