Parenting 101: In the trenches

Parenting is a tough gig.

Anyone who says otherwise is either lying, or they are not parents - and the whole concept of parenting is simply an abstract notion to them. 

Down in the trenches of parenthood things can get pretty hairy, and exhausting, and it can all be a wild ride.  

As parents - our emotions and our coping abilities are often stretched to their limits.  Escaping to a paid job can feel like a holiday in comparison.  

Many long days, and even longer nights, can be lost worrying about our children and their behaviour, and their decisions, and their problems - health, social, academic, career ...

And, my older patients inform me that parental worries about children never stop.  Even when children become adults, the worries continue relating to adult issues: divorces, work problems, mental illnesses, physical illnesses, financial worries, problems with grandchildren  …

As parents - we usually feel compelled to help our children carry the burden of their problems.  We feel responsible to help them sort out their difficulties, if we can, and we try to make things better for them, and we try to keep them safe and happy. 

Most of us, as parents, would step in front of a truck to protect our children.  We would risk our own safety, and our health, and our financial security, and our sanity - in order to help them.   

We are their parents.  That is our job. It seems that those feelings are innate.

Protecting our children and helping them is part of the unspoken laws which parents commit to from the moment that we first hold them as new-borns.

We love them.  

We may not love their behaviour, or their decisions, or all of the things they do in their lives - which cause us to lie awake at night worrying. 

But we love them.  

And, when times get hard, we often recall our most treasured memories of our children - when they were little - as babies, or toddlers, or on their first day at primary school when they were dressed in a shiny new school-uniform, and they carried a big school-bag - which reached down to their knees, and they wore a giant smile on their sweet little faces as they posed for the camera. Their expressions were hopeful, and happy, and excited, and filled with trust - before life knocked them around a bit - and then a more jaded expression tinged with cynicism, and disappointed, and defensiveness became the new norm.

We hold those precious memories of our children sacred - along with a small collection of our other most-cherished memories. These are the memories which define our lives.

However, for all it's lovely and wonderful times, parenthood brings with it worries and stresses and heart-ache which can turn our hair grey early; cause us to lose a lot of weight - or gain a lot of weight - depending on how we deal with stress; cause us to drown our worries in the bottom of a bottle, or take up smoking, or take up any number of unhealthy habits (in Psychology these are known as 'maladaptive coping mechanisms' - so much easier and often more instantly gratifying than the more mature 'adaptive coping mechanisms').  

Please note - that as a doctor I'm not advocating unhealthy maladaptive coping mechanisms.  But as a parent - I can sympathise and understand how useful they can be … to help us cope! Occasionally.

The stresses of parenthood might even drive us to dream, for a fleeting moment, about running away from all of the worries of parenting … to somewhere peaceful and quiet and alone … living as a hermit in an isolated hut on some remote unchartered  island  with no one else and no problems to worry about …   Err hmm -  Not that I've ever had that dream. I refer to other people - of course. I've heard other people ...

Anyway, getting back to the stresses of parenting -

So, what specifically brought me to this discussion about parental angst this week?

Well, this time, it relates to my dear five year old son, Ollie, who started school three weeks ago.  

There have been a few issues since Ollie began school.  But the stresses have all accumulated - and then today they reached a critical mass - necessitating my partaking of some very serious pressure-reducing maladaptive-coping-mechanisms.  Specifically, I took a two-litre tub of chocolate ice-cream from the freezer - along with a large spoon and an entire chocolate cake - and sat in front of a very sad movie (misery enjoys company.  It really does.  Who wants to watch happy people in a comedy - being happy - when one feels utterly stressed out and miserable) for half of the day - until it was time to pick the kids up from school. 

I gave myself permission to wallow in my misery today.  I really needed a big dose of wallowing.

And, I do now feel much better.  So, it did work.

So what stresses have occurred with young ollie at school?  Let me explain:

Firstly, the situation of my youngest child starting school per se - was hard and a bit stressful.  

A child starting school is always a bittersweet time for a mother. There is a feeling of loss with it: our little ones are growing up, becoming increasing independent, growing away from us, entering a bigger world where we can't protect them as much, and we can't be with them so often.  

They don't need us so much anymore.

Starting school is the first step in the ongoing process of sending our children out into the world.  

A world which could chew them up and spit them out …

I saw more than one mother returning to the school car park on the first school day - wiping her eyes with a tissue. 

I've been through 'first school days' four times now.  They are always a bit sad.  They are the  end of an era in our children's lives. And, in our own lives. One of many 'eras' which will end - just as we have finally gotten used to them. 

First school-days leave us mother's with a slightly 'empty-feeling' - as we leave the school ground without our young children.

A mild prelude to the empty-nest syndrome - which will come around soon enough.

I've read that our children are only 'on loan to us'.  We never own them.  We get to play a part in their lives - especially when they are young: socialising them, teaching them what we can about the world.  And then, we caste them off into the world where we hope that they will navigate their lives safely, and successfully, and find happiness.  

And we hope that the world will be kind to them.  Our babies.  Our children. 

Always our children - in our hearts - even when they are adults.

So, there I was, three weeks ago, sending my dear little five year old son, Ollie, out into the big world: the local primary school reception class.

All seemed to be fine for Ollie … at first.  

Then, at the end of the first school week, as I drove him home from school, he said casually:

'When I stand in the line outside my classroom, some of the other boys push me down and hit me. But it doesn't hurt much.'

It doesn't hurt much?!  

That was beside the point.  Ollie was being bullied.  And he didn't understand what was happening to him. He didn't really know what bullying was.  The Child care centre and his family had been kind and nurturing to him.  But, this bigger world was already treating him cruelly.

My stress levels rose, and I felt the old familiar  tension building around my head.  A heavy feeling of dread pushed in on my chest and weighed down in my gut.  I knew the symptoms:  Parental worry!

How many boys were hitting and kicking Ollie?  Why?  Could it be just a game? Maybe, they were kicking each other as a game?

Ollie continued to tell me that his legs were metal - so the kicks to his legs and punches to his arms didn't really hurt ...

Later in the evening, Ollie's siblings, and David and I explained to Ollie what bullying was.  We told him that it didn't matter if the punches hurt or not. That was not the point. It was the principle of being physically attacked and treated badly by his class mates that was wrong and must be stopped.  As soon as possible. 

We taught him what to do and what to say next time it happened.  We told him that bullies attack people who don't fight back.  He must fight back.  Yes … with his words.  But, less politically correct, we told him, quietly, to push those boys back and yell at them not to attack him. 

Lets face it, the world is a tough place - and one needs to be a little tough, and a little politically incorrect, to survive it. 

Fortunately, Ollie is tall for his age and quite athletic - like his siblings.  So, fighting back was likely going to work for him.  If he'd been frail and small - we'd have had to find an alternative solution.  But find a solution we would have.

A few days passed, and David and I eventually asked Ollie how the boys in the playground were treating him now.  Concerns for our young son had dominated our thoughts over the previous few days.  An uncomfortable 'worry-dread' feeling had hung low over our daily lives, dampening any happy moments we had, and filling any of our quiet moments with angst. 

'I pushed them down three times before they stopped pushing me,' Ollie responded proudly.

'Also, I bought them biscuits at the canteen with my pocket-money - and now they like me,' he beamed.  

He then handed me a note from his teacher, confirming that the canteen lady was concerned that Ollie was buying lollies and cakes for his little 'friends' and could he please stop that.  I was further instructed to have a talk with Ollie about the situation.

I felt like I was at school again, being reprimanded and disciplined by a teacher.

Things sailed along for a few more days subsequently, until Ollie sadly told his father, on the drive home from school last week, that his teacher had told him that he was a 'terrible boy'.  

Another worry!  Another problem!  What to do?  A teacher bully now?!  

Soon after this, as we were reading a newspaper one morning, over breakfast, we mentioned what an 'idiot' a certain politician was (a frequent comment in our household as we read about politics in the newspapers). Ollie then sadly said to us: 

'My teacher says I'm an 'idiot'.'

What?!

We questioned Ollie further, and he insisted that his teacher had called him a 'terrible boy' and an 'idiot'.  

I also recalled that I'd noticed a few days earlier that Ollie was now seated at a table separate from the other children.  Alone at a single desk near to the teacher's desk.  When I questioned Ollie about why he was not sitting at a group table like the other boys - his teacher had marched over and told me that the new seating arrangement was because Ollie had been so badly behaved in class!

I had again felt awful on that day.  I had rushed off to the local shopping mall, and drowned my sorrows in a serious dose of 'retail-therapy,' followed by an extra large mug of Gloria-jean's coffee (always good during life's very stressful moments), and an extra-large piece chocolate mud-cake.  I was utilising once again, during these extremely stressful parenting situations, my much practiced and always helpful, if not healthy, maladaptive-coping-mechanisms. 

And I did feel a little better when I finally got home from the mall.

Although, I couldn't understand why things were going so badly with Ollie's first few weeks at school.  

I knew that he was a lovely boy.  He's incredibly  kind, and sweet, and he never received any complaints during the five years that he attended the Child-care centre.

The sadness and the worries, relating to Ollie and school, haunted my nights, and each morning the school-stresses slammed back into my mind like a brick being thrown at my head.  

I did write to Ollie's teacher - asking to talk to her about the whole situation at school.  But that had been days ago - and still I heard nothing from the school or his teacher.

And then, it all reached a head today. 

I finally made a decision, at 6am this morning, as I lay in bed worrying about Ollie and how the whole school thing was turning into a disappointing nightmare. I decided to write an e-mail to the deputy principle and ask for Ollie to be shifted to a different class with a different teacher. 

I got out of bed and, still in my pyjamas, I opened my lap-top and I wrote my long e-mail explaining the whole situation.  I said that I wanted a 'warm-fuzzy' teacher for my little boy starting school; rather than what appeared to be a 'cold-prickly' teacher.

Yes, I used those words: warm-fuzzies and cold-pricklies.  

A lovely high-school teacher of mine taught us that there were two types of people in the world: warm-fuzzies and cold-pricklies she called them.  And I've used those terms ever since.  

An example of the fact that the words and lessons of lovely teachers - inspiring teachers - stay with us. Sometimes for all of our lives.

Anyway, I digress.  Back to my e-mail:

I said, in my e-mail, that my philosophy to school and education is that 'it is better to be inspired with a love of learning … than to be driven with a stick.'

   

I then marched into the school yard - early ( a huge deal for me - as I'm forever late. Everywhere.  Even at work). 

I wanted to 'sort things out' for my Ollie.  I had to find him a kind and 'warm-fuzzy' teacher for him - so that he would be inspired with a love of learning, and I wanted him to have a happy class-room where he would not be called names like 'idiot'.  

I could not find the deputy principle in his office or in the school-yard - so I marched across the asphalt - pulling Ollie with me by the hand, while his big school bag dragged behind him, and he needed to skip, instead of walk, to keep up with my strides.  

I followed Ollie's teacher inside the transportable class-room to talk to her and let her know what I had done with the e-mail I'd sent to the deputy principle. 

Once inside, I stood facing Ollie's teacher near the bag lockers and I said firmly,' I've asked the deputy principle to shift Ollie to another class!'

Ollie's teacher is a small, slim, silver-haired women - a decade older than myself.  She has a kind face, and a gentle disposition.  She looked really upset at what I said.  

I started to wonder if what Ollie had said could really be true about this sweet-looking woman.

'I wrote to you,' I persisted. 'You never got back to me.  Ollie says that you said he was a terrible boy … and an idiot!'  

Ollie's teacher looked shocked and very upset. 'I never said that!' she replied.  'I would never say that to a child.  Never!'

I looked across at Ollie and I was now aware that he would not meet my gaze.  He was staring sheepishly at the ground, and shuffling about on the spot. His teacher and I watched him.

Ollie's teacher continued,'I said his behaviour was terrible - not Ollie as a person. And I moved him to a table closer to my own for one day - as he kept running out of the class room - to go to the toilet, or to play outside, or go to the canteen.  I had to find him. He might have run out onto the road and got run over if I couldn't find him.'

I knew that she was right.  The road near to the class-room is a very busy arterial road. 

'I had to leave the class unattended,' she said, 'so that I could find him.  Once he got stuck in a toilet cubicle that was broken, and we had all sorts of trouble trying to get him out.  The door was broken. It took us ages'

I looked across at Ollie.  He was still shuffling and staring the ground.  He was hiding his face from me, behind his fringe of hair.

I knew that this was the true story about what had been going on. It sounded like something Ollie would do.

'Ollie,' I said firmly, 'is this true?  Is it true that your teacher didn't call you an idiot?'

Ollie looked up at us.  Tears in his eyes.  His face was flushed. 'She didn't say it,' he whispered back to us. 'I just felt like an idiot.'

'Please, don't be angry with him,' Ollie's teacher said softly to me. 'He got confused, and misunderstood how school is different from Child care.  All of those behaviours were allowed at Child care.  School is more restrictive - and he is still adjusting.'

Ollie was now in tears.

I explained to Ollie's teacher that I would tell the deputy principle that Ollie had 'made up' or 'mixed up' what was said to him ('terrible behaviour' is a very different remark than 'terrible boy'). He may have also felt like an 'idiot' when he was reprimanded - rather than being called one.  A very different thing.

I apologised to Ollie's teacher.  

I did only wish to check what was happening and what was said when I'd written the letter earlier.  The teacher had meanwhile been discussing the 'situation' with the principle before she contacted me to discuss the issues. 

It was all a lot of misinformation … and a lack of communication … and it is all sorted out and fine now.

Ollie's teacher, I have learned through further chats today, is a lovely woman.  A really good teacher.  And she's been a saint to put up with Ollie's 'terrible behaviour' to date. 

I think Ollie's behaviour was also more of a misunderstanding - rather than serious naughtiness - as he had been in Child-care for the past five years - without any Kindy time - and this sort of behaviour was fine at child-care. He now needs to learn that school-rules and school-behaviour are different.

Ollie really is a good boy.  He's also kind and funny and smart and …

I think that I've already said all of that - about my dear little boy, Ollie, during this blog.

But, parenting is a tough gig. 

The last three weeks have been stressful and tiring.  I think that I've acquired a few more grey hairs, and few extra kilo's - as a result. Many other parents could probably relate.

So, after all of that, I left Ollie in the kind and capable hands of his very sweet teacher.  I can see that she will give him the start to his education that I had hoped for.  She'll inspire him with a love of learning - and give him some lovely memories of early school life.  

That was my main hope for his start to school.  Academia is less important at this age.  It is the love of learning that is most important I think. That creates a passion which drives the hard work and goals later.  And the joy of study and mastery.

Ollie has also told me that he's made some lovely friends in this new class-room, and he told me while driving home tonight from school,  that he misses school when he's home now.

I'm pleased for him.  He is moving out into the big world - and he seems to be enjoying it all.

I'm already getting used to the transition.  A new era beginning.

However, before Ollie went to bed tonight he said to me, 'I love you infinite mum.'  He then gave me a big hug and, as he walked off to bed, he turned and gave me a 'thumbs up' sign and a lovely little smile.  Like he aways does at bedtime. 

Some things have not yet ended.  Some lovely childhood traditions with my Ollie did not finish with the start of school. Those eras have a while to run yet. Fortunately.

Finally, I think most parents would agree that the happy parenting times far out-weigh the hard times.

However - during the hard times - we may need to remind ourselves of that.

An artistic soul (a story of fiction)

                                                                                            

My death came as a surprise to me and, to a lesser degree, a disappointment.  

It was a surprise because I was only 23 years of age, and in excellent health, before my premature demise.  It was a disappointment because I could never become the person that my mother hoped I would.   

So, for that reason, I was disappointed.  More for my mother than for myself.  More for the loss of her dreams than for any of my own.

I stand now, a few days after my passing, among conifers on a shady patch of ankle-length grass. Summer flowers grow wild and vibrant around me. I am watching my own funeral; a miserable event for the young man that I was. Few people have come to mourn.  I'm not surprised. I knew few people during my life.  I socialised little.  Most of my time was devoted to study for the grand future of my mother's dreams.  

As I watch the figures in black standing around my grave - I think about my life.  I recall it in short vignettes.  Fragments of time which skip at intervals until my last disappointing moments:

I recall myself at five years of age.  My mother is walking me into the school grounds on my first day.  She marches ahead of me and drags me along by the hand.  I'm scared and excited all at once.  The school is a new world for me - huge and colourful and mysterious.  

My mother helps me settle into a small wooden seat at a white laminate table.  There are jars of coloured pencils in the middle of the groups of tables which have been pushed together.  A picture of a rabbit holding a carrot sits on the table in front of me.  I know that I am supposed to colour it in.  I look up at my mother.  Her eyes shine and she wipes roughly at her cheek with the heel of her hand.  She strokes my hair and she puts her arms around my shoulders.  

'I'll miss you, Harry.  I love you,' she whispers into my ear as she bends down over me.  I grab her legs.  I get out of my seat and I cling to her.  I want to go home.  Although, a part of me also wants to stay.

She gently pulls my arms from around her woollen skirt.  She walks from the room.  I watch her leave.  She turns and smiles at me and waves our secret little wave with her fingers.  She disappears and I am alone.  I'm ready to start a new chapter in my life.

I recall my life now at ten years of age. I'm sitting in my bedroom. At my study desk.  It's 4.30pm on a hot summer afternoon. I would rather be swimming at the local public pool with my mates. Well, with one friend. I'm quiet and I have few friends. I spend most of my time alone … or with my mother.  I have no siblings and my father is forever at work, or hiding behind his newspaper, or off in his own world of business affairs.  He finds me dull and annoying.

My mother walks into my room. 

'So,' she says,'have you started your homework yet?  You've had a good half hour to rest since you got home from school, Harry.'

I throw a maths book over my sketch pad. I'm not fast enough.  She's seen my clumsy attempt to hide my art work.

'What have I told you about wasting time … drawing!' 

She strides across the room and she throws the text book across my desk, knocking down jars of pencils and my desk lamp in the process. She grabs my sketch pad.  I don't dare to attempt to retrieve it.  I don't want to be deprived of television for another month.  My life is dull enough - even with the one hour per day of television privileges I currently have.

'Harry,' she says as she pats my shoulder, 'I do this for your own good.' 

She's standing beside me and looking out into the small garden beyond my window. I remain seated and staring down at my maths book. 

'You don't want  to be a useless good-for-nothing father and husband when you grow up, do you Harry?  You don't want to be like your grandfather?  He was an artist.  A good-for-nothing artist. He was always more of a child than I was.  He let his family starve, and live in rags, and feel humiliated by the neighbours, and the other children at school.  All while he chased his silly artistic dreams. His silly, futile and childish dreams. He didn't care one scrap about us. He wasn't a responsible adult … a reliable father, or a decent husband to my poor mother. He was a child, Harry.  An artist and a child.  They are the same thing!'  

She puts her arm around my shoulders.  She rubs my shoulder and then she tussles my hair.  I know that she loves me. I know that she wants the best for me.  She wants history not to repeat itself - in me.

She opens my maths book carefully for me, and she smiles as she pats my shoulder before she speaks again:  

'I only want the best for you, dear.  I want you to grow up and make something of your life - like your father. He's a hard working and responsible man, Harry.  I know that you get annoyed with him for working so much.  But he's a good man, and he's reliable, and he takes good care of us.  He loves us in his own way. He's given us a nice house to live in, and we have food on the table every night.  

When you grow up you'll see that I'm right.  You'll see your father for the good and  reliable man that he is.  Then you'll admire him - like I do.'

I watch my mother leave … with my art book.  

I know that she'll throw my art-work into the bin. But I want to make her proud. I want to be responsible.  Although, I hope that I will not grow up to be like my father.  I know that if I ever have a son - I would spend time with him.  I would talk to him.  I would  be so very interested in his life.  I would take him fishing, or I'd kick a football around with him. And, my son would know that I love him.  He would know that I am proud of him. My son would know that he is not boring to me. Nor is he a nuisance.

I recall my life at fifteen years of age.  My mother and I now live in a small two bedroom flat.  My responsible and reliable father has left us.  He's run off with his secretary. So cliche!  All those late nights that my mother and I  thought that he was working late in the office.  Well, he wasn't working. Or, at least, not in the way that we had thought he was working. 

He is now just another man who has disappointed and hurt my mother.  Another man in the growing list of good-for-nothing-men in her life.

I have decided that I will never let my mother down.  I am determined to become the man that she has always needed in her life.  Responsible.  Hard working.  Reliable. Earning a good income.  I promise myself that I will make her proud of me.  I must not disappoint her. 

If I paint and sketch now - which I find that I still need to do - I make sure that she never finds out about it.  I don't want to hurt her.  But I know that art is a part of my soul.  It is the air that I breath.  It is a part of my DNA.  My reason for living.  My life would have little meaning in it if I could not express myself on paper or canvas with my paints or my pencils. I see the world in colours and shapes and light and shadow.  My spirit soars when I paint or draw.  At those times I exist in a creative world.  A world in which I must live, at least some of the time, during my life.  A world that, for me, is filled with colours and sunlight and happiness.

Contrasting this, my heart feels heavy and my spirit feels dead while I study for endless hours at my desk in my tiny grey bedroom. At intervals, I look longingly toward the wardrobe in which I keep my art portfolio.  I have hidden my paintings and sketches under a pile of old text books.  My mother would never shift my school books.  Those books are sacred to her.  She trusts that they are as important to me. If she knew that I stashed my art work under them - it would break her heart.  I know that she would feel utterly betrayed by me. I make sure that she never knows.

I recall my life at twenty years of age.  I'm at university now.  I'm studying for a degree in Business.  I loath the topic.  I feel like I am dying inside while I study.  My soul feels suffocated and buried alive.  But, I do it for my mother.  I love her too much to disappoint her. I am sitting at a desk in the university library.  I am looking out into the courtyard.  It is a beautiful autumn afternoon.  The trees are a vision of gold and red and orange.  The scene is a lovely water-colour with a theme of reflection and peace and time passing. I watch the leaves float to the ground and paint the pavement in the same warm autumn hues. I long to be out there. 

I watch other students mingle so easily.  It is so easy for them.  I imagine that they have probably socialised with their peers throughout their childhoods. For all of their lives: during picnics, and summer afternoons in public pools, and playing cricket, and going to dances, and the movies with friends … They are well rehearsed in the art of socialising.  They are charming and witty and interesting.

I'm told that I am quite good looking now:  six foot tall, dark wavy hair, olive skin, green eyes, an athletic frame.  I can tell that girls like me - but the only woman I know how to speak to is my mother.  What would I say to these girls?  Seriously.  What do people talk about - socially? I wish that I could join them.  These young happy people out in the beautiful autumn afternoon on a university campus.  Not stuck behind the glass - imprisoned by their own social incompetence, and the overwhelming burden of their sense of duty.  

They are free - as I long to be.

My life ended three years after this last memory.  Before it had really begun.  Although I doubt that my life would have ever been my own. 

I recall my final day. It was last Wednesday. Four days ago:

I am sitting beside the university lake eating my lunch.  I am alone.  I've been studying all morning in the library. The final exams for my Business Management degree are due to start in a few days time. This means that once those last few exams are over - I will never  need to study again.  All those years of endless study and isolation - in my room at my study-desk, or in the library - are nearly at an end. 

The university is in 'swat vac' (study vaccation) - which means that there are currently no lectures, and most of the university students are either sitting exams, or at home studying for finals.  As such, the university grounds are almost completely deserted.   My own home is so tiny that I have stayed on campus to study in the library.  Also, my mother spends so much time fussing over me, when I am at home, that I actually get less work done there.

As I sit beside the water, contemplating many lists of business principles, and complex economic equations, I become aware of a splashing noise coming from the centre of the lake.  I'm a little short-sighted but it appears to me that someone is struggling to stay above the water. And they appear to be waving their arms about.  I stand up on the embankment and I call out to the 'moving arms': 

'Are you alright?'  

There is no answer.  The splashing noise continues.  I have unfortunately left my glasses with my books in the library. I squint towards the noise. 

I call out again: 'Are you alright?  Do you need a hand?'

There is no answer - but now the splashing noise is diminishing, and the 'arms' don't seem to be waving about as much as they did a few minutes earlier.  

No-one else is on the grounds that I can see.  No-one else can help whoever it is that seems to be drowning in front of me.  I know that I must do something to help.  Time is critical.  The waving arms appear to be slipping silently beneath the murky water.

I am all too aware that I am a poor swimmer.  My primary school  provided me with a one hour swimming lesson for a single week of each year for the first five years of my schooling.  That's five hours of swimming lessons in my entire life.  And those few lessons were taken within a crowd of 30 other school children - all mucking about. Suffice to say that all I have learned about swimming is how to blow bubbles under water, how to use a kick board, and how to make a very decent splash while dive-bombing into the water.  I have also learned that the latter water-skill will result in one's weeks detention after school cleaning blackboards.

My mother never arranged for any additional swimming lessons for me.  She saw no reason for any person to engage in  senseless sporting activities in which they might acquire some form of needless injury. She also thought that sports were a waste of time which might be better spent with one's nose in a  study-book. 

However, regardless of the risks to myself, I feel that I must do something to help this drowning victim.  I am sure that swimming can't be too hard.  And the lake doesn't appear to be very deep, anyway.  Also, I know that I am quite tall.  I consider that it might even be possible for me to simply wade out to help this struggling individual.

So, I take off my shoes, and my heavy woollen jumper,  and I proceed to wade into the lake.  Soon I am attempting to 'swim' - I use that word loosely - towards the location of the noise and the waving arms. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as I realise that I can no longer touch the bottom of the lake.  I try to remember how to move my arms.  It is all harder than I recall.  I feel myself slipping below the surface of the water.  I am confused.  I am unsure if I should turn back. I wanted to help … Although, I am beginning to suspect that it is me who may be the one in desperate need of help. I  might now be the one drowning.  

The water seems to be sucking me downward.  Pulling me away from my life.  My trousers and my shirt feel like lead weights in the water. They are dragging me to the bottom.  My limbs feel stiff and useless. I gasp for air. Yet I am already below the surface and I can find no air.  My mouth and my nose and my lungs fill with muddy water.  I can taste the dirt.  I can feel the grit of the sand and slime between my teeth.  

I clutch desperately at the water in an attempt to climb to the surface again. I know this all makes no sense.  But it feels almost instinctive to try to escape my preditor swallowing me whole. 

My body shivers in the cold darkness.  A few shards of dark green light filter down into my watery tomb. The last colour that I will see in my life is green. 

As I drift away from my body and my life, my final thoughts are about my mother.  I  see her face in my mind. I see her disappointment  in me.

Worth mentioning here is that my death ended up being a rather sad little joke.  It transpired that I died in vain.  For the 'arms' that I had seen waving about - were actually only a few reeds on a tiny island in the centre of the lake.  The splashing noise that I'd heard - had been the splashing of ducks near to the reeds.  

I had to laugh when I became aware of this sad and ridiculous reality. Such a stupid mistake to make.

It is now time for me to leave this earthly place.   A part of me is relieved.  My life in a world of business would have been worse than death for me:  Dressed in a black suit - stifling as a straight jacket; confined to a grey office - suffocating as a prison cell; and seated behind a wooden desk - restrictive as lead shackles.  

I would have done it … for my mother.  I loved her so much that I would have done the whole 'business-thing' for her.  And my artistic soul would have been pushed aside.  Buried beneath the surface of my life. Left to suffocate and then slowly die. 

I watch, for a few moments more, my mother standing over my grave. The other dark figures at my funeral have now gone.  She is wiping her cheek with the heel of her hand.  She bends down toward the flowers on my grave and she whispers softly: 'I'll miss you, Harry.  I love you.'

I watch her walk away - but before she disappears from my sight she turns once more and she smiles back at me - one last time through her tears.  She waves our secret little wave, from so many years ago, with her fingers.  And it is like I am five years old again and she is leaving me in a new place - without her.  I am to enter a new world - all over again - huge and colourful and mysterious.  I am scared and excited all at once.  

I wave to her - although I know that she cannot see me.  I send her my love.  I look about  at all the beauty and the colours around me.  

My artistic soul lives on - alive and happy once more.

I am free to be my true self finally:  An artist.