How To Raise The Perfect Child And Genuinely Celebrate Mothers Day

Something extraordinarily momentous is going to happen on my blog today. Something that doesn’t happen very often, so prepare yourselves.

 

Mr Benn The Pirate (Photo credit: a11sus)

This post is going to be a HAPPY post.

 

If Mr Benn can do it (Pom joke), so can I. So today I am choosing to be Pharell Williams and to ‘feel happy’, even though its taken all of my courage to post this piece because I am fully aware that I run the risk of losing those few loyal readers, who obviously share my antipathy towards life in general and get off on a good whinge.

 

And yes, I am fully aware of the potential repercussions. Anxiety says that if you find yourself in a happy place – Be FUCKING AWARE – no-one really gets away with that shit, and some hideous retribution will be lurking around the corner.

 

But I’ll ignore the voices for today, because guess what? Kurt is doing okay at school.

 

I SAID KURT IS DOING OKAY AT SCHOOL.

 

Cue: drum roll and god-awful trumpet sounds.

 

 

HALLELUJAH, Hallelujah, Hallelujah……

 

According to his teachers, (and I quote), ‘there have been no major behavior infringements this term, his key assignments have been completed and handed in on time (which makes his tutor the best $40 I’ve spent in a long time) and his teachers LIKE him.

 

‘I’m sorry, you must have made a mistake.’ I questioned. ‘My son’s Kurt Cobain.’

 

It turns out that my son is ‘trying’.

 

So this current state of euphoria must be what parents that don’t have ‘Kurts’ feel on parents evening? I keep humming ‘you are the wind beneath my wings’ playfully in his ear, but he swats me away angrily, like he would a fly.

 

But he has negotiated a Macca’s this weekend as the first recompense for ‘CONFORMING’.

 

It’s all my fault, apparently. So what’s new?

 

It was funny not walking away from the usual parent speed-dating night (thanks @meggsie62 for that wonderful analogy) without wanting to camouflage myself or hide and weep in the nearest dark corner with a bottle of Vodka. Strange not to feel deflated or fearful about my son’s future; I didn’t even HATE (WITH A WORRYING LEVEL OF VENGEANCE) every other parent in the hall and all their perfectly formed children.

 

I left that hall with my head held high, a very silly grin plastered on my face and a distinct spring to my step.

 

In fact what I really wanted to do was get on a soapbox and shout out to everyone there, ‘Yes, that’s my son, Kurt Cobain. Form an orderly queue, please, if you want to learn how to successfully parent a child with ADHD,’ and on the back of this I would obviously set up a financially successful parenting programme and cite wine and chocolate as my major influences.

 

But I was too worried that the old man might get to the wine drip I’d set up at home first.