Being
a parent is one of the most challenging professions in the world. As a child
growing up under the stringent umbrella of an authoritarian father and paranoid
mother, I would often pledge that when I had children of my own, I would me
more tolerant and show a greater understanding towards their needs.
But,
when one has to deal with a new breed of offspring who are far more advanced
(mentally) – yet inexperienced (streetwise), the challenge mushrooms into a
devastating tsunami.
And
so, it all began on a typical Saturday afternoon, when my thirteen-year-old son
pleaded persistently to be granted ‘independence’ from the womb; an evening of
progressive ‘parties’ had been planned
to mark the end of another school year.
As I insisted on a full programme of events, together with an endless
list of contact telephone numbers, I submitted unenthusiastically to his cries of
liberation.
I’ve
often succumbed to my son’s requests for “movie nights,” ten-pin bowling or an
outing at the video arcade, but the thought of him wandering the streets with a
rebellious group of friends, especially with their "Hakuna Matata" or “go-with-the-flow” attitude, somewhat
frightened me.
One
might argue the unhealthiness of this hold over my son, but my subconscious mind
constantly steers towards movies of abduction, peer pressure and
human-trafficking. Despite my wife’s repeated
reassurance that “Cyprus is a safe haven,” my concerns cannot be ignored.
Saturday
transpired to Sunday, and my mind continuously recalled scenes from Hollywood
blockbusters; the abduction of Liam Neeson’s ‘daughter’ to be used as a sex
slave in the movie “Taken,” the kidnapping of Mel Gibson’s ‘son’ in “Ransom,” and
the sentencing of four friends to an upstate New York detention facility for
boys after pulling a prank on a hot dog vendor (Sleepers).
As
we drove to the agreed meeting place, I inundated my son with as many rules and
regulations I could think of. I worked my way through the worst case scenarios,
hoping that our minds would miraculously interlock; his ignorant body actions
revealed that nothing was going to prevent him from having fun with his
friends.
Slowly
diminishing in size, my son blended into the growing crowds of people walking
the promenade; I turned to my wife for reassurance – a sign of acknowledgement
that I had managed to finally cut the cord.
Her
oblivious nature saw her contemplating between the local Starbucks or another unknown
establishment for a refreshing cup of iced coffee.
It
finally dawned on me. I had become a carbon copy of my parents, drowning in
paranoia and overpowered by an obsession of “not letting go.” And, as creative as I would like to classify
my mind’s genre, I owe it all to the “Power of Film.”
Weight
for me soon. Paul
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