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Shrinking parlours, stretched minutes
by Ümit Yoker
Swearing is silver and lying is also sh*****
25.3.2017
Translation: machine translated
If at some point you run out of ideas (and patience) on how to persuade your child lying on the pavement to get up again - is it okay to invent guardians?
The first time I lie to my son, he is two and a half years old. He's kneeling on the floor next to me and doesn't want to sit down. Let him, you might advise me, let him eat his sandwich under the table, it doesn't matter. And that's true, but we're in an aeroplane and it's landing. So: "Are you sitting down, sweetheart? Look, all the other people have already fastened their seatbelts. You know, now it's time for the aeroplane to land. - Did you hear what I said? You know, it's dangerous. - Muesli, I'm counting on three now and if you're not sitting in your seat, I'll start to get annoyed. - Aymar! Now I'm going to call the woman who works on the aeroplane and tell her that you're always sitting right there on the floor."
I start to sweat, a baby sits on my lap, slowly dozing off, and I tug at his brother's jumper with my free hand. In my mind's eye, I can already see the child rolling towards the Cockpit as the aeroplane rumbles a little, then I remember: I've got one more. In my limited selection of parenting approaches, there's actually something I've left untried so far.
I rummage in my bag and hold my switched-off phone to my ear. With a furrowed brow, I look at an indeterminate place outside in the clouds: "Hello? Is that Father Christmas speaking?" It's a short conversation, I mention the toy train that my son was supposed to get after we landed in Switzerland and that this might not be such a good idea after all. I will never forget the look on my son's face. The child frantically climbs into his seat. I am ashamed of how relieved I am that my imaginary phone call had such an effect. I now feel sorry for the boy. I comfort him and stroke his cheek, and we both remain silent for the last few minutes of the flight.
Santa Claus still makes a few more appearances. Once I pull out the phone and look up at the sky with concern because the child has been lying like a stranded starfish in front of the entrance to a toy shop for fifteen minutes, another time Pai Natal, as he calls himself in Portugal, has to take over the parenting.other times Pai Natal, as he's called in Portugal, has to do the parenting because my sons would rather starve in the park than take a single step home, so I can talk about noodles with cream sauce for as long as I like.
But I never really feel comfortable with it. Scolding is stupid, but lying is no better, I decide at some point, and so from now on Pai Natal only comes into our lives at Christmas time (and in the form of my father-in-law in disguise), and the rest of the year we bring up our children without his help. Even today, the two boys sometimes have to go without a beloved toy for a day. But then they know that it's not Father Christmas behind it - it's just naughty mummy.
A passionate journalist and mother of two sons who moved from Zurich to Lisbon with her husband in 2014. Does her writing in cafés and appreciates that life has been treating her well in general. <br><a href="http://uemityoker.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">uemityoker.wordpress.com</a>
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