Country life
Growing pains
Leanda de Lisle
AIt the end of the month my eldest son is going to be 11, an age when children begin to develop expensive tastes. The one thing he really wants for his birthday is a remote-control aeroplane. I've dutifully mentioned this to his grandparents, as he's certainly not getting one from me. If I'm going to dig deep into my pockets, I want him to have something that will have some practical use, like a pony. A countryman should be able to ride, even if Tony Blair's going to make sure he's not allowed to hunt.
Molly, the Welsh pony I've found for my son, is a prancing, dapple-grey mare, better looking even than the ponies in the W.H. Smith 'Win a Pony' competitions when I was a child. But while, in those days, I could think of nothing I wanted to do more than groom, muck out and go to pony club, I'm now wondering what I have let myself in for with Molly. Rupert isn't frightened of horses, as many boys are, but he isn't obsessed by them either. In common with his father he likes to have them presented to him ready for the off, as if they were a car. So I can see that I'm going to have to be the one to talk to Molly and pat her and worry about her fetlocks and forelock.
Somebody should do some research on why it is that boys and girls have such dif- ferent attitudes to horses — it might throw up something quite interesting. I don't believe it has anything to do with a girl's mothering instincts as I don't recall having any. In any case, these differences don't extend to dogs or other animals, and most little girls lose interest in horses when they discover boys. I've heard people claim that ponies are, in fact, a sex substitute. If that's true what do boys have as a sex substitute — Matchbox cars? Rupert certainly isn't interested in the real thing yet, but there are, nevertheless, signs of approaching ado- lescence. He alternates between being a lit- tle boy who goes to bed clutching a stuffed parrot and a huffy yob.
Last Sunday we celebrated my middle son's first Holy Communion and all went out to lunch together. Rupert, who has now discovered sarcasm, was being endlessly vile to his brother. I finally took him to one side and told him to stop being so horrid. 'I'm not.' You are. Stop saying "Oh yeah?", it's really unpleasant.' What's wrong with "oh yeah"? — Nothing!' and so it went on, until I could stand his defiance no longer and hit him with my handbag, which fell apart on impact. 'You're always telling me to control my temper, Mummy. I think you should apologise,' he said smug- ly, but I felt a childish reluctance to do so. `It's your fault,' I told him petulantly.
Last night he rang to ask how my hand- bag was. 'In the bin,' I told him, and feeling rather shame-faced, I did then apologise for hitting him. I don't know why I smacked him. I was angry and wanted to get through to him, I suppose. I was also a little frightened by his determination to stand his ground and hurt that he wouldn't listen to me. Sensations, I suspect, which I will have to get used to. How can you prove you are right in an argument? You can't, when right is a matter of opinion. You just have to hope that your children will trust you. Unfortunately, as they get older and notice our weaknesses more, that becomes more difficult for them. You can plead, as I did on the telephone, your good intentions, but in the end they will make their own decisions and choose aeroplanes over ponies if they want to.
`Not only does this book deny the Holocaust, it also denies the Siege of Leningrad, the Blitz and the attack on Pearl Harbour.'
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