Tag: family

To Be a Teenager

teenage

I once told my mother that I didn’t want her to be my friend. She was my mother, and I wanted her to be just that. But she had got it into her head from some hip self-help book that parents of teenagers should be their friends.

And I didn’t want that. After reading similar emotions on Quora, I realised I wasn’t the only one. And for good reason too.

Teenage is wonderful. It’s when we get to see the world in a new light, experience the pangs of attraction, affection, and even lust. It’s the time to roam around carefree and enjoy life for what it is.

Except, teenage is also when a child goes through a lot of things she doesn’t understand. Like the physical changes in her body, the unpronounceable hormones that show up from nowhere, attraction (or aversion) to people, and (goodness!) mood swings that are just too confusing to comprehend.

What’s more, we’re in the mobile era. The world expects teenagers to know everything; to discuss the latest tech buzz during dinner, finish a 30-inch essay in minutes, do some sort of sport, and break (even Olympic) records that they’ve never heard of before. The 21st century is not the teenager’s haven.

For a child starting out to navigate our conniving society, handle breakups and peer pressure, understand that mom and dad don’t talk to each other, and still perform well in school is too much of an ask.

Their heads are filled with emotions they can’t identify, thoughts they don’t know to express, and doubts they can’t clarify. They’d go to school happy and come back with a broken heart and no clue as to why they feel that way. Is it the teacher yelling at them for a silly grammar mistake, friends getting lunch without them, or that the cute boy in class hadn’t shown up that day? Anything could break their hearts. Because teenage is a myriad of hormones.

That’s why they need direction. They don’t need yet another friend to talk to because their friends have the same problems. What’s more, sometimes they don’t even trust friends.

Teenagers don’t need another friend in their parents. They need advice, instead. They want parents to teach them to handle a situation, not just acknowledge it — as friends do.

Children realise that their parents have already tackled the reins of teenage. And no matter how much they argue, complain, or swear at their parents for imposing a curfew after 10 pm, they know it’s for their good. Deep down, teenagers love their parents for those tiny rules because they know mom’s got their back. After all, a parent is always a stronger authority than a friend.

That’s why teenagers want parents to be parents. Because a mom who’s got her life sorted is motivation for a child to get her’s too.

She Wanted the Life of a Poet

She wanted the life of a poet
dreamed it as perfect as a duet
vowed to stay in bounds of love
yearning, all the while, a cove
the strain tugged at her temples
whilst she hugged onto herself
the baby wailed every other hour
the kettle whistled during her slumber
her husband dragged himself home
tired from dawdling in office gossip
and screamed over the baby’s cries
that she wasn’t attentive enough.
Many a friend the pair entertained
toured the house, showcased the baby
promised to pay visits in return
it was a custom never questioned.
From baby they progressed to kids
he went away for days with busy work
the metaphors that clung to her chest
threatened to let go unless let out
but a boy and a girl were chores enough
she put pen to paper only in her mind
settled little brawls in the meantime
she wanted to be a poet with a life
got a household with a louse instead.

To Define…

SONY DSC

It’s not about studded shoes and decked dresses or dinner parties with seven wines.

It’s not about fresh bills in a Coach, Chopard on the wrist, and stacks in the account.

It’s not about lean legs, tiara-topped heads, or Louis Vuitton handbags.

It’s not about bedside pools, or poolside bars, or bayside resorts.

It’s not about dabbling in pearls, or dawdling in Rolls.

It’s not a trendy summer vacation, a honeymoon destination, or a cruising expedition.

Not about the glitter, the possessions, or positions.

It’s the hot chocolate on rainy days, the comforting book on bad days, and an extra scoop of ice-cream.

Luxury is contentment in the small things.

Defining Peace

peace

It’s the best place she could be. It’s big, it’s cozy, and it’s guarded round the clock.

“You’ll be happy there.” her mother had said.

She stood in front of the great gates of Markersson High School thinking back the one-sided conversation she had had with her mother a few weeks earlier.

She had come home after a fist fight, giving the rude boy across the street a bloody eye. Her mother had handed her a leaflet of Markesson and marvelled, “It’s as peaceful as a sanctuary, they say. Isn’t it beautiful?”

She looked down at the photo on the cover, and saw barren land, scooped up of its grass, life, and lusciousness. She looked at the caption that read: Our very own football ground.

She flicked the five-page graphic leaflet, pausing at a picture of a classroom. About 50 girls sat in straight rows, facing the teacher who clutched a book too large for her ageing hands. She saw that the girls in the photo wore blue pinafores, black shoes, and had braided their hair. Not a single streak had escaped.

She flicked on and stopped at another photo. There were parakeets, love birds, and even a cockatoo — all in cages. Students were feeding the birds, their faces alight with bright smiles. The caption read: A sanctuary; for birds and children.

The gates opened and a stiff, beefy-looking man walked up to her. His khaki uniform smelled of flowers, and as he picked up her trunk, she realised his hands smelled of disinfectant.

It was her mother’s idea of a sanctuary.

Game Time

He trudged towards me

in too big a shoe and tee

he stopped next to my chair

and looked at my tinted hair.

It was in a spur of the moment

my character needed adornment

And with his black beetle eyes

and tiny lips still showing signs

of the meal he had a while ago

he frowned like it’s embargo.

Then with hands on his hips

and a stern look over specs​

“Stop playing and go for dinner!”

ordered my four-year-old brother.