LUKY:
WHEN MY ELDEST CHILD WAS IN HER EARLY TEENS, I FOUND TO MY HORROR THAT WE WERE CLASHING.
We didn't have fights, really, but sometimes when I'd be holding forth, I'd suddenly turn to face her, finding her eyes cast heavenwards in silent supplication for strength. On such occasions she'd call me Mother.
"Why is it, Mother, that you can never tell a story without bringing a moral into it?"
I countered that one neatly - or so I hoped.
"To me," I said smugly, "a story without a moral is a story wasted."
Happy ending
The turning point in our relationship came the day she set eyes on our last baby. She fell instantly in love with Jean, and her misgivings about me evaporated, because wasn't I the clever one to give birth to such a lovely baby?
She went all over town, bragging about her sister.
"I met Mrs Jones and her daughter in town today. They send their regards and congratulations."
"Thanks, but why congratulations?"
"I told them about some of Jean's antics, and they said she's unusually advanced for a child of only five months."
"You know," I said seriously, "I hate to hurt your feelings, but unless you're careful you're going to become the sort of woman people avoid. Jean is sweet, I grant you, but so are other people's children."
"I see what you mean, yes, I must watch that tendency. But between us, Ma, don't you think she's exceptionally intelligent?"
"There you go again", I said and we both laughed.
Look of love
A thing which always struck me about my husband was that before going to work he'd tiptoe into the children's bedrooms and just stand quietly, gazing at them. I sometimes wondered what would be passing through his mind. As for me, my maxim is let sleeping babies lie.
Then I noticed that my daughter, before going to school, would tiptoe into Jean's room and gaze at her in just that same still way, yet I don't believe she'd ever seen her father do it.
Noise and mess
Yes, we are a children-loving family. It never ceases to astound me that for all the noise, mess and irritation they cause, most children are adored by their parents.
It is the simple sincerity of children that I love.
My Maria is another sincere one. Anxiously I said to the nun who taught her:
"Anything wrong you hear about us from the News of the World, please let it go in one ear and out the other."
"The stories about your family are nothing to some I've heard", she smiled. "I keep them all locked in my heart."
Well, thank goodness for that, anyway.
My toothbrush
I was annoyed to find my toothbrush used in the mornings, so my husband bought eight new toothbrushes, four big, four small, all different colours. Each child memorised his or her own, and for a week all went well.
Then one morning my brush had been used again. I stood in the passage and lifted my voice:
"This nonsense has to stop. Each of you has a toothbrush: why can't you leave mine alone? Woe betide the one I catch using it after today."
Suddenly Maria was beside me, all hair and brown eyes.
"You're to leave Mom's toothbrush alone from now on", she scolded. Then as though feeling she might have been a little harsh, she added:
"But is you don't like your own, you're very welcome to use mine."
LUKY;
WHEN I WAS ABOUT EIGHT, ALL THE GIRLS IN MY CLASS AT SCHOOL USED TO QUARREL WITH ME.
You know how it goes. One very popular girl has a clash with you, her friends join in, and soon you find yourself put in Coventry by girls you hardly know.
I used to wander into my father's bakery early in the morning before school and tell him my problems. Now a bakery is one of the most disciplined places in the world, since it depends on accurate timing. If the bread is in a minute too short, it is under baked; if it is in too long, it is burnt.
Technique
If I remember correctly, my father would put the bread in the oven, then prepare the trays for the following load, after which he'd go out into the silent street, light himself a cigarette, and reflect on life until it was time to take the bread out of the oven.
Then the world's most easygoing, phlegmatic man would become a dynamo for the space of time it took to get the next load prepared.
As a very young man he was once taking his breather on the street when a royal carriage clattered by, containing Queen Wilhelmina and Crown Princess Juliana - probably on their way to a church service, since it was Sunday. He said he bowed almost to the ground, as they smiled and waved.
Flycatchers
Usually, however, he had the street to himself. That is, until I started having problems.
My father stocked sweets in the shop, so he gave me a big bag of them to take to school. They were big red round sweets. If you only suck them they can last up to an hour.
"You catch more flies with a spoonful of honey than with a barrelful of vinegar", he said. "Never be nasty to the girls when they're unkind to you: always return a kind answer for a gibe. Give one of these to every child in your class. Then you'll find that they'll leave you alone."
Galling
My poor father really believed this. So did I, until I had shared out my sweets. You cannot imagine how galling it is to be jeered at by girls whose mouths are full of one's sweets.
So it came to pass that I found out that it is impossible to make people like one at a very early age, no matter how much one craves their approval.
But if my father's advice about the sweets missed its mark, his quotation about the honey and vinegar - culled, I subsequently learned, from St Francis de Sales - has always remained firm part of my outlook.
My mother, and later my husband, always sent me to shops with messages which they felt unable to deliver. My husband used to pretend he didn't belong with me when I returned empties to the bottle store, or overdue books to the library.
I just cannot see why such actions should be embarrassing. I have friends in most of the shops, apart from the department store counter whose attendant had annoyed me.
Since it was my money which was passing over the counter, I felt free to comment adversely.
My father's warning came true in a different way that time. I didn't catch that fly with my barrelful of vinegar.
Lead
Generally, however, I try to be pleasant to people, even when they're being nasty. It's become such a habit by now that even when someone attacks me and I want to reply in kind, my tongue seems to turn to lead and refuses to co-operate.
That spoonful of honey, I think; and can one minute's satisfaction at successfully countering a verbal attack ensure me a lasting victory? Is it worth it?
By that time my foe has already turned away, bearing the honours of war.
Merely polite
Afraid lest my silence betokened cowardice, I spoke to the late Fr Norbert Jansen about it one day. He was not only brilliant, but simple too, so that no problem ever seemed small to him.
"Cowardly?" he said, "On the contrary, when you return a pleasant answer for a gibe, you are being polite."
Catherine Nicolette
I went through my fair share of difficulties at school, too. Looking back, I realise that I experienced bullying.
From what I glean from conversations and the media, bullying seems to be a universal experience. Many suffer from this misery in their formative years, and it generally leaves a deep impression - if not scarring.
I dealt with the bullying as best I could. It was when the bullying turned to violence I used to find it hard to cope with.
I had heard the teaching of Jesus in Matthew 5;39; "But I say to you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also."
I decided to follow this teaching; so the next time I was bullied I refused to fight back. Puzzled, my antagonist slapped me on my cheek. The tears sprang to my eyes, but I clenched my fists and quavered, "I want to be like Jesus. If you slap me on my right cheek, I'll offer you my left cheek." Bravely I proffered my little face, thinking that the other would leave me alone. In answer I got a fist to the face that left me, for the first time in my life, understanding what it meant to literally see stars.
My lip started bleeding, and one of my teeth felt loose. This was not good. I turned to flee, and, as I did so, the other child jeered, "Want to be like Jesus, do you? Well, let me help you!" And as the child's friends laughed, a kick landed on my posterior, and sent me flying into the dust. I scrabbled away before any more happened.
I sat for a long time after I had cleaned off the blood, dirt and tears. Poking an exploratory tongue around the by now decidedly wobbly tooth, I sighed. Being a Christian was promising to be no walk in the park. I wasn't sure how to deal with the issue, but one thing was certain; I wasn't going back to be pounded again.
For two months I tried to sit as little as possible. It was painful sitting through classes, but as I was too shy and scared to show the bruising on my lower spine, I did the best I could.
Thereafter I used to hide behind the bushes, and leg it home only after I had safely seen my tormenters long go by.
I don't have any easy answers to the conundrum of bullying; all I know is, I have always tried not to use bullying behaviour myself.
I would not want anyone to ever feel the way I did.
As an adult, you thankfully heal - but as a child, you are so very vulnerable . . .
LUKY;
My youngest son went to Cyprus for a holiday to stay with a former schoolfriend.
His elder brother saw him off at the airport.
"How did he get away?" I asked my son when he phoned later to report on the departure.
"Very well," the latter said. "Actually he had us in stitches about you."
"That's nothing new," I sighed mentally. "Why?" I asked resignedly.
"Well, he said the trip came twenty years late. It seems he had been asked by his friend and his parents to come with them to Cyprus when he was about ten. You had refused permission because you said he shouldn't be so beholden to his friend."
"I haven't changed my mind since," I said. "I don't believe that when you cannot reciprocate you should accept such generosity because in my experience it destroys equality between friends. But why was that so funny?"
"Actually that wasn't the funny part. That came when the friend returned from holiday and brought him back a T-shirt of Cyprus. It featured a picture of a lady without arms but otherwise well endowed. Not enough that you wouldn't let him wear it but, ever the pragmatist, you had to go and buy a Mickey Mouse transfer and iron it over the offending damsel. Only then he was allowed to put it on."
The reason why my children and I can't see eye to eye on many things is that I cannot appreciate the humour they find so richly evident in my actions.
I still can't see how any mother with common sense would let her little boy walk around in a T-shirt featuring the picture of a topless lady, regardless whether she be Venus de Milo or a model.
It is also the sort of thing that makes my eldest son regard me as an arch-Philistine. Actually I have seen the real Venus de Milo in the Louvre Museum in Paris. Moreover, unlike many others, I have viewed her back view as well as her front. It's a glorious sculpture and does very well in a showcase among all the other art treasures. But it didn't belong on the shirt of my little boy.
A lot of T-shirts are totally tasteless to my mind. One of my children once brought home one with a picture of a man who committed suicide. The slogan proclaimed that it was better to go out with a bang than a whimper. My unsophisticated husband wore it for months, smiling proudly whenever the kids would say:
"Way to go, Dad. Welcome to the New Millennium." He took it off the day he realised the way the man had died. I threw it out when the municipality collected the refuse bags and cheerfully paid up when the child to whom it belonged insisted I do so.
On another occasion I stood behind a young boy at church choir practice whose shirt loudly proclaimed: "Be wise. Condomise."
A new Commandment? I'm not ashamed to say I complained to the preacher who said he'd take it from there.
So there you have it. Not only am I a stick-in-the-mud. I'm not even apologetic about it. My TV remote control must be the most overworked little gadget in my house. I can never forget that when I stand before Almighty God to be judged, the writers of plays which do not uphold the Commandments won't be there to hold my hand. And I'll be in enough trouble as it is.
Catherine Nicolette
I deeply offended a young gentleman some months ago when I told him I found the image and wording on his T-shirt to be offensive and disrespectful to women.
Without wishing to be distasteful in a family blog, I was amazed to be faced with a T-shirt about necrophilia.
I expressed my concern that children - nay, anyone - be faced with the graphic image and wording. It had certainly taken my mind off having my early morning cup of coffee.
The gentleman was not pleased at my remark. I felt it only fair to sit down with him, and we had a discussion. The young man expressed that his T-shirt was his own private business and had nothing to do with me or anyone else.
I expressed my view that a slogan and picture on a T-shirt is a public statement for which the wearer is responsible - precisely because it is in the public domain for all to see.
The gentleman voiced that no-one had ever made a remark about his T-shirt before. I replied that people most certainly would have their own thoughts on the subject; I had, however, voiced mine.
The young man was appalled when I said that if I saw someone wearing a T-shirt with the abovenamed subject, I felt concern about the wearers' stand on the subject.
He hastened to assure me that he wore the T-shirt as a 'fantastical thought - something that could never happen.' He was also appalled that I could even think such a thing as necrophilia could even be possible.
I was happy to have voiced my opinion. I also expressed that such a T-shirt was unsuitable to wear in public to be seen by young children with growing minds. If we, as public, accept such T-shirts without comment, surely our innocent youth will eventually come to regard such subjects as the norm.
We came to an amicable understanding. The young gentleman said that he would give the matter some thought, as he had not seen it in that light. We greeted one another, and as I left the area another young gentleman caught my eye.
He was so grateful that I had said what he had been thinking . . .
