Professional Mourner (Monday 23/10/2017).
Ahead of Sophie lies a promising career as a professional mourner.
Culturally, what could be more different to our retentive way of dealing with loss.
For every stifled sob we suppress, some cultures celebrate the passing with a dose of energetic hysteria. A gaggle of inconsolables weave and ululate about the coffin for a set turn and then retreat to the back of the cortege for a rest, leaving fresher lungs to lead the grief stricken peloton.
My daughter has a precocious talent for switching on the waterworks and can readily transform from sublime contentment to streaming eyed, runny nosed distress in the time it takes me to say no to an ice cream, a shoulder ride or impose any other intolerable cruelty.
Sadly, we (and by we, I do of course mean me) have let this go unchecked and too late has the realisation dawned that Sophie has secretly been weaponising her tear ducts.
Our normal routine involves managing a predictable routine of low level resistance. The counter strategies work with varying degrees of success. Like Trump sparring with Kim Jong-Un, the children rub along good naturedly while there are other distractions on their world stage but periodically they go ballistic.
The books make a series of contradictory recommendations. Ignore the tantrum and they will lose interest says one. Engage immediately and face them down with increasingly dire threats says another. Get up early, watch Fox news and send out a stream of petulant tweets says a third. Its just so hard to know what to do.
What they all seem to agree on is that you should be consistent and always follow through with any threats you make. The skill is keeping a cool head under pressure and only issuing ultimatums that give you room to manoeuvre should escalation be needed.
Recently Sophie snitched and as a result I discovered that Alex was engaged in a covert uranium fabrication programme under his bed. Clare and I convened an emergency session and issued a resolution condemning Alex's actions and calling for him to halt the programme. I vetoed Clare's proposal for sanctions to be imposed on Alex.
Sensing a lack of international consensus, Sophie then fired a low altitude ballistic missile from her bedroom window into our neighbour's garden and then threatened to annihilate the allotments. Without consulting Clare, I then sent an early morning tweet warning her that if there was any repetition she would be met with fire and fury like the world has never seen.
Sophie promptly replied that I was a 'Dotard' and launched a second missile that flew over the allotments and fell short of the tennis courts on Kings Drive.
I have prevaricated over whether to unleash any fire and fury and Clare tells me that Sophie is now emboldened, believing, perhaps rightly that I am merely a boastful sociopath with a badly combed Golden Retriever on my head.
Sophie's behaviour has not been checked and I suspect that further missiles will follow.
Culturally, what could be more different to our retentive way of dealing with loss.
For every stifled sob we suppress, some cultures celebrate the passing with a dose of energetic hysteria. A gaggle of inconsolables weave and ululate about the coffin for a set turn and then retreat to the back of the cortege for a rest, leaving fresher lungs to lead the grief stricken peloton.
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| Apparently its a thing! |
My daughter has a precocious talent for switching on the waterworks and can readily transform from sublime contentment to streaming eyed, runny nosed distress in the time it takes me to say no to an ice cream, a shoulder ride or impose any other intolerable cruelty.
Sadly, we (and by we, I do of course mean me) have let this go unchecked and too late has the realisation dawned that Sophie has secretly been weaponising her tear ducts.
Our normal routine involves managing a predictable routine of low level resistance. The counter strategies work with varying degrees of success. Like Trump sparring with Kim Jong-Un, the children rub along good naturedly while there are other distractions on their world stage but periodically they go ballistic.
The books make a series of contradictory recommendations. Ignore the tantrum and they will lose interest says one. Engage immediately and face them down with increasingly dire threats says another. Get up early, watch Fox news and send out a stream of petulant tweets says a third. Its just so hard to know what to do.
What they all seem to agree on is that you should be consistent and always follow through with any threats you make. The skill is keeping a cool head under pressure and only issuing ultimatums that give you room to manoeuvre should escalation be needed.
Recently Sophie snitched and as a result I discovered that Alex was engaged in a covert uranium fabrication programme under his bed. Clare and I convened an emergency session and issued a resolution condemning Alex's actions and calling for him to halt the programme. I vetoed Clare's proposal for sanctions to be imposed on Alex.
Sensing a lack of international consensus, Sophie then fired a low altitude ballistic missile from her bedroom window into our neighbour's garden and then threatened to annihilate the allotments. Without consulting Clare, I then sent an early morning tweet warning her that if there was any repetition she would be met with fire and fury like the world has never seen.
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| Naughty Sophie |
Sophie promptly replied that I was a 'Dotard' and launched a second missile that flew over the allotments and fell short of the tennis courts on Kings Drive.
I have prevaricated over whether to unleash any fire and fury and Clare tells me that Sophie is now emboldened, believing, perhaps rightly that I am merely a boastful sociopath with a badly combed Golden Retriever on my head.
Sophie's behaviour has not been checked and I suspect that further missiles will follow.
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