I Can't Go for That (No Can Do)

Sometimes, it is highly surprising how much resistance one can encounter from three teenage boys (or rather two teenage boys and one who's almost a teenager) when you present them with even the simplest of requests. Of course, I face these expected pressures whenever I nudge any of my three towards their allotted task in the household chores rotation (now fully back in use after Gabriel's shouldering of all tasks following his light-fingered Christmas activity), but that's fair enough. Housework and children go together like chilli and chocolate (no matter how much the manufacturers of Walker's Crisps are trying to persuade us) and it'd be ridiculous to hope otherwise. Even then I just get the merest rumblings of discontent rather than out and out rebellion - what comes with the 'all lads together' attitude of growing up motherless. At least that's my theory. Despite what Colin may say and think the house is never utterly spotless but neither is it dirty and chaotic - we've learn how to establish a happy equilibrium that functions the way that we want and need it to so we're happy. It was much the same when Poppy was still alive. She never burdened herself (or burdened us) with hours of pointless housework for the sake of keeping everything nice and shiny. As long as we were all practically and functionally clean it was good enough for her and it was certainly good enough for the rest of us.

So, when I suggested we all get together and visit Poppy's memorial stone next Sunday (I'd changed my original idea from this Sunday to next Sunday as next Sunday is Mothering Sunday - a day that very nearly escapes any attention from me every year as neither myself nor any of my sons any longer possesses a living mother) I was stunned by the frowns and groans and lack of interest my quite reasonable suggestion engendered. And when I became insistent that it was something I think we ought, as a family, to do, the frowns and groans became angrier and the resistance to this notion became substantially more pronounced.

I'd insisted in all three of them being present around five for a family dinner, as I'd slaved over a lasagne - a properly constructed one as well, nothing packeted and both sauces created from scratch. And of course a separate veggie one for eldest-son. This is largely one of my most efficient signature dishes and usually a winner. I'd even made enough for Colin, but he disappointed me in not joining the family throng at the kitchen table, instead insisting on eating his dinner on his lap whilst watching Italy v Wales. So, once all three boys were heartily tucking in to their grub I broached my idea of visiting their mother's memorial stone on Mothering Sunday.

The most opposed: Andrew. He said he just did not see the point. So I said to him that there really was no point, that was the whole point. It felt the right thing to do, and sometimes it just seems right to do things that you think it is right to do. Andrew said that I was making no sense and that he would not be going. When I asked him why and he just said it didn't seem right to him to be visiting a mother's memorial when he'd forgotten virtually all about his mother, was coping quite adequately without one and had not as yet forgiven his mother for leaving him and his brothers.

I got no support from Gabriel, who I'd supposed would use the excuse of his need to be with Lian twenty-four-seven (school and sleeping permitting) to turn down my proposal. Instead, he took a different route - he agreed with Andrew in that visiting Poppy's memorial would be pointless as - he rather cold-heartedly pointed out - she was dead, reduced to ashes and it made no difference to her whether we visited her memorial or not. He said: I hardly think she's in heaven looking down on us, in fact, don't people who commit suicide go to hell? Not that I think either heaven or hell actually exists, he added.

I said that that was a terrible thing to say, but Gabe just shrugged and said I don't make the rules.

When I pulled Lukas into the debate he said he couldn't even remember anything about his mother so there would be no point in him going as it wouldn't mean anything to him, but he'd come along if I twisted his arm painfully enough. I told him I wasn't going to force him to do something if he really didn't want to.

So, my hopes dashed. But then my trusty knight on a shining steed came unexpectedly forth from the rugby, looking ruddy-faced and brimming with temper.

He addressed my boys in general and said: You three really are selfish c***s, aren't you? And yes, he did actually use the c-word. The ambience surrounding the kitchen table dipped and became beyond silent. Colin went on: Before your mother became your mother you do realise that she was first your dad's girlfriend and lover, then his wife? And that perhaps because of this your dad would like to pay respects to his late wife, rather then your dead mum? And therefore perhaps it might just be decent of you to do something for him for a change, instead of continuing with the charade that everything just resolves around you?

No one replied to this, so Colin stomped back out of the kitchen and returned to the rugby.

I took up my fork and re-commenced dinner. Andrew was the one who broke the silence: He said, are you going to let him talk to us like that? Before I could answer, Gabe jumped in and yelled Shut it Andrew you d*ck! Colin's right and if you can't see that then you're the biggest d*ck ever!

And then Lukas sniggered.

Andrew calmly placed his fork on his plate, stood up, and left the table. We heard the opera of him stomping up the stairs then slamming his door.

We ate the remainder of our meal in silence. Andrew's went in the bin. And I've no idea who won the rugby.