Pokémon gets kids Go-ing

Image result for pokemon go  cartoons

I had a surreal (get it?) conversation with my son on our drive home last week. It went like this:

Me: How was school? (I’m not very original)

Youngest Offspring: Fine. (Teenagers are not original either)

Except me and my friends [sic] had to keep re-taking the tuckshop. Did you know there is a gym at Cobblewalk?

Me: Yes, but I can’t afford it.

L-Shaped Child: I’m a Mystic.

Me: I am glad you are growing spiritually, my boy.

Techno Spawn: Mom, please will you drive less than 20km/h or else they’ll think I’m cheating.

Me: No.

Needless to say Mom’s own little pocket monster was not too impressed with his parent. Sigh. Goes with the territory, I suppose, along with having to remind school children that there are no squirtles on the grass at Meridian Pinehurst.

This craze (and I use that word deliberately) has certainly had a galvanising effect on global anti-social sedentary adolescents. It is entertaining to sit at my desk in my bedroom which overlooks our street, and see youngsters tearing down the pavements in search of close encounters of the virtual kind. However, I have warned my younger boys of the dangers of the ‘lures’ being for humans – and that they may be the prey so they should be alert, but that they should also be aware of the danger of roaming around, heads down with smart phones in their hands – again, they are targets for thieves. I am also concerned that in their desperation to capture that elusive Pokémon that they blindly traverse busy roads and get hurt or cause an accident.

As an English teacher, I am aware that the lines between real and imaginary have become even more blurred and have resigned myself to the fact that my son may NEVER use the word ‘literally’ correctly.

Just off to ensure Blanche is washing the dishes…

Mocking Mother

There is a weird thing that happens as one’s children age (We don’t of course): Our role in their lives seems to change from guardian, nurturer, vanquisher of nightmares, stern disciplinarian and provider of wisdom and education, to figure of fun and apparently the source of much entertainment.

Just yesterday my fairy child who used to become paralytic with giggling fear when she knew she’d crossed a line (which was often – she has no filter) declared that I am ‘Hello Kitty cute.’ Cute? Seriously?! What happened to scary Dragon-Mother? I must be losing my touch; gone as soft as my non-existent stomach muscles.

It’s my own fault I suppose. I do make the odd error occasionally, like telling them that Engelbert Humperdinck (Yes we went to his show and it was fabulous) covered Eddie Sheeran’s ‘Thinking out loud’ … well I am sure his mother calls him ‘Eddie.’  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gW3cw2jodg

But ‘cute’? No, surely not. Worrying that my parting words to Michael before he left for the UK were ‘Stop playing with the door lock; you’ll break it!’ and not ‘I love you’  is normal mother-guilt. It’s not sweet or quaint! Why should they be amused by that? Young folk have a strange sense of humour.

I am a serious woman: I do not fist bump or high five. I use full sentences when I text (even if my fat fingers stray to the wrong keys and I type non-standard words from time to time). I should be taken more seriously. I can still sweep Liam off his feet, using my karate know-how, if I can catch him. I can still do a mean double pirouette and even a fouetté with my right leg. I am NOT cute.

I have perfected the do-not-smile-before-Easter teacher’s glare. Grown men I have taught cannot call me by my first name in deference to their school days. Yet my own children call me ‘cute.’ And not just eccentric-cute or unusual-cute, they say it is mushy ‘Hello Kitty’ cute. What happened to vicious tigers, unlucky black cats or witches’-familiar cats at least? No, the hoyden in question chose the image of a sappy, pink-clad feline with no mouth for me! No one who knows me could agree with THAT! And really, I would NEVER wear a bow like in my hair.

The sparkly outfit is fitting I suppose.

Everyone is a critic. Liam is a world expert on everything, including stuff he doesn’t know anything about and according to now third year Accounting student Caitlin, it is a miracle I have managed to stay afloat all these years (actually it is, but not because I did not have her expertise at my fingertips), let alone have managed to do my taxes without her help. Shannon informed me (as if her cat caricature of me was not enough) that it is entirely inappropriate for me to have Instagram (but when she wants hearts I am called to colour that one in) and I really should not even think about getting Snapchat.

Today in Clicks I heard them panicking that they had lost ‘her’ as if I were some old fart who needs supervision. They smiled pseudo-benevolently when I gestured to them that I was quite fortunately not lost in the cosmetics aisle, but in fact hiding away from them. And now I am ‘cute.’ It’s a slipperly slope to Shady Pines I tell you.

But let them have a bad dream, a large gogga on their bedroom wall or a nasty illness involving projectile vomiting, then I believe I am still copacetic. Then I am still the Amazonian hero of their childhood.

In the meantime I may have to resort to gym to rediscover my abs and my intimidating mojo. If they are going to compare me to a kitten, I need to sharpen my claws. I’m NOT wearing pink (well perhaps shocking pink is ok) or going anywhere in butterfly-shaped bows!