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This is a question Helicopter Parents

Back when young ScaryDuck worked in the Dole office rather than simply queuing in it, he had to deal with a claimant brought in by his mum. She did all the talking. He was 40 years old.

Have you had to deal with over-protective parents? Get your Dad to tell us all about it.

(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:13)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Denial
When I moved abroad 4 years ago, my parents not only tried to discourage me from de-registering residency and health insurance, as they didn't want to believe that I was gone for good, but my dad really did not understand why I got annoyed for him still trying to claim child benefit for me.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 22:18, Reply)
How I discovered I'm not a helicopter parent
When my twin sons were about eighteen months old I began taking them to the parent and toddler group at the local Steiner school. For those of you who haven't heard of them, Steiner schools are what could best be described as Proper Hippy Schools - no uniform, small classes, holistic teaching, no plastic, all wood and natural items - in many respects they're lovely but they do attract a particular type of parent.

I'd already tried the local mother and toddler group in a draughty village hall where the organiser - a large lady called Shirley, wore a pink sweatshirt with a strange design printed across the front - when I got closer to her I realised the 'strange design' was in fact a variety of food stains left behind by one of her offspring, all of whom sported dark green candles dripping from their grubby noses. I got chatting to one of the other mothers and felt the very real need to kill her after approximately three minutes of her recounting in great detail the contents of last night's nappy from little Wayne who was now licking the peeling paintwork around the hall. This wasn't the place for us - I'm a snob and wanted 'nice' friends for my young sons.

So we went to the Steiner group where the room was a beautiful airy space with bean bags to sit on and lots of wooden toys to play with. One parent would make bread from scratch in the kitchen area while the rest of us crafted something seasonally appropriate with our children. We were the odd ones out from the beginning - I allowed the boys to wear clothes from chain stores which had been mass produced rather than the gorgeous hand-printed hemp smocks that many of the others wore. I had cut the boys hair, had always had a routine with them (believe me, with twins and for the sake of my sanity this was necessary) and they had their own cots rather than us all sleeping together in our authentic Yurt. Despite this I liked going because the conversation with the other adults there was usually quite demanding - many of them worked in the creative industries, academia and were in short your usual woolly live-yoghurt and eat your own placenta liberal - pretty much like me then (apart from the placenta bit).

I didn't count on my kids being more the chav type though.

Son #1 soon tried to start his own protection racket based in the blanket tent and featuring pay in organic raisins in return for not being smacked about the head with an environmentally friendly unpainted non-gender specific wheeled vehicle.

Son #2 decided to go on a rampage with a wooden sword (a large stick) which also doubled as a machine gun - both appropriate weapons in his battle against the evil flower fairies and wood spirits that lived in the wild area of the garden.

The kindly non-offensive, non-threatening, non-judgemental, love to all beings group leader - leader in a non-patriarchal, non-hierarchical, commune way - commented gently to me that my sons perhaps had some unresolved anger based upon their surgical arrival into the world - they were big buggers and the only way they were getting out was through the sun-roof.

All was fairly okay in a walking on free-range egg shells way until the final half hour after we'd eaten the freshly baked bread and drank locally sourced apple juice. The morning always ended with a singing session - adults singing 'The Wheels on the Bus' while the little darlings sat on their parents knees and sucked thumbs and filled their environmentally friendly reusable nappies. Apart from mine, which is when I realised that I'm not a proper helicopter parent because I while I was happily ringing the bell on the bus, Ding! Ding! my sons were going for authentic sound effects.... I tried to fit in with the other non-judgemental, child-centred parents by smiling indulgently at the boys and whispering very gently across the room,
"Now please don't do that darlings, come and sing with me"
Bang, bang, bang, *manic toddler laugh*
"I really think you ought to stop doing that sweetheart, wouldn't you like to sing a nice song now?"
"No!" BANG! BANG! BANG!

*I've blanked the next bit out of my memory - it required a great deal of medicinal wine*

The 'leader' suggested that the boys were not best suited to the gentle ways of the group and it seems that fire extinguishers go off quite easily when hit repeatedly by twin toddlers.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 21:53, 20 replies)
am I the first?
Dirty Napping.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 21:34, 1 reply)
This reminds me of a good one!
This one was absolutely hysterical, and more to the point predicted with 100% accuracy by me...

Anyway - wibbly lines- wibbly lines -

On the day I left home to go to University - and I mean the VERY day - my Mum packed up and emigrated to Spain, with a "my work here is done" kinda feeling. She'd worked her arse off as a single mum and got me to Uni, so I thought "fair enough: Uni is all about learning to live by yourself after all"

So it was a buttock-clenchingly cool surprise when in my second year she told me that she had bought up a townhouse in the port area (of Denia - near Alicante: nice little place) and whilst she was trying to flog it my and my mates were welcome to stay in it. So: never one to let a freebie get away from me, I promptly asked the usual suspects and one mate said "sounds like a larf: I'm in!"

Now: a bit of background: my mate (who shall be called Barney, for that is his name) had kinda uptight, middle class parents: to the extent than when they visited we had to spend about a week fumigating the flat and removing the residue of 4 19 year old students partying like their lives depended on it. And under no circumstances whatsoever would the dreaded subject of SEX ever be mentioned between parent and child. And I mean NEVER - not even if the fate of nations depended on it. It just Would Never Happen.

So: we're at the airport leaving the UK and I stop by the shops and load up on a big box o' condoms and sidle up to Barney with malice aforethought.

"I told you about the Condom Check didn't I?"

"Wha'?"

""Yup: mum's gonna demand to see that you have some condoms with you so you'll be safe if you are also lucky..."

Barney's face did that icebergs falling into the sea thing that happens in Greenland in the spring: he just could not compute the thought of "mother" "condoms" and "talking about" - why - that would mean his parents knew he had SEX!!! But my mum - well, despite our occasional massive arguments she'd always been cool on this issue: she was open and honest on the subject of sex to the point at which now at 19 it was genuinely a case of: "got your condoms son?"

"yes mum!"

"good lad! have a great holiday!"

So: we land in Alicante: there she is to pick us up and she says it exactly as I predicted and perhaps even a little louder than was strictly necessary and she gets a hearty 'yes mum!" from me and a strangled, horrified choked sound from Barney - and he just died: he shriveled up into a ball and was a mumbling incoherent mess for 3 hours. Poor lamb!
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 21:26, 2 replies)
Chavs
You all know the kind. The tracksuit wearing, face plastered with shite, too fat and waaaaaaaaaaaay too pregnant for anyones liking, dole scum sucking freaks.

In my old job, I worked in a bar. Some ditzy blonde bimbo, round as anything, sent her 12 year old boy up to the bar to ask for a pint.

Boy: "Pint please."
Me: "I can't serve you I'm afraid, you're too young."
Chav: (shouts over)"What the f*cking hold up?!"

She wanders over to the bar to see me refusing to serve this child.

Chav: "Problem?"
Me: "Yes actually. He's too young to be served any alcoholic beverage. If you want a drink you'll have to show me some ID."
Chav: "Its not for me though. It's for him."
Me: "Excuse me?" *quietly chuckling to myself, thinking "you cant be serious?"*
Chav: "You heard. He drinks at home and he wants to drink here, so give him the f*cking drink or I'll smash you teeth in!"
Me: "Look if you don't have ID I can't give you the drink." *not that I would anyway, being a chav and all*
*passing ID* Chav: "THERE! FOR F*CK SAKE! WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET A DRINK?" She yelled out to the whole bar.

I surveyed the ID, before announcing:
"Excuse me, I still can't serve you."

"Why the f*ck not? You wanted ID so pour the damn drink!"

"The ID says you're 17."

"Shit, I grabbed the wrong fake ID again..."



She then left, taking her 4 kids with her.






I laughed. And had a cookie.

EDIT: No word of a lie.

Also, first post ever. Yay.

EDIT EDIT (or number 2, whichever): I am aware a 17 yr old chav with a 12 year old son might sound far fetched, but he might've been her brother. not a clue. or instead the parents of the other childrens? nevermind. chavs are stupid.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 20:29, 13 replies)
Bit of a re-post of an oldie here...
But fuck it, I'm waiting for a stew to cook and it's taking forever. This story concerns not I, but Lady Doom's parents, and continues thus:

Parents used to be strict Catholics - as in Mother was a Nun and Father was a trainee priest (obviously something went wrong somewhere for there to be a daughter but anyway). As she was growing up there were numerous acts of parental lunacy but this one wins.

They were ridiculously over-paranoid about drugs - even the slightest mention and they'd flip out, so one day when the mother of the story is in my missus bedroom and finds a wrapped up foil thing she goes fucking apeshit - but not in front of my missus. No, she has to be sure first, so off she goes to best mates house to consult with other parents... no-one can identify the former contents of the mysterious foil, but it smells kind of sweet...

wobbly lines
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

one week later, having had no luck with parents, the mother of our story heads over to see the doctor, foil wrap in hand. The doctor has a look, takes scraping from the edge of this stuff to try and figure out what it is, has a sniff - same slightly sweet smell, a little bit like strawberries. He's getting on a bit though and doesn't really know what the kids are into these days. Best to open the whole thing up and see if there's a better sample anywhere. As the doctor opens up this tinfoil flower, a rather familiar looking word appears:


Petit Filous.

It was a strawberry yoghurt pot lid.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 19:28, Reply)
My dad works for the Air Ambulance service.

(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 17:17, 11 replies)
Oooh I have one...
Here's me thinking my parents weren't overprotective, but I completely forgot about other parents.

I run a youth football team, so overprotective parents seem to come with the territory.

Every parent gets a little upset and starts asking questions when their son is left on the bench or completely left out of a match, but this guy took the biscuit.

2 seasons ago, me an my old man ran the team, and we'd had problems with this parent constantly swearing at referees, linesmen, opposing teams and even our own parents (including me and my dad).

At the end of the season, my dad packed it in and I took over completely, so it was up to me to trim the squad where I felt necessary.

I decided that it was best for our club if this guy was not at any more of our games (we had asked him not to come any more at one point, but that didn't last). Of course, this meant that we had to get rid of the player, which was a bit of a shame, he was a half-decent player, bit a pain sometimes, but other than that he was a good kid.

Anyway, I wrote a letter explaining that we couldn't sign him on for the following season, told him that it was a very difficult decision that was made by me, my dad and the assistant manage at the time, and that we wished him the very best of luck in the future.

Maybe I was slightly naive to assume that would be the end of it.

About 2 days later (presumably the same day as the letter arrived) I had a phone call from the fuckwit threatening to "Do me in" and "embarrass me in front of my players". He started saying that the reason I had gotten rid of his boy was because he had ADHD (ADD to you yanks), which was utter bollocks. The lad was a bit hyperactive, but no more so than the other lads.

A couple of weeks later I get a letter from him, except he'd tried to make out it was from some company representing children with learning difficulties. It looked like it was written by a child with learning difficulties.

Seriously, it was so bad. No header, no address, no contact numbers and shit load of spelling and grammar mistakes (some of which had been corrected with pen).

On top of this it had stated they had been watching in on our games and training sessions, which was complete bollocks, because no one watches us train, and even so they would have to make themselves known so I knew they weren't a paedo.

Anyway, nothing more ever came of this incident, so urm yeah, thanks for reading.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 16:42, 4 replies)
My parents were very protective
My dad would run round the garden in the dark, stopping occasionally to flash the torch he held, wave it about a bit while similtaniously shouting: “Wooooossshhhhh!!! Baaaaaannnngggg!!! Fffiiiiizzzzzzzz!!!”

Other kids in my street actually got to attend real live fireworks displays on Bonfire night...
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 16:26, 6 replies)
i miss elephants versus crabs
that was good
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 15:42, Reply)
helicockter
My (very bright and literate) daughter until recently called helicopters 'helicockters'. When we finally (at age 12) told her, she didn't believe us until we showed her it in the dictionary.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 15:31, 5 replies)
RIP - My old man
I'm not sure why I'm telling the internet this, but here goes.

My old man was a copper, a bent one. Not bent as in gay, bent as in he would turn a blind eye to this and that for the right price. Not only that, but he was a double hard bastard with a short temper.

Anyway, back to the story...

When I was a kid, I was in with a bad crowd of nasty punks, I'm ashamed to admit that I was no stranger to massive doses of illegal drugs and huge illicit sex parties. Looking back I was a disgusting little shit, I'm not sure how I wasn't able to understand the reactions of other people, maybe I've got Aspergers.

Anyway

Once some mates and I were daring each other to steal cars from the local Honda dealership, being the coolest and most daring of the group I was the designated driver. Nobody tells you this at school but it's dead easy to twock a car, just stick a screwdriver in the ignition, works just like a key.
I take a nice dab of speed to get me going, this was my first mistake and start my getaway in the stolen car.

Guess who should be driving by at the same moment? Yup, my old man, the dogy copper giving a lift to some fit as fuck prostitutes (none were my mum just so you know)

A dramatic car chase followed around Hyde, or so I hoped, it wasn't to be - They don't exactly fill the tanks up on those showcars and soon I had come to a halt.

I was so high and fucked on massive drugs that I thought I'd leg it. This was my second mistake. My old man drove his car THROUGH my car and pinned me to the wall with a police car and a Honda Accord, breaking both my legs.

With the bones literally poking out of my jeans we fought a bitter battle. All the years of this bastard ruining my life by not letting me get tattoos and piercings poured out as I beat my old man's face agianst the pavement.

Lucky for me he was a proper bent copper, becuase once the emergency services had arrived they let me off becuase I'd killed such a total cunt.

Guess who had to drive the tarts back to the station ;) legs were proper sore afterwards.

Cheers.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 14:43, 26 replies)
Oh The Horror......
My Mums not particularly protective, racist, homophobic or offensive yet she once managed to hit all four spot on with a comment so out of character it was the equilivent of Hitler having a Jewish girlfriend.

On hearing that me and the girlfriend had booked up a trip to Tunisia, she uttered the immortal line 'Be careful son, those Muslim men are always raping fat white boys'

I didn't know whether to laugh, cry or go on a diet.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 14:09, 3 replies)
Apparently we were going to have a new QOTW this morning
But ScaryDuck's mum threatened to beat up Rob Manuel.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 14:07, Reply)
Informed a temp that their services were no longer required.
For very justifiable reasons. Had a bit of a chortle about a 22 year old having a screaming fit that would put a 5 year old to shame even if you'd just stamped their favourite puppy to death. 2 hours later I got Daddy ringing me up, calling me all the names under the sun and threatening me with violence. Seemed like a reasonable sort, so I spent the next ten minutes explaining the combination of factors that led to his son becoming surplus to requirements. Quite a long list but theft, fraud and incompetence featured heavily. A lovely long pause then followed, Daddy shouted for his offspring and finished our call with a subdued, "Thanks for telling me that, I won't be bothering you again". I'd have paid good money to have been a fly-on-the-wall in that house for the next hour or so.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 13:11, 2 replies)
I wasn't smacked as a child....
...well, maybe one or two grams to get me off to sleep.



(shamelessy stolen)
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 12:58, 1 reply)
In all seriousness this is becoming a real issue, and kids today ARE becoming more spoilt, expectant, and surly because of it.
I blame the hippies. "Won't SOMEBODY think of the CHILDREN?!" "It's my right" "A miracle straight from heaven" "No one touches my child" "She's the most precious thing in the world to me" "He's my boy and I'm going to give him the best start in life"

No one denies parental love is one of the most powerful feelings in the world, but really - they need to be able to make their own mistakes, and also TO LEARN THEIR PLACE IS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE LADDER.

You don't expect the new kid at school to be given the same shrift as the most popular, do you?

You don't expect the new guy at work to immdiately be your mate?

Society works on levels of position, gained by experience, understanding, and skill. As a kid, teenager, young adult, you are at the bottom. Make your way up of course, but just 'cos your mum told you you're special doesn't make it so.

And ... breathe ...
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 12:56, 57 replies)
Tuesday...
only 7 pages of answers. Poor week. But on a lighter note, my dad isn't a helecopter parent, but he can sorta walk on water - he's a hovercraft parent.

Lets end this question now and pretend it never happened.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 11:51, 5 replies)
Kachow!!!
I have helicopter parents and I am not proud of it. My mates dad is a truck parent, as in his vehicle mode is a kick ass red truck (He’s also the leader of the autobots)….still could be worse I could be related to a horrid transformer like Bumblebee.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 11:27, Reply)
Is it nearly Friday yet?


Fucksox, only Tuesday

I will ask mummy to end the QOTW early, and if you don't she will visit you and make you. So there.






I'm off for milky..... mmmmmmm..... milky milky
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 11:22, 3 replies)
Helicopter or not?
Let me turn the clock back a year or two to the induction day to the primary school for my son. I turn up with a group of other parents to listen to the class teacher explain a few things about what they will be doing, sign certain forms, learn what we need to send them to school with and look at the shiny toys they will get to play with etc etc. The whole meeting is going well until the teacher starts to wind up the whole event by asking the group “Any other questions?”. I was going to ask if I could play in the sandpit/ waterwheel combo in the corner but I totally forgot after hearing the next exchange from a certain group of mothers.


“What do we do about medicine?” Asked mum1
(Before teacher could answer she was cut off by mum 2) “Yes my girl T has to take 5 different vitamins a day and will only take them from me I will have to come in myself to give them to him”
Me: (Whispering to the wife): Is it me or has this become some kind of bidding war for craziest parent
Mum 3: What if they injure themselves will you call me I like to tend to P’s injuries myself
Teacher: Erm… only if its something major, one of the forms you filled in earlier was to allow us to administer any basic first aid such as plasters on cuts etc etc)
(Before Mum 3 can reply she is cut off by mum 1)
Mum 1: My son can only eat if you sing to him
Mum 2: Mine is allergic to milk or anything that looks like it
(Me Thinking What other drink looks like Milk? He’s not going to be fed a pot of glue is he?)
Mum 4: Ah I didn’t like to mention it here but I have to cut my sons dinner up for him (Turns out anyone else would cut it too big for him) and he still breastfeeds so I will need to arrange to come in twice a day.
(Class falls silent somewhere in my head an electronic buzzer goes off with some bloke yelling we have a winner of this years crazyparent)
Teacher: 0_0
Me: Jesus Christ (Not a good thing to say in a Church School and kind of set my reputation up for the rest of my sons primary school life)

Turns out that the breastfeeding had to stop when the kid of Mum 4 started biting her when feeding. She still goes to school at set intervals each day to cut up his dinner and to bottlefeed him with breastmilk though. He’s 8 in October.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 11:19, 21 replies)
Fathers day
in Australia this year. I went into school with my 5 year old boy for an activity day, as i am sure many other dads did. we were to bring in cardboard boxes, toilet rolls etc and have a fun couple of hours building stuff.

I turn up with my boy and some materials. We head into class. Where already there is a pre assembled robot suit, a castle, a space ship, some other equally impressive bits and bobs, and, the crown jewel, a full on cardboard car, big enough for two, with wheels and everything.

The children all sat round as proud dads added the finishing touches to there pre built, pre painted masterpieces. Really, some were allowed to draw on paper, so they could attach the pictures after dad left.

My Son and I were the only ones building from scratch. We built a dinosaur, a spider, a scorpion and a robot. I helped with the cutting and the sticking. he did everything else. he told me what he wanted, drew the plans (these were awesome, i wish i had kept them, they didnt look a thing like the finished products) and basically did everything else. he even made me colour in something while he attached buttons to the robot.

First prize went to the car, which was admitedly a masterpiece.
Second? My Boy. For his, and i quote, "obvious talent and enthusiasm in building more than anyone else that day"

I honestly thought it was supposed to be a fun day of activities. i was wrong.

Points have to go to all the dads though for actually turning up. not a single kid in class was on their own. But still...
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 7:34, 6 replies)
The consequences of not thinking....
Not quite something about my parents but these things have been said by my darling sister in front of our 'rents:

While arguing with her husband; "You think you're so witty and araldite!". He just burst out laughing.

"What's that stuff they put on roads. You know, like tar stuff. Oh yes, albumen."

"I want to buy a new car with this scrappage thing. One of the cheap ones like a Hatsforyou [Daihatsu]."

"Why have they pulled the bed in front of the fire? It'll be too hot for them. And that huge mirror above it will just annoy them when they try to sleep!" (I looked at my father and just raised my eyebrows.)

And one from my mother while looking at a new house in 1981: "I do like the dildo rail going round the room."

I know there are many more that I've forgotten in my drunken hazes but for now, That is all.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 2:11, 3 replies)
Carpe Diem
Daddy's little girl could never mark her body with something of such permanency, especially not a tattoo. Peircings could be dealt taken out. Knowledge of your 17 year old having sex can be ignored... But the one thing I knew would cause carnage in the family would be branding myself with a tattoo.

Dad already having a bodge job tattoo, his name on his arm with a heart resembling more of a carrot should have put me off... but it didn't.

Since the age of 15 I was inisisting to my parents that their trypanophobic daughter was going to have a tattoo on her 18th birthday, on her wrist. Which obviously led to many discussions about placement and disobeying them.

Blanketed from the terrors of alcohol and drugs this tattoo would be the first rebellious thing I had done.

So on my 18th birthday I get my tattoo, Carpe Diem, Seize the day. Told my Mum, but hid from my overprotective dad (the same dad that didn't realise I'd streched my ears to 10mm for a year). So my parents go out to the pub talking to their friends about tattoos, as I've been told, the conversation went a little like this...

friend1: I have a new tattoo
parents: oooo very nice
Dad: MissFlee wanted a tattoo but I managed to talk her out of it *smug*
Mum: Erm. About that PapaFlee... she got it done on her birthday (some three months earlier)

Was quickly ignored for a week, then congratulated on finally breaking free of their reins. I've never looked back since!!
(, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 22:01, 2 replies)
If you want work experience in a highly sought after position, don't get mummy to phone up for you.
When I asked mummydearest why precious spawn hadn't phoned us or dropped off a cv herself, I got the reply "she's too busy, it's the summer holidays and she's riding her horse...you promised us that she could do one day a week work experience with you over a year ago and we've never heard back". I tried explaining to her that yes we DO keep cv's on file for work experience students, but if the current ones are good then we like to keep them until they go off to uni and even then they usually come back during the holidays, so there's limited space. Plus there's H&S and the fact that they can't really do much if they're under 18 and not enrolled as a student.

Not good enough mummydearest. She begins a rant about how many places she's phoned in the area, how they've all said the same and sneers at the suggestion that precious spawn may stand a better chance if she telephoned/visited or even posted a copy of her cv to the places she wants for work experience herself.

"I have enough trouble getting her out of bed before teatime as it is, if you think she's going to call you then you've got another thing coming" Click.
(, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 21:51, 6 replies)
jeee zus you cunts
My dad drank like a fish and slapped me around. My mom was hysteric-compulsive and, guess what the fuck, slapped me around. One day he pointed a loaded .38 at my face as I walked across the room to him, screaming at the top of my lungs, and slapped it out of his hand. (The television was on, loud.)

From age eight I heard, every single day until I ran away, "Everything you touch," trembling finger pointing at my face, "turns to shit."

Give me some of that helicopter love! No, wait, way too late.
(, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 21:40, 9 replies)
The opposite of helicopter parenting.
I'm reading some of this stuff and thinking that there are some pretty bizarre parents out there. I've been lucky enough not to experience any of this potential social life-destroying behaviour in my adulthood, mainly because (a) my mum popped her clogs when I was twenty one; and (b) because my dad spent most of my early years working abroad and when he eventually came back to the UK just after mum died I'd already flown the family nest and settled down a good few miles away.

Bliss. No interference in my life, no embarrassing parental defence of my honour. Nothing. Zip. Nada. Bliss.

Or maybe not. I'd quite like my dad to take some interest in the path my life is taking. I'm not saying he isn't interested, it's just he's a bit of a self absorbed fuckwit who doesn't listen and sometimes I wonder why I bother telling him anything if he's not going to listen to the detail.

Two examples: I did a degree over four years, whilst holding down a full time job. This was right at the time my first marriage went toiletwards, and, being a bit of a stubborn sod at times, I determined to finish the course and prove to myself that I could do it without any support from anyone - including my new missus, who was forever offering to do laundry, ironing etc for me. After four years, graduation day came and I could invite four other people. And so I invited my dad, whom I'd kept updated on my progress in my degree over the four years.

I was bit surprised to learn that whilst I'd been lining up to accept my certificate, my dad had remarked that he hadn't realised I was doing a degree and thought I'd just been doing some night class for kicks.

The second instance was more recent and concerned my marriage in April. I'd been putting off telling him I was getting married again for starters, not because I didn't want to, but because I spend so much time doing the running and calling and visiting in our family I had got to the point where I had thought I honestly couldn't be arsed to pick up the phone. And also because partly none of my family were invited to the ceremony; we were buggering off, doing it quietly and then having a big party for everyone the week after. So there was some nervousness about mentioning that bit.

When I did eventually speak to him, I told him the arrangements and he seemed quite OK with it all - I don't know what I'd been worrying about. Come the day of the party, he was one of the first guests to arrive and I was chatting away and catching up as you do, when he asks, "Have you had a good day then?"

"Quiet, really. Just been preparing for the party, making sure everything's in place, you know".

"What about the ceremony?"

"Dad, that was last week.

"Oh. I thought it was today."

"..."

So sometimes, just sometimes, I think it would be quite nice for him to offer advice on sexual technique, or ring my boss to tell her that I can't come to work because I've got hopelessly wrecked the night before and shit myself into a stupor.

But it soon passes.
(, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 21:23, Reply)
Football Parents
I was quite a decent little footballer in my Middle School days and played for both school, club, and county. My Mum detests football and my Dad wasn't far behind being more of an F1 and MotoGP kinda guy.

However, after months of begging they finally agreed to come watch a game as my school played another local school. These two school's encounters were a little like West Ham vs Millwall's, only more violent - sadly also more crowd trouble.

By 'crowd' I mean my mother.

After a particularly crunching tackle by the Left-Back on myself on one of my mazey, Gazza style, runs I was left on the floor in agony. "I'm going to die" I thought as I felt my ACL leave the building.The pain can't get any worse!

As it turns out, yes, yes it can. When your Mum runs onto the field with her umbrella - trying to whack the offending Left-Back to death with it.

So basically my Mummy ran onto the pitch during a game to defend her poor little boy.

Took a while to live that one down with my own team-mates, and everytime we played College Heath thereafter I would be marked delightedly by the opposition with taunts of "Your Mum's not going to come and get me is she?"

My ACL healed (kinda) - I'm still trying to let the memory scab over...
(, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 20:36, 1 reply)
pa is the worst
pa once rang up an exboyfriend's parents to tell them not to let me sleep in the same bed as him overnight. i died inside a bit. this has gone on until now... now that i am in my TWENTIES. oh the embarrassment.
(, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 19:50, Reply)

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