In the week before Mother’s Day, BabbelOn presents readers with the following public transport vignette.
One morning, a boy boards the 203 bus to Wynyard and buys a ticket, with his mother and two younger boys (possibly his brothers) waiting behind him.
As he walks to the back of the bus, his mother helpfully observes, in a voice that all can hear:
“He’s in training, he’s going to high school next year.”
Ah, mothers.
Unfortunately for the lad, his humiliation is only beginning.
Our young hero sits near the back, in an area that would normally be considered cool. His mother plants herself next to him, instantly raising the temperature from cool to smothered.
The younger boys sit in front. Not quite far enough away as it turns out.
Now begins the running commentary. BabbelOn gives up all hope of reading his novel.
“You need to sit near a window so you can memorise all of this.”
Ironically, our hero is probably trying to forget as much as possible. He nevertheless stares out the window, like a condemned man planning a desperate escape.
He makes a few quiet “boom boom” noises. This raises Mum’s ire.
“Now I’ve got a problem.”
(You certainly appear to, your correspondent notes uncharitably.)
“Give up the beatbox sounds. Maybe you do need the special needs high school after all. You are extremely bright, athletically gifted, you know a lot about sailing, you’re a really good swimmer, there is just this one thing to work on.”
Presumably the beatbox.
The kid yawns. Gutsy.
“And don’t yawn like that. Only a one year old yawns like that. You’re 11.”
The younger boys don’t escape her hawk-like eye:
“Why can’t they just sit on the seats. They’re going to hit their heads on the aluminium bar.”
And, in a voice that stuns all on the bus:
“Nicholas, put your head up!”
Nicholas gives himself whiplash.
Back to the eldest victim.
“If there’s an accident, stay on the bus unless you’re a witness.”
On reflection, this statement doesn’t even make sense. If you’re a witness, get off the bus? Meanwhile, the kid is probably praying for an accident, any accident.
“When you do the silly noise [BabbelOn didn't hear it] I’m just going to tap you on the arm to remind you.”
She begins tapping on his arm. Jesus. How much more can the kid take? These are the cases that don’t get reported to DOCS.
(Or maybe they do and that is why nearly 20% of all NSW school kids are “known” to DOCS. The government’s response to these appalling figures was to raise the threshhold for mandatory reporting to only cover children at risk of ”significant harm”.)
But BabbelOn digresses.
“We’re pretty close to your stop now Tom.”
The kid bangs the window softly with his head, like a bear in a cage. Nearly there, not much longer. Mum is not finished yet though. And she saves the best for last.
“Is this autonomic, like spasticity?”
BabbelOn is not making this up, she actually used the words autonomic and spasticity in the same sentence, in the context of her offspring, in public, in earshot of, well, everyone within earshot.
“There’s the library. If you want to meet someone after school, like a girl, the library would be a good place, it’s on the way home.”
At last! A spark of humanity! The harpy has a heart!
Perhaps there is hope for the boy, assuming he can overcome his spasticity and his beatboxing.