Many people who know them profess the Axis to be the most boy-like boys they have ever met, with more than one friend describing them as 'slugs and snails and puppy dogs tails' little boys. Yet the gruesome pair are indeed in touch with with their feminine side. Kinda...Here are three ways in which gender identity has reared its head recently at Axis Towers:
1. Anything Pink: The Axis love pink. They look pretty damn good in it, too, the multicultural metrosexuals they indubitably are. Pie rocks a mean fuchsia t with a dinosaur motif, while the Kong is cool in pastels and peaches. A couple of years ago, Pie was so into pink that I saw a cup at Tate St Ives that was bright pink, had lots of different textures on it, a photo of a neon sign flashing 'PINK' and a pink china doll on. Naturally, I got it for him. It's still his favourite cup, and it is pretty darn awesome. As he is away with his dad, I was cradling it fondly when my GBF came round. GBF sniffed disdainfully at the gorgeous article, muttered 'isn't that a girl's cup?' then slouched off outside with an ever-so-manly roll-up while I huffed and puffed inside. Right then, GBF, that's another lump of coal in your Christmas stocking...
2. Modes of (Ad)Dress: Recently we were at a school fete, about which, more later, once the lawsuits have subsided. At this joyful event there were several stalls, all of which are designed to rob you of all the small change produced in the national mint this year with the speed and dexterity of a Victorian pickpocket. I gave the Axis a miniscule amount of shrapnel and some centimes left over from a 1996 French exchange trip and sent them off to do their worst. Sure enough, within a couple of minutes the following exchange occurred.
Stallholder: (propelling Pie forward) Are you this boy's mother?
Me: Depends...
Stallholder: He says he has to call you 'Sir'.
Me: I...er...
Stallholder: I told him not to be so cheeky but he's quite adamant.
Noah: Sir! Sir! I did as I told you Sir! May I have a drink now Sir please Sir!
OK, so there is a reason for this. Recently there was a co-ordinated operation to clean the Axis' bedroom. It required military planning and precision, and the little toads would not do a thing I said. In order to get their attention, I told them that from now on, they were to address me as 'Sir' or I wouldn't do anything they wanted. They took great delight in this, and adapted happily to the new Peppermint Patty-style gender-confused moniker. Unfortunately as I was explaining this to the unconvinced member of the PTA (which fascist society, as any self-respecting parent of schoolies knows, has all the understanding and empathy of the Spanish Inquisition on an off day), the Kong had decided to spend some of his money, on a very fetching little hairbrush and slide set, which he purchased from an apparently seriously short-sighted pensioner (these are another abundant feature of the joys of school fetes). Said older lady beamed happily at him and said to me 'Isn't she going to look lovely? Look what good care she takes of her hair!'. Undeterred, the Kong, resplendent in the most boy-ful clothes he possesses, beamed back, unwrapped the hairbrush and proceeded to roundly attack his brother with it, sending him fleeing, howling, into the middle of the taekwondo demonstration going on in the Year 1 playground. Several cracked clay slabs later we were advised to leave the area before any further action was taken. Axis ejected, once more.
3. Messianic Complexes: The Kong was lying in the bath, hair flowing out behind him like a halo, when I discovered the water had gone dangerously cold and asked him to get out. 'No.' Why not, el Kongerone? 'Because I'm the little baby Jesus.' What? He fetched his flannels and stuck them all over his body. 'Look. Got cloths wrapped round all tightly. Heh heh heh heh heh heh.' Sunday school appears to have backfired. I then overheard Kong chatting with one of his little (female) friends at nursery: Kong: I'm the little baby Jesus. Friend: No I'M the little baby Jesus. Kong: No you can't, cos you're a girl. Friend: Jesus was a girl too. And a boy. Kong: Like my grandad?
Holy macaroni.
Thursday 30 August 2012
Sunday 5 August 2012
I'd love to stay here and be normal. But it's just so overrated
It was bound to happen at some point, but I've finally taken the big leap into the unknown. No, I've not put the Axis up for adoption. I've put myself up for a new job, and, by golly, I got it. Lord only knows what I can expect, and as far as the boys are concerned. very little has changed. I guess I'm shouting at them less (30% as opposed to 60% of the time); only every third knock at the door might credibly be social services, and there's a lot more singing, dancing, playing of instruments and generally fuckwittery in the house. All of which, if you're a five or three year old boy, is to be welcomed.
What's less welcome is the lack of cash. However, this primarily impacts on me, as the Axis are highly adept and unaware shoplifters (I'm kidding). No, really, this is all part of the adventure of single parenthood. Being ingenious about how you make money is all part of it. Most ingenious of all is how you hide your lack of readies from your less impoverished friends. No-one is as boring as a skint friend, and keeping up appearances becomes more important the less you're able to do it. True friends will love you anyway, will come round and drink BIERE instead of beer and will suffer the vileness that is your bathroom and carpets without complaint, but they are few and far between (mainly concentrated around the Glasgow area last time I looked).
However, it remains that I live in a particular part of Bristol, that I attend a particular church and that I am a particular kind of cantankerous old bitch. I must admit, I like it that way. I never had any authority before. I doubt I have much now, judging by the way the Axis grin at me when I try to tell them off. I pity the world before them; the charm they possess is out of all proportion to the havoc they may wreak. The Pie is essentially my family distilled in a beautiful, charming, intelligent and engaging individual; the boy is sheer delight from the moment he wakes to the moment he sleeps (if you can get him to shut up for the odd second here or there), incredibly talented, could master anything he turned his hand to. The Kong is all the best bits of his father; moody, stroppy, seductive, witty, lovable, verbose, cerebral, adoring and just so utterly scrumptious you can forgive him anything and follow him around the world if he wants you too (except to south Bristol. I mean, there are limits). But I have spent the past four years cultivating my image as a respectable and safe maiden of the church, and I think it's finally paying off - one of the other church parents of kids my age (who normally avoid me like the plague in case I try and get off with their husbands) asked me to the cinema next week! Does this mean I'm finally accepted or that I've succeeded in appearing to be utterly sexless? The one is acceptable and the other is a disaster, and I for one am not sure which would be which.
I go out to dinner with a friend. She is a wonderful, wonderful woman; intelligent, incredibly talented, one of the most hardworking people I've ever met. My family, all nurses or other immigrant workers, would be mightily impressed with her. Yet she apologises for everything; for having a hard job, and talking about it; for having too much pressure on her, and talking about it; for apologising. I can't understand it, then I realise that several years ago, I was her. Working constantly, completely dedicated, consumed by the desire to know; all admirable things, but ouch, you have to give a lot to pursue it. These days, I'm more selfish. I've succumbed to the fuck-it factor, as another ice-cream loving chum puts it. I listen to Blur playing Beetlebum at Maida Vale 15 years after it came out and still feel pained like I did then.
But I'm lucky. I can look at my Kongie boy's black, black eyes; I can listen to him shouting he wants his brother; I have them both swarming me and saying how much they love me, how I'm the best mummy in the whole world (fools!); we sit together and play drums, guitars and the piano and make it sound halfway decent; we have a life together, a family life, a life including sound and vision and toys blocking U-bends and ACDC and helicopters and zumba and cricket and the Tyne, Forth and Cromarty. I look at my beautiful boys and know what a lucky so and so I am; how I don't deserve anything as wonderful, as pure, as truly amazing as they are, and how much I hope they don't waste time trying to impress fools who aren't worthy of them, which I think we all do. I wish we didn't. I wish I didn't. I hope they don't.
What's less welcome is the lack of cash. However, this primarily impacts on me, as the Axis are highly adept and unaware shoplifters (I'm kidding). No, really, this is all part of the adventure of single parenthood. Being ingenious about how you make money is all part of it. Most ingenious of all is how you hide your lack of readies from your less impoverished friends. No-one is as boring as a skint friend, and keeping up appearances becomes more important the less you're able to do it. True friends will love you anyway, will come round and drink BIERE instead of beer and will suffer the vileness that is your bathroom and carpets without complaint, but they are few and far between (mainly concentrated around the Glasgow area last time I looked).
However, it remains that I live in a particular part of Bristol, that I attend a particular church and that I am a particular kind of cantankerous old bitch. I must admit, I like it that way. I never had any authority before. I doubt I have much now, judging by the way the Axis grin at me when I try to tell them off. I pity the world before them; the charm they possess is out of all proportion to the havoc they may wreak. The Pie is essentially my family distilled in a beautiful, charming, intelligent and engaging individual; the boy is sheer delight from the moment he wakes to the moment he sleeps (if you can get him to shut up for the odd second here or there), incredibly talented, could master anything he turned his hand to. The Kong is all the best bits of his father; moody, stroppy, seductive, witty, lovable, verbose, cerebral, adoring and just so utterly scrumptious you can forgive him anything and follow him around the world if he wants you too (except to south Bristol. I mean, there are limits). But I have spent the past four years cultivating my image as a respectable and safe maiden of the church, and I think it's finally paying off - one of the other church parents of kids my age (who normally avoid me like the plague in case I try and get off with their husbands) asked me to the cinema next week! Does this mean I'm finally accepted or that I've succeeded in appearing to be utterly sexless? The one is acceptable and the other is a disaster, and I for one am not sure which would be which.
I go out to dinner with a friend. She is a wonderful, wonderful woman; intelligent, incredibly talented, one of the most hardworking people I've ever met. My family, all nurses or other immigrant workers, would be mightily impressed with her. Yet she apologises for everything; for having a hard job, and talking about it; for having too much pressure on her, and talking about it; for apologising. I can't understand it, then I realise that several years ago, I was her. Working constantly, completely dedicated, consumed by the desire to know; all admirable things, but ouch, you have to give a lot to pursue it. These days, I'm more selfish. I've succumbed to the fuck-it factor, as another ice-cream loving chum puts it. I listen to Blur playing Beetlebum at Maida Vale 15 years after it came out and still feel pained like I did then.
But I'm lucky. I can look at my Kongie boy's black, black eyes; I can listen to him shouting he wants his brother; I have them both swarming me and saying how much they love me, how I'm the best mummy in the whole world (fools!); we sit together and play drums, guitars and the piano and make it sound halfway decent; we have a life together, a family life, a life including sound and vision and toys blocking U-bends and ACDC and helicopters and zumba and cricket and the Tyne, Forth and Cromarty. I look at my beautiful boys and know what a lucky so and so I am; how I don't deserve anything as wonderful, as pure, as truly amazing as they are, and how much I hope they don't waste time trying to impress fools who aren't worthy of them, which I think we all do. I wish we didn't. I wish I didn't. I hope they don't.
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