Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Corporate Evil, Culture, Empathy, Family, My Fatherhood, Parents
After the revelations of yesterday, I thought I’d add one final nail in the coffin of optimism by showing you an answer Desmond Tutu gave in an interview from 2007.
I have to be honest, these 2 questions have had a profound affect on me.
The first is because I absolutely relate to the feeling of joy about having a son.
Full disclosure. When Otis was born, I wasn’t at my happiest.
To be absolutely honest, it took me 5 weeks to truly emotionally connect with him. Before that, I was spending all my time trying to get my head around the situation.
But now … oh my goodness.
That boy is everything to me.
The love I have for him is impossible to describe.
A few weeks ago he gave me his first unprompted kiss.
While it was more sound effect than tenderness, it was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever experienced.
And seeing him try to copy things I’ve done just melts my heart.
Yes, I know the last thing he should do is copy me if he wants a fulfilling life, but when you see a 16 month old kid try to match his steps to yours, I defy anyone to not be moved.
Which leads to Desmond Tutu’s second answer.
An answer that is devastating in it’s description.
Not just because he talks about the risk of us destroying each other, but he underlines the severity of the danger by adding …
“… and the whole of creation”.
He said this in 2007.
When I think of 2007, the World seems a softer, safer, happier place but now I am worried.
We have religious extremists actively trying to create armageddon.
We have political leaders focused more on the rich, than the masses.
We have incredible inequality in society, where millions literally have no hope.
We have an social attitude focused on ‘me’ not ‘we’.
We have Donald Trump running for President on a platform of hate and fear.
I have a son.
A beautiful, wonderful son.
I don’t want his future to be bleak.
I don’t want his hopes to be dashed.
I don’t want his innocence to be destroyed.
And I fear for all of those things, especially as I know they will all happen in some way … I have to just hope they won’t happen as badly as they could.
Sure, some of these feelings are because I have a son, so I look at the future differently now. Actually, to be more precise, the way I look at the future now is acknowledging there will be a time I won’t be there to protect him.
I hope that time is a long, long time away, but it will happen and all I can do is prepare him to deal with the trials, tribulations and joys of life with grace, positivity and compassion.
Maybe these are the same sort of worries my parents had when I was young.
Maybe these are the same sort of decisions my parents made about raising me.
Maybe these are the things every parent thinks about … just the names of the protagonists change.
But what worries me about that is it implies I should shut up because it will all sort itself out eventually … and while that might happen, my worry is ‘who will be doing the sorting’ and ‘do I trust their approach in doing it’?
There’s so much I don’t know but what I am sure of is that parenthood is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever experienced, but it doesn’t half fuck with your brain.
Filed under: Brand Suicide, Comment, Communication Strategy, Crap Campaigns In History, Culture, Family, Marketing Fail, Sex
As I have written about many times previously, I read masses of magazines.
I always try and find a new title to check out every month – if only so it forces my old brain to look at new things.
Anyway, I was recently flipping through a US women’s magazine, when I came across this ad.
Now I could use this ad as the foundation for a post about how unfair and unkind it is that women are forced into a position where they have to choose between either having a family or building their career.
Or I could talk about the need for society to have an open and honest conversation about the unfair and prejudiced pressures, expectations and limitations they are placing on women.
Or I could talk about how we need to refresh the way ‘safe sex’ is taught in schools.
Or I could write about the issues I have with the way pharmaceutical companies are allowed to sell their products in the US.
Or I could just criticise the lazy and patronising way this ad speaks to the very people it is attempting to communicate with.
I could do any of those because they’re all worthy topics of ranting … but I won’t … because quite frankly, I can’t drag my eyes away from that ad.
You can see the brief can’t you …
“We’re talking to young, urban, white-collar women. They’re at a stage in their life where everything feels new and exciting and they want to experience it all. They don’t see limitations, they just see possibilities and are always looking for the next thing to stimulate their passions.
New Nexplanon ensures women can continue to plan on what’s next in their life by ensuring sex doesn’t give their plans any unexpected detours”.
Yep … some generalistic, contrived, cliched bullshit that – if anything – is patronising rather than reflecting the beliefs and opinions of millions of young women in the US.
And if you think I’m wrong, just look at that ad again.
Told you I was right. No wonder so many creatives hate planners.
So to the people at Nexplanon … 10 points for talking about an issue that needs talking about. But minus 200 points for doing it in the worst way possible.
As many of you know, my best friend in the whole, wide World is a guy by the name of Paul.
I’ve literally known him all my life and he is, for all intents and purposes, my brother.
I’ve written a lot about him on this blog.
I’ve talked about my childhood with him.
I’ve talked about how much he means to me.
I’ve talked about how he has been part of the best moments in my life.
I’ve talked about his propensity for stupidity. [Beyond just being my mate]
I’ve talked about how much I miss not being near him.
And yes, I’ve talked about the size of his penis.
Over the years I have faced a barrage of abuse and derision from those who comment on this blog about this.
Not – I should hasten to add – because you find it inappropriate, but because you think I have some sexual urging for him.
I don’t.
It is true that if I was gay, I’d happily marry him – but I’m not – so my love for him is purely in the friendship sense of the word, though I can’t say his feelings towards me are as innocent.
The point is, the only reason I mention it in posts is because he big ‘down there’ and when I write it, I’m simply stating a [jealous] fact … there is no other reason.
Anyway, to put this tittle-tattle finally to rest, I’d like to provide you with some empirical proof.
A few months ago, Facebook did a video for ‘Friends Day’.
On Paul’s, there was a photo of him kicking a guy out of a concert [he is a part-time security guy at festivals] and the Facebook video showed the comment I wrote at the time.
“Wanted your cock again? He’s only human I suppose”
I know … I know … I’m an immature, pathetic man, but there is a point to this.
You see by me writing this comment on Paul’s Facebook, it proves there is widespread acknowledgement that his ‘appendage’ is huge, but if you’re still in doubt, here is a photo of the comments Paul and I made after I watched his Facebook ‘friend’ video.
See … not only does Paul acknowledge it in words, he does it in emoji’s.
HE HAS A BIG COCK, THAT’S FACT … NOT MY FANTASY.
And with that m’lud, I rest my case while also accepting this might be the worst post in the history of all blog posts.
And it’s only Monday.
Now normally I would say ‘you’re doomed’, but you’re not.
NOT because you’ve grown immune to my rubbish.
NOT because you’re all big and strong.
But because I’m in Tokyo all week so I [probably] won’t be posting until Friday … which is handy, because that’s about as much time as you’ll need to get over today’s mental violation.
Sorry.
So today it is a year.
A year where, for me, time stopped.
A year from the day that started with high hopes but ended with despair and loneliness.
A year where I saw the best of humanity and the worst of emotions. Again.
Today I will relive those fateful final hours with my beloved Mum over and over.
I will remember the beautiful hours we shared talking about life and love … how I watched her smile as she looked at a video of my son … how she wanted a hair dryer so she could wash her hair before her operation.
I will remember it all in a bid to delay remembering the final hours.
Where I was looking for answers that weren’t forthcoming.
Where concern and fears slowly crept up on me.
Where I slowly realised things were not going as planned.
How I finally got to sit next to my Mum after her operation and despite her being totally sedated, I told her how much I loved her and willed her to get better.
Before things took their final turn.
And I was sent to wait in a room while they “checked things”.
Where I waited nervously with my wonderful friends Paul and Shelly who came to be my side … before I saw a DR and Nurse approach the room.
Who asked me to follow them and took me into a room opposite.
I knew what was coming …
As they spoke, I realised I was trying to hide behind my clenched fist. Ridiculous I know … but I was scared about the words they were going to say, even though I knew they were inevitable.
That moment it all became real and everything changed.
And yet, I still remembered to thank the Doctor and Nurse for everything they did.
The things that happened that night will stay with me forever.
At my lowest point, I still remembered the manners my Mum taught me … that she would want me to convey and express.
As I walked the short distance to see her, I didn’t know what to do.
Only 30 minutes had passed since I last saw her and yet now everything was different.
She looked serene, but I knew she wasn’t sleeping.
I felt frozen inside.
I wanted to reach out … to hug her … and yet I felt scared to do it.
I know that sounds crazy, but that’s how I felt.
So instead I kissed her on the forehead and gently stroked her cheek before sitting next to her and cried and cried and cried.
I wanted to try and be dignified – Mum hated being the centre of attention – so I held her hand and told her how wonderful she was … how grateful I was to have her as my Mum … how I will ensure Otis will always know who she was and how much she loved him … how I would do all I could to honour her and make her proud … how I was so glad we were together and that we had shared such a wonderful time in the morning.
And yet all through of this, I couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting to run away from the reality while feeling petrified to leave.
The moment I said goodbye … the moment I realised it was time to leave … it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to face.
I kept walking away only to come back. Afraid to leave. Afraid to give what had happened, validation.
From then on, everything has been a blur of emotion, confusion and challenge.
The things I needed to organise.
The jealousy I felt of seeing others with their Mums.
The decisions I didn’t want to make but had to.
The discovery Mum had been working in the background to try and make things easier for me should this terrible event actually happen.
In some ways, that is the ultimate demonstration of love … and yet I don’t like she did it because it meant she was thinking about that possibility and I never wanted her to be scared.
Since then, things have calmed down.
Things have been decided … acted upon … dealt with.
There’s still the odd moment of surprise, from receiving a credit card with her name on to – very recently – realising one of Mum’s friends doesn’t know what has happened and I’ve needed to write to notify them, but overall, thanks to doing things in the way I believe she would have liked, I feel I am slowly walking away from the shock and sadness of what happened a year ago today towards the love and memories of the previous 44 years together.
I still wish she was here.
I still wish that day, 12 months ago, had turned out differently.
I still wish she could have met Otis, her beloved grandson, ‘in the flesh’.
Everyday, when he does something wonderful [and it is every day] I wish I could ring her and tell her what he’s done … what he’s learnt.
To hear her voice … see her smile … just listen to her happiness.
But I can’t.
Instead, I think of her.
And feel lucky she was my Mum.
I miss you Mum.
I hope you’re with Dad, holding hands and laughing.
Rx
So The Guardian newspaper did a feature on parenting.
They spoke to all manner of parents …
Expecting … new … gay … single … old … empty nesters …
It was fascinating reading, but there was one family whose comments really hit hard.
This is their article …
While the whole article is gentle and caring, there were 2 things that really stood out.
The first is their acknowledgement that the importance of their relationship is fading as their children get older.
The second was that the magic of doing things together – as a family unit – cannot be recaptured.
Now of course, both of these are true because both of them are a byproduct of children growing older.
In some ways, it’s a beautiful compliment, because it means your children have the ability to forge their own life thanks to your love, support and guidance, but on the other hand, the parents must feel a great sense of loss at the same time.
Even though Otis is just over a year old, I can just imagine how hard it will when he gains his full independence.
When he doesn’t turn to us first for love, protection, advice and encouragement.
It also makes me think of my Mum … how she must have felt.
When I ‘left home’, I left for Australia and while I tried to keep in regular contact, this was before the internet so the calls were not as frequent as they ended up being later on.
On top of that, Mum had her beloved husband to look after he had a stroke … so after 25 years of being a close family unit, the construct of her precious relationships were turned upside down seemingly in the blink of an eye.
I hope she didn’t feel our relationships importance was fading.
I hope she knew how much I loved her.
How much I missed her.
I tried to ensure she did, through my actions and words … but seeing those comments by the family above, really hit home … which is why it’s a good reminder how bitter-sweet parenthood is. Sure, there’s countless wonderful and magical things you get to experience as a parent – things I didn’t even know existed until I became Otis’ Dad – but the fact is, there will be a point in our life together, as the family above state, where things will change and I will watch them feeling a mixture of pride and sadness.
I guess this is a great reminder how much our parents adore us … because to let go of the ones we love, even though we want to step in to protect them and care for them, just so they can move forward to forge their own life, is the ultimate declaration of love.
I fortunately recognised that before my parents passed away.
I hope I will be able to do that as compassionately and supportively for Otis.