I like to wait, most of the time, for other people to initiate difficult conversations. I prepare myself, run through things I'd like to say and file them away at the back of my mind until someone else brings it up. Rarely do I ever have the desire to jump right in and get things over and done with, I'm happy to wait. But I'd waited since April for Godson to come to me so we could hash out a few key issues, and he never did. He was sick while he was here and then he was back at school and there never seemed to be any time, even on the phone, to straighten things out. Perhaps I should have broken my unspoken rule and gone to him back in Spring when he was still here. Instead I let things sit, and, as it turns out, fester until it all erupted on Saturday and we both said things that we didn't quite mean. On Sunday I let them sit, because just seeing him made me unspeakably angry and we'd already done enough shouting in the heat of the moment. Monday, unfortunately, I had to suck it up.
I bought breakfast, deposited it on the coffee table and we watched cartoons with thinly veiled animosity. It took us around an hour to get round to actually speaking. I swear, if I didn't know better I'd think we were actually related. We talked about his Mother, and I laid out what I knew about where she is, we talked about Lena, about his step-father, about his school and about sex. Because he's a fourteen year old boy and it's impossible to have a conversation with him without it returning to sex. He apologized for what he said, I apologized for treating him as a friend rather than a...I don't even know what to call it, a ward, I suppose. He told me, very quietly, that sometimes I call him Alexei. Which I hadn't realized, and is a disturbing thing to learn. But it's true, I treat him like my friend, my brother, not like a kid, and it's too much sometimes. They're similar, in a lot of ways and there's an uncanny physical resemblance, which I've never questioned his Mother too closely about.
In the end, I buggered up, and I should know better. Equally he was vicious, and should know better. But we've both been dumped together and there's a certain learning curve when a teenager is unceremoniously dropped into your life.
And this morning took me to my speaking threshold but, alas, we were not done for the day. I took myself off into the bathroom and he took himself into a spare room to practise in peace. Now, this sodding bathroom is the current bane of my existence. I know that I should admit defeat and call a plumber but after so many weeks of wrestling with it the whole saga has become a point of pride and I will bloody fix it if it kills me. It made its first returning stab at me today, the bastard. The short story is I was a touch cavalier and jammed my hand in a position that a hand is not meant to be in and the result was a compound fracture of my first finger. Sickening to look at but not half as painful as the seven hours we spent at casualty waiting for me to be 'reset' which, as a word, does not convey the disgusting sight and sound of your finger bones being realigned.
Seven hours, and all I wanted to do was ask him what he means when he says he loves me. I'm not sure why it's bothering me so much. I mean, he's known me as long as he's been alive and I endeavour to turn up whenever I'm needed, it's not altogether surprising. I love him. It's just...something. Something is a little odd about it, a look he gets. Not worth ruining our new truce over, though. I promised myself I'd try and remember that he's fourteen, my godson. Not my brother, not my friend, and I can see what he means now. I do treat him like my brother, Godson and I drive his Mother mad when we're together. All inside jokes and pranks and running off to have mad adventures. All of which is fine when you're visiting but it's not sustainable with him living here. And asking him what he means by loving me is, well, rude for one thing.
Fuck, I'm exhausted and he's only been here two days. I don't know if I'll even make it to September.
I bought breakfast, deposited it on the coffee table and we watched cartoons with thinly veiled animosity. It took us around an hour to get round to actually speaking. I swear, if I didn't know better I'd think we were actually related. We talked about his Mother, and I laid out what I knew about where she is, we talked about Lena, about his step-father, about his school and about sex. Because he's a fourteen year old boy and it's impossible to have a conversation with him without it returning to sex. He apologized for what he said, I apologized for treating him as a friend rather than a...I don't even know what to call it, a ward, I suppose. He told me, very quietly, that sometimes I call him Alexei. Which I hadn't realized, and is a disturbing thing to learn. But it's true, I treat him like my friend, my brother, not like a kid, and it's too much sometimes. They're similar, in a lot of ways and there's an uncanny physical resemblance, which I've never questioned his Mother too closely about.
In the end, I buggered up, and I should know better. Equally he was vicious, and should know better. But we've both been dumped together and there's a certain learning curve when a teenager is unceremoniously dropped into your life.
And this morning took me to my speaking threshold but, alas, we were not done for the day. I took myself off into the bathroom and he took himself into a spare room to practise in peace. Now, this sodding bathroom is the current bane of my existence. I know that I should admit defeat and call a plumber but after so many weeks of wrestling with it the whole saga has become a point of pride and I will bloody fix it if it kills me. It made its first returning stab at me today, the bastard. The short story is I was a touch cavalier and jammed my hand in a position that a hand is not meant to be in and the result was a compound fracture of my first finger. Sickening to look at but not half as painful as the seven hours we spent at casualty waiting for me to be 'reset' which, as a word, does not convey the disgusting sight and sound of your finger bones being realigned.
Seven hours, and all I wanted to do was ask him what he means when he says he loves me. I'm not sure why it's bothering me so much. I mean, he's known me as long as he's been alive and I endeavour to turn up whenever I'm needed, it's not altogether surprising. I love him. It's just...something. Something is a little odd about it, a look he gets. Not worth ruining our new truce over, though. I promised myself I'd try and remember that he's fourteen, my godson. Not my brother, not my friend, and I can see what he means now. I do treat him like my brother, Godson and I drive his Mother mad when we're together. All inside jokes and pranks and running off to have mad adventures. All of which is fine when you're visiting but it's not sustainable with him living here. And asking him what he means by loving me is, well, rude for one thing.
Fuck, I'm exhausted and he's only been here two days. I don't know if I'll even make it to September.
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