A DAD'S LIFE:Hell hath no fury like a nine-year-old girl snubbed, writes ADAM BROPHY
WHEN DO little girls learn not to let on how upset they are? “I’m okay Dad,” used to mean “I’m okay Dad.” It doesn’t anymore, not all the time anyway.
I watched the elder coming down the stairs with her schoolbag. We were late. She caught my eye and slipped something behind her back.
“What have you got there hon?”
“Nothing.”
“I know you have something. Why don’t you want me to see it?”
“I just don’t, okay. It’s nothing.”
I need to rewind a little. The night before, she’d asked me what brownies and whipped cream were like. I went to town. Amazing. Crunchy, chocolatey, smooth and sweet. Brownies with whipped cream are the best.
This didn’t seem to improve her mood. The more I bigged up the brownies, the lower she seemed to get. I twigged – too late – that someone was having brownies and whipped cream without her. It turned out the class had been split into groups to come up with “science experiments”. The divisions were based on the table you sit at and her two bestest buds happened to share a table. Not only that, but the buds and the rest of their science crew were going to one kid’s house to concoct their experiment, fuelled on you know what.
Incidentally, from what I gather, about 90 per cent of the experiments in development seem to involve some manner of explosion, and most of these have a volatile combination of fizzy drinks and sweets at their core. Primary school is fantastic these days.
But back to my upset, over-sensitive child. She had watched in dismay as her buddies and their colleagues piled into an MPV for an afternoon of excitement while she faced the dull drudge of another afternoon with me. In her mind she had been discarded by her compadres, her home girls, her crew. Hell hath no fury like a nine-year-old girl snubbed.
The note she had been attempting to conceal was her letter of resignation from the pony club she and her friends had formed. The fact that they could enjoy themselves without her cut to the core. The notion that they could indulge in biscuit-type desserts with other girls while she had to make do with regular dinner at home proved intolerable. She could no longer sustain relations.
She didn’t ’fess up to this – I got to the crux through mastery of the art of wheedling information from a nine year old. I used persistent nagging, which I learned from the child herself. Sad to admit, but it still gives me a kick to intellectually outmanoeuvre my kids, mainly because I know soon they’ll be playing me like a fiddle.
While she wouldn’t show me the note, I could guess at the content. It would be a direct letter of resignation with no explanation of the reasons why. She would expect the offenders to put themselves in her shoes, understand and come crawling back for forgiveness. My guess is based on my experience of her administration of guilt to me for all the wrongdoings I have committed over the years.
I attempted to explain the practicalities of division, that there was nothing sinister in her friends being involved in another group, that there was no deliberate intent to upset her by their obvious excitement at the treats being promised them. No matter. Hurt is hurt, whether it was meant or not, and she had felt it. Now, as they all get older, I sense the need for acceptance and involvement come off her in waves. She has a permanent worry that somewhere else other people are having a good time and she’s missing out. For the first time, that worry had become a concrete reality.
I talked her down from handing in her notice but worry that she’ll now feel the need to score points. Her friends probably have no inkling that she resents what they regard as a homework project with fringe benefits. If pressed, they would have preferred to have her there but the attendees were dictated by class divisions not pupil discretion. As an event, it was probably no greater than many she has been to, but now it has assumed magical status as she was denied entry.
Her brownie party is my backstage pass at a Girls Aloud concert. She has tasted exclusion and for the first time is scrabbling to be in the inner sanctum.
Cheryl, if you’re reading this, there’s still time for us.