My son is ridiculously careless. He’s the youngest of four children, and he seems to think he’s invincible and gets a kick out of pushing the boundaries. I’ve done a lot of reading on the psychology of children and how their position in the family impacts their personality. It seems like my son has taken all the stereotypes of the youngest child and maximised them to impossible standards.
For example, he just bought the biggest piece of junk of a car that I’ve ever seen. He said he likes the fact that it could blow up at any moment. When I asked him to at least get the car checked out by an expert car mechanic near the Brighton area, he laughed at me and said that would defeat the purpose of buying that car to begin with. I have a headache just thinking about it. This child will truly be the death of me.
Because I know that he absolutely won’t get his car serviced, I think I might have to steal his car and do it myself. He often goes out on a Friday night and doesn’t come back until Sunday evening, so as long as I can find a mechanic that works on the weekend, I should be fine. The only issue will be if my son realises that the car is running smoother than he’s used to. He’s a smart boy, despite always making stupid decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he becomes aware of the change in the quality of his vehicle pretty quickly.
One thing I know my son’s car really needs is a tyre repair. Brighton roads can be really tough on cars and it makes sense that they experience some wear and tear. Except whoever owned this car before my son, drove in locations a lot harsher on the tyres than Brighton. God, I wish my son wasn’t so dumb and actually chose the safe option for once.
My son, Hamlet, is becoming so paranoid. I swear, I make the slightest assertion about anything and the boy thinks I’m trying to control him. It’s all escalated since I commenced a long-term stay at his house right after I told him I was moving back to England, and it’s fair to consider that there might be a period of adjustment needed. I did sort of spring it on him, I suppose.
Still, I’ve sprung plenty of things on him before – the gift of life, anyone? – and he’s never gotten all funny about it like he is now. I’ve been trying to do nice things for him, like keep that lovely car of his away from the beach. Doesn’t he know what all that sand and sun can do to a leather interior?
I even went to the trouble of tracking down the best European car mechanic in the area, which Hamlet evidently hadn’t been bothered to do himself, but he was having none of it. He said he thought I was deliberately interfering with his daily beach sojourn, all because I myself dislike the beach.
Well, that may be all too true, but why should I disapprove of his liking for it? If my only son wants to waste his life engaging in such an inane pastime as going to run around on a pile of sand and swim in shark-infested waters like a lunatic, who am I to stand in the way? I mean, I certainly don’t feel it’s what he should be doing with his life, and I’d much prefer he used that snazzy little car to do other things. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to spend all day trying to book a car service near Seaford in order to keep him away from his beloved beach.
Plenty of mothers would do that, mind you, and I wouldn’t blame them one bit. But me? I’d never stoop to that level, or try to bribe my son with the promise of an all-expenses-paid air con regas. It’s simply not my style. I’m just here to offer a bit of motherly direction and support.