The Winter of Our Disconnect (13 page)

Today, the family tourism industry—and the mums and dads who keep it running in high gear—takes an entirely different tack. “Recognizing that the fickle moods of a teenager can make or break a family vacation, a growing number of resorts are spending hundreds of thousands of dollars creating elaborate hangouts to keep the adolescent set content,” reported
The New York Times
in the pre-recessionary spring of 2008.
⁹
Most of that money is being spent on media upgrades. Like the “iChair” added by Loews Coronado Bay Resort and Spa, a kind of recliner-cum-stereo—a docking chair, if you will—“that kids can plug their iPod or MP3 player into and rock out.”
¹⁰
Or the Fun Club at Cancun’s Occidental Grand Xcaret, where children can play virtual tennis, golf, and bowling on a 110-inch TV—presumably without imperiling their spray-on tans. Or the no-parents-allowed Teen Lounge at the Palm Beach Ritz-Carlton, where, according to the hotel’s website, boys and girls “can create their own DJ mix and upload it to their iPod, play video games, surf the Internet, play billiards, or just hang out and play pool or Guitar Hero.” The Parker Meridien in New York projects Nintendo Wii games, complete with surround sound, on a twenty-foot wall located—believe it or not—on its racquetball court.

Resorts “acknowledge the incongruity in teenagers playing video games their entire vacation,” the
Times
reported, “but say many parents still feel it’s better than having them holed up in their room watching TV or moping around the pool.”
¹¹
Fair enough on the TV thing—but as something of an elite poolside moper myself, I resent that last crack. Yet how interesting-slash-horrifying that the resorts are taking their cue from parents on this one, that they’re piling on the teen technology in an effort to assuage
our
anxiety about our kids’ engagement, or lack thereof. In a sense, parenting in an age of affluence means we’re all resort operators now. And then we wonder why our children behave like querulous guests with a silver-plated sense of entitlement.

Taking away my kids’ room-service menu of media on demand was, in this sense, part of a larger project. And as the weeks went by, I began to see how a subtle “You can make my room up now” mentality infused our lives in other ways too. Like, why
was
I still changing their sheets and doing their ironing and generally leaving the moral equivalent of a chocolate on their pillow each night? It’s not always clear where a mother’s responsibility lies in these matters. But stripping away the technology smokescreen helped me to see more clearly how their learned helplessness was something I’d unwittingly encouraged. I think a lot of us do. We lay on the amenities partly out of guilt—especially if we work full-time or in some other way devote a big share of our energy to extraparental passions (whether professional, political, creative, or community-driven)—and partly out of affluence (i.e., simply because we can).

Being a single mum raised my own guilt-o-meter by a factor of twelve. I’d been dimly aware of that for years. Trying to “make it up to them” for failing to provide the expected features of four-star family life—to wit, a live-in father—had been part of my parenting agenda since ... well, forever. The Experiment marked my declaration of independence from that doomed strategy. Giving them stuff, particularly stuff with wires and microchips, was never going to compensate for the loss of a traditional nuclear family. And if relinquishing that stuff caused our family to unravel, honestly, how closely knit could we have been to start with? It’s funny, because I would never have allowed them to gorge themselves on sweets or fatty foods. But when they were in danger of becoming comfort eaters of entertainment—gluttons for gaming or instant messaging or MySpacing—I’d contrived to look the other way.

Once the Teen Lounge (home edition) had been dismantled and I found myself staring straight ahead—albeit at a blank screen—it was so obvious, suddenly, that our entire house had been set up to accommodate separate spheres. To use the language of realtor speak, I had my “retreat” (in the form of a bedroom—complete with perfectly made bed—bathroom, sitting room, and study) and the kids had their “retreat” (a separate wing comprising bedrooms, bathroom, and a “family” room)—and the twain met only in the demilitarized zone we called the kitchen. Without our personal media to structure our migration patterns, where would we
go
? Most terrifying of all: What would we do once we got there?

 

 

“They sentenced me to twenty years of boredom!” growls Leonard Cohen in “First We Take Manhattan.” I played that song a lot in the southern hemisphere summer of 2009. And every time I did, I focused less and less on my yearning for technology—and more and more on my yearning for home. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised by that. Experts say most addictions are symptoms, not causes—ways to anaesthetize an older, deeper, more virulent ill. Clearly, my own media codependencies were no exception.

My diagnostic hunch—that I’d been using technology to treat my homesickness—grew stronger with the passage of each tech-free day. Yet in some ways, it was simply a confirmation of something I’d known all along. After all, the irony of having moved from New York, by general consensus the most exciting city on earth, to Perth, the most isolated and arguably the dullest, had not been lost on me all these years. Indeed several times I’d actually been asked to reflect on it publicly, especially in the wake of a local furor over a tourism website that had christened Perth “Dullsville.” The annual Perth Festival of the Arts had even organized a public debate on the topic in which I’d participated, arguing—as you might imagine—in the affirmative. (We won.) Then, in May 2009, I was invited to address a consortium of Australian and international urban planners on more or less the same theme. The suggested topic? “Perth: An Outsider’s Perspective.”

Keep in mind that at this point, I’d been in continuous residence for more than two decades—giving birth to three children, buying and selling half a dozen properties, writing an award-winning volume of Western Australian history, and marrying or merging households with a dizzying array of local residents (okay, three). If I was an outsider in Perth, then Jonah and the Whale lived in adjacent suburbs.

But it was hard to work up a good head of righteous indignation. Because the truth was, I thought of myself as an outsider too. I was frank about that in my talk, possibly inappropriately so. I spoke of having felt stranded right from the git-go, and how I struggled to put down roots, like an introduced species badly adapted to its environment. I acknowledged that there were many reasons why this was so, most of them to do with who I was, rather than with what Perth was (which I knew sounded a lot like a cheesy breakup line, but yeah). I added that the lack of a critical mass of inquiring minds—given the size of our population and its geographical annexation by desert and sea—meant that our little puddle was a comfortable but stagnant one.

My audience listened intently, or at least politely. I was relieved to note how many of them were, like me, “not from around here” anyway. But afterward someone asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks. “Have you ever considered whether Perth’s ‘dullness’ may have inspired you rather than inhibited you?” she asked. “I mean, maybe it was the
lack
of stimulation that made you so productive and sort of ... determined.” She trailed off, looking a bit self-conscious. “Do you know what I mean?”

I just stood there. Blinking like a cell phone set to silent.

 

 

 

Who are these people, and what are they doing in my bedroom?

9:00 a.m. Reading Saturday papers in bed as per usual. Knock on door. Anni: “Can I come in?” Grabs magazine—also as per usual, as cannot begin weekend without consulting her Mystic Medusa horoscope. Fair enough. Is a Libran, after all.

9:10 a.m. Knock on door. Sussy (in boxers and “NOFRIENDO” T-shirt): “Yo.” Points to unoccupied half of king-size bed, as if to ask, “Is this seat taken?” “Go for it,” I say. She snatches sales catalogues and dives in.

9:15 a.m. Scratch on door. Hazel the handheld kitten wants in. Levitates self onto bed. Notices best pillow and stakes claim. Rupert gazing up mournfully from rug. Emits snort.

9:30 a.m. Smack on door, possibly kick. Bill: “Double-u tee eff, Mum. Why is everybody in bed with you?” Me: “Dunno.” Bill (contemptuously): “Losers!” We ignore him. Hazel blinks. Rupert yawns. We ignore him some more. “Well, is there room for me or not?”

 

 

 

B.’s first day Year 11. (Verdict: “Sucks less than ten.”) Says will aim for practice goal of three hours a day. A. snorts. Rupie too (but then he would). Fought impulse to remind him first law of goal-setting is “be realistic.” After all, “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp or what’s a heaven for?” (Always preferred Browning to Drucker.)

 

 

 

Anni darkened door of kitchen twice in twenty-four hours. What’s cooking?! She made beautiful banana muffins this a.m. ... entire meal for Mary and family last night. Coconut fish curry. Cucumber salad. Fudge (aka the fifth food group).

Then announced intention to compile personal cookbook. Proceeded to locate pen and paper and take dictation. Surprisingly tidy handwriting! (Although have probs not seen it since fifth grade.) Took down recipes for spaghetti bolognese, muffins, pancakes, chili con carne, and potato salad.

Lots of laughs reminiscing re: family dinners gone wrong—“dog food” mistaken identity meal, plastic cheese incident, etc.—but truth is, was very touched. Realize that I learned to cook family fare by osmosis—mooching around kitchen watching my mother, grand-mothers. (Except muffin recipe, copied ounce for ounce from seventh grade Home Ec. and still possibly most useful thing ever learned at school.)

S. has done a bit of that, but the others? ... not really. Suspect the cooks of the world are the kids who cared most about licking the beaters.

 

 

 

Wrote column in longhand again, then to X-Wray Café (nearest and cheapest Wi-Fi option) with laptop to type and send. Stressful, as have no idea of word count and tend to do twice as much as needed then scrape painfully back. Also have had to read proofs as hardcopy (sent to Mary’s e-mail at work, who prints and delivers them), and call in changes. Weird, but works okay, I guess.

Arrived home just before B.—who spookily enough (given yesterday’s entry) watched and chatted while I cooked dinner. (Couscous with chickpeas, sweet potatoes, raisins, and spices: bit gloppy really, but welcome break from nonstop bbq—still pushing 40 degs at 8:00 p.m., btw.)

READ ME HIS ENTIRE ENGLISH SYLLABUS.

Does that sound normal to you?

 

 

 

A. and self resuscitated library cards today. Even the Miss Trunchbull-ish librarian laughed at the term “blacklisted” ... which is what we were, thanks to repeated failure to return—oh, how I winced—
The Total Makeover Book
and
How to Be Lucky.
(“Intellectual much?” as S. would say.) A. borrowed veritable treasure-trove of trash. A bit disappointing for a kid who read—and totally got—Jane Austen in middle school ... but, hey. A book is a book is a book, right?

 

 

 

The prodigal returneth☺☺☺and surrendereth her devices. Fatted calves being scarce, we settled for homemade macaroni and cheese. Fell helplessly asleep, one arm flung over her Ducky, as of old, at 7:30 p.m.

Interesting to hear A. & B. assure S. screen-free life a “breeze” ... compared with no lights and no power!

Big showdown between A. & B. yesterday re: possession of stereo. Had to happen. It
is
A.’s, though B. argued hard for possession being nine-tenths of law. Silently climbed to attic to retrieve old CD turntable and dismantled own amp for B.

Pretty crap sound though, so may have to spring for secondhand system, esp. now music is no longer audible wallpaper.

 

 

 

A. made lasagna. Excellent in that special way that only lasagna one has not prepared oneself can be. Has also been doing Sudoku and word puzzles in paper like an old retired guy on a park bench. Too cute! Also, took Rupie for two walks to beach this week. When asked why—as is totally out of character—replied, “Dunno. He just looked kinda depressed.” Didn’t remind her he’s a pug and he always looks that way.

Both went to Murdoch Univ. to do A.’s enrollment but were told enrollment is now online or nothing. Further irony: Their system was down.

B. playing “Autumn Leaves” à la Adderley (my CD but happy to donate to good cause). Also now teaching self piano with old Suzuki books. Almost surreal to watch him in battered board shorts and Led Zeppelin T-shirt playing minuets, and picking it up like lint. To Pat’s house last night and back an hour later. (“I’ve had my Internet fix.”)

S. dividing weekend time between sleep and landline. Mostly the former. Is bad-tempered when forced to get up or hang up. Is clearly trying to hibernate way through The Experiment like some prickly teenage echidna. Possibly not a bad idea.

 

 

 

A. finished Gladwell’s
Outliers
. (What? Nonfiction that isn’t about feng shui?!) Also observed venturing beyond horoscopes and word games to actual “paper” part of paper. “I
am
a journalism major, Mum,” she sniffed, as she turned to the celebrity gossip page.

B. and I fought about math tutoring today. He wants
more
of it. Random! Has been doing geometry homework at kitchen table like Abe Lincoln or John Boy Walton or somebody.