I’ll never forget how my first crush totally crushed all the fanciable feelings I had for him.
I was aged 11 and I was in 5th class. It was our first day back after the summer holidays and also the first time for the boys and girls to be mixed. We weren’t used to being with boys, you see. We didn’t mix at all in school. Even in the playground, we had to remain on our own side of the fence. So, it was quite a big change for us.
Our teacher decided that it would be a great idea to sit a boy beside a girl. Throw us in at the deep end, sure!
I had a massive crush on one particular boy. He was gorgeous. As the teacher began picking names out of two boxes (boy & girl), I silently prayed that I would get to sit beside Crush.
I couldn’t believe it when our names were picked out together. I was ecstatic! Crush and I made our way to our assigned desk. My heart thumped and the butterflies fluttered softly in my stomach.
I turned to Crush with a sweet loving smile on my face but he had his elbow on the desk with his head resting in his hand, facing away from me. I got the feeling that he wasn’t as impressed with the arrangement as I was.
I felt highly insulted. After a couple of hours, he relaxed a bit but still no engagement. He’ll come round, I thought.
When he began picking his nose and inspecting his findings, something inside me died. Did he just eat that? Every day he did this and not once did he look at me or speak to me.
I was never more relieved when our teacher rearranged the seating. I ended up sitting beside a lovely girl called Angela.
The nursery rhyme that I’d learned as a child played over and over in my head for weeks after. “Frogs and snails and puppy dog’s tails; that’s what little boys are made of.”
It took me quite a few years to fancy a boy again after that.
Thank you for reading.
Do you read fiction?
Would you like a peek inside the pages of my fictional novel? You never know, it might just be your cup of tea!
Set in a gossipy small town in Ireland at a time when marriage is for keeps and sexuality is repressed,Secrets in the Babby House is a family saga over three decades that starts in 1956. It isa story of love, deception, and stolen diaries filled with sins and secrets.
For today’s post I decided to do a bit of research in order to determine what style of parenting I was raised with.
Bear with me…this is not a boring lesson on parenting psychology. Sure who am I to lecture on parenting styles?
In the 1960’s, phychologist Diana Baumrind worked on developing ‘parenting styles theory’. She categorised them into four styles; authoritarian, authoritative, permissive and neglectful. The model was later redefined by Maccoby and Martin in 1983.
After inspecting each model, I’ve put my parents into a category!
Here’s what each one means (Just in case you’re not in the know).
Authoritarian;strict rules, harsh punishment if rules are not followed, little or no reasoning for the rules and punishments, high expectations, unsympathetic, unaccepting, cold, demand respect.
Authoritative;warm and nurturing, reason instead of demanding, encourage independence, consistent with enforcing boundaries, earn their child’s respect rather than demand it, encourage independence, teach about values and moral behaviour.
Permissive;set very few rules and are reluctant to enforce these rules, few boundaries.
Neglectful;they don’t set firm boundaries or high standards for their children, uninvolved in their childrens’ lives.
Going by this model I can safely say that my mother was an authoritative parent.
My father falls into a completely different parenting style category. One that’s called, ‘Don’t Tell Your Mother.’
I’ll explain…
While Mam was the rule maker, Dad was the rule breaker. We only broke the rules when Daddy Dearest encouraged us to.
When Mam would be getting ready for bingo he’d say to her, ‘Now Mam, get these to bed before you go because they won’t go for me.’
She’d have the supper in us, the jammies on and we’d be all tucked up in bed as she was leaving. She’d walk across the terrace to get the bingo bus to either Kells, Tullyvin, Shercock, or Kingscourt. Different towns on different nights.
As soon as she was out of sight, Dad would come up the stairs, ‘She’s gone,’ he’d cheer. We’d get up and the fun would begin. On the bright summer evenings he’d let us get dressed and go outside to play. ‘Don’t tell your mother,’ he’d warn.
On dark or wet evenings he’d let us watch telly, or play games. He’d sprinkle sugar on the floor (we had linoleum) so we could slide up and down in our socks. He’d give us weetabix spread with Golden Syrup or butter and sugar. He’d be a donkey and let us ride on his back. He’d play hide and seek with us…letting us hide in Mam’s wardrobe where we were totally banned from.
He’d always have us back in bed before Mam would get home from bingo. ‘Now, make sure you don’t tell your mother,’ he’d remind us.
One night she missed the bus and came home to find us all outside playing. He was in the doghouse for a week after that.
Sometimes he’d take us to work with him instead of school, especially if the weather was good. ‘Don’t tell your mother.’ Of course we didn’t tell!
He’d give us money for Mrs Fulton’s shop. ‘Don’t tell your mother, or she mightn’t buy sweets for yas tomorrow.’
When we’d get into trouble with Mam, he’d comfort us. If she said no, he’d say ‘Go on, but don’t tell your mother.’
A Hard Working Man
We’ve always laughed and joked about his style of parenting down through the years. Mam knew rightly what he got up to behind her back. Their opposed views on child raring didn’t cause any issues. They had a high regard for each other and worked it all out between them. Their zest for a fun-filled family life made everything okay!
Having said all that, Dad had limits too. He didn’t let us away with bad manners. We had tremendous respect for him and we knew the boundaries. He didn’t demand anything from us or lecture us…we just knew not to cross the line. I think my parents had the balance right!
Another family heirloom for our 100 day project. This is the christening gown that Lucy got baptised in nearly eleven years ago. It’s about 110 years old. Her late grandfather Eymard McBreen, was baptised in this over 90 years ago and many of the McBreen family members since then.
It’s a beautiful cream colour and made from handwoven silk. Eymard’s aunt Susan sent it from America. I think it’s beautiful, and timeless!
Lucy says she feels honoured and special to have worn the same gown as her grandfather!
Stephano isn’t really a fan of our vegetarian days…but he did a little happy dance when we promised him more red velvet cake and ice cream for dessert! Plus he loves baked potato so it was full steam ahead today for Little Miss Nine.
I sat back about 98% of the time today. Eager as a beaver to get started, she got all her ingredients out and measured the herbs and spices. For the first time in her life, she opened the tin cans herself. (Are we overprotective?) She didn’t slice off any fingers in the process! I explained how she needed to rinse the beans in the colander.
Gloria McBreen 