Last
month I recounted an encounter on a pier. My second child-centred
experience was even more worrying.
Our
six-year-old grandson had manipulated us into taking him to a local
family restaurant at which the main attraction is the play area. It
is one of those floor-to-ceiling cages filled with a ball pool, lurid
plastic tubes, rope ladders and slides. In it, children tear around
and perform gymnastic feats normally associated with training for
the Royal Marines or the Parachute Regiment.
We
should have smelt a rat when, as we got out of the car. Several other
vehicles also drew up, loaded with children, all clutching brightly
wrapped parcels. Nevertheless we pressed on. When we went to sign
in for our hour of fun we were asked, “Are you here for Josh’s
Birthday Party?”
We
confessed that we were only indulgent grandparents and went in. It
turned into the kind of time when I dearly wished I had had a video
camera, because by simply recounting events in words I risk being
accused of exaggeration.
Josh
the Birthday Boy
It
soon became apparent which one was Josh the Birthday Boy. He was built
like a barrel and had the kind of face that made you feel sorry for
his parents. Nothing appealing, child-like or loveable about it. In
forty years of working with children, including some tough Approved
School boys and teenage girls in a London Secure Unit, I have never
seen such a sustained expression of malice and naked aggression.
It
soon became obvious that he had honed his behaviour to match his face.
He started pushing and shoving while everyone was still taking off
their shoes. They moved into the play area, where he pushed and punched
his way around for a while. After a few complaining wails he was called
out by his unfortunate mother and corralled in a soft play area. The
huge foam-filled shapes were just what he needed. He heaved them at
his little friends, and having knocked them down, set about using
the shapes for stifling, or beating whichever one came to hand.
His
mother bellowed his name and wagged her finger in his face. He slung
a few punches at her. She retreated. Various adults, presumably his
doting family, took it in turns to bellow his name every few minutes
– usually out of the range of his flailing fists. They also
threatened him quite creatively. He was going home – instantly.
I think a few prayers were offered up in support of this notion. He
would get none of the presents which his little friends had brought
for him. Well, he didn’t want them anyway. They would only be
BORING.
Reactions
There
was a lot more shouting his name and one began to wonder could the
little fellow’s nick-names really be “Behave” and
“Stop it”? There was a pause for sympathy at our table,
while the possibility that he might be suffering hearing impairment
and come from a long line of people with this disability was evaluated.
But eventually we tossed aside the idea. They were all just loud out
of habit, not of necessity.
I
began to feel as if I was back on playground duty, as I kept circling
around outside the cage to make sure that our own precious flesh and
blood was safe. I’m still not sure what I would have done if
he had been attacked, because Josh’s own mother had already
gone into the cage at one point and although much younger and more
flexible of limb than me, she had had great difficulty in getting
out again. Enterprising little Josh had, of course, rushed to the
topmost walkway, from where he pelted her with plastic balls. His
aim and power of delivery should ensure him a place in the Yorkshire
cricket team in about ten years’ time.
And
More Reactions
At
one point someone we suspected was the grandmother of a much smaller
boy, who was being sat on, punched and strangled, by good old Birthday
Boy Josh, went and spoke sharply to him and pulled away her charge.
Family hackles could be seen to rise all round the merry group. Emboldened
by this display of grey power, a few other parents started to express
their feelings to dear old Josh too. Since by now 
several
rounds of lager had been ‘got in’, the whole thing threatened
to turn very ugly. There was something approaching a Greek chorus
of adults yelling “Josh! Behave!”, “Stop it!”,
while for variety presumably, Josh’s supporters alternated their
warning cries, with “He’s OK!” “Leave him
be! It’s his birthday!”.
Just
when I was thinking that I would prefer to face the wrath of a six-year-old
removed by Grandma before the attendant called him out of the cage,
rather than risk getting embroiled in the full show of unarmed combat
which I thought was about to break out, Josh’s happy little
group was called to have their birthday tea upstairs, leaving us to
ponder.
How
did this child become so aggressive and where did he learn such violence?
What does he watch on TV? How could his parents be helped to develop
more appropriate parenting skills? How does he function in school?
What kind of adult will he become? What kind of parent? Is it indeed
likely that the human race might indeed destroy itself?
