The streets are unusually quiet as I make my way to the train station; half term and no clouds of noisy schoolchildren to fight one's way through. Instead, when I reach Waterloo, there a children everywhere. The cafes are full of them chomping their way through burgers, sandwiches and pastries, and the concourse is spotted with miserable faces and upstretched arms, as parents drag them off to museums and other educational treats. Neither parents nor children seem to be looking forward to their day out in London and I am amused by this and wonder when it suddenly became so important to provide one's offspring with constant entertainment and activity in the school holidays. None of the children in the books I read as a child were pandered to in such worthy ways, and neither was I or any of my childhood peers. One especially sulky-looking small boy crosses my path. His father's face bears an expression of weary pain as they head for Burger King. 'Serve him right.' I think uncharitably, and continue my way to work, an ex-teacher's schadenfreude, born from years of dealing with other people's horrible, ill-raised children.
Tuesday 28 October 2008
Misanthropy
The streets are unusually quiet as I make my way to the train station; half term and no clouds of noisy schoolchildren to fight one's way through. Instead, when I reach Waterloo, there a children everywhere. The cafes are full of them chomping their way through burgers, sandwiches and pastries, and the concourse is spotted with miserable faces and upstretched arms, as parents drag them off to museums and other educational treats. Neither parents nor children seem to be looking forward to their day out in London and I am amused by this and wonder when it suddenly became so important to provide one's offspring with constant entertainment and activity in the school holidays. None of the children in the books I read as a child were pandered to in such worthy ways, and neither was I or any of my childhood peers. One especially sulky-looking small boy crosses my path. His father's face bears an expression of weary pain as they head for Burger King. 'Serve him right.' I think uncharitably, and continue my way to work, an ex-teacher's schadenfreude, born from years of dealing with other people's horrible, ill-raised children.
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3 comments:
I think it's just part of the whole overstructured, shuttled between play-dates, twenty hobbies and a team sport modern mode of middle class childrearing.
I suspect guilty overcompensation. When both parents work, their kids grow up in the care of strangers. Being able to point to a child's crammed activity schedule may be some comfort. Also, it makes it easier to 'schedule' parenting.
The exercise seems futile at best, and not necessarily in the child's best interest.
But what do I know? I'm from that generation that rode bikes without helmets and whose rule was to come home when the streetlights came on. Our holidays were long, lazy, gorgeously unstructured things and among my most treasured memories.
I have often bemoaned the lack of freedom today's children have. My bicycle provided transportation and I provided my own entertainment. Nobody knew or cared where I went as long as I was home for dinner.
It's sad that there are predators afoot so adult supervision is now necessary, but the over-regimentation, the non-stop structure of children's leisure time no longer allows for lying in the grass watching clouds, or stars, building tree houses or other free-form activities, and this may interfere with the development of their imaginations and their ability to think independently.
Some polish was gained with our ruin.
I abhor the structured life not only the children have, but it is the same life of their parents. Soccer moms disgust me-I cannot imagine shaping my life around practices and games, unless the child was so talented they would go pro.
My mother would send us all out to play for hours, sometimes denying us entry into the house. We knew to come home at dusk, after roaming the woods, tree climbing, dizzying ourselves when spinning and then plopping ourselves on the grass with eyes closed feeling the turning sensation, observing all the insect in the grass, and so many other wonderful things.
It was this existence that I think brought a gentility to childhood.
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