It is sort of funny, in a way. My parents, either of them, are never shy to tell me if they think I’m pissing away everything and will end up under a bridge somewhere. But when I ask them for something, the answer is always “go talk to your aunt about it”.
It’s like they have the sweetest deal – they get all the fun bits of being a parent, but none of the responsibilities. They can tell me how silly and immature I am, but then can ditch any decision on poor auntie. Let me tell you I’m counting the days until I’m eighteen and can decide for myself.
What needs to be decided is some UK economic stuff that I won’t go into detail about here, but it requires parental permission, and when I asked – because it would be more practical to do it that way given that we’ll be in Sweden when it must be decided on – they deferred to auntie.
Despite that, I also sort of miss having people decide for me, to be honest. At least about some things that I don’t know that much about. Like this economy thing. I’m like mum. I’m not bad with money, and I’m unlikely to fritter my little income away, but it holds no fascination for me. It’s like doing the dishes. You have to do it, but don’t go through the day longing for it.
I suppose growing up with dad does leave its imprints. But sometimes it’s just nice to dump something on someone else, and then go and do more fun stuff. But I guess that is something that will happen less and less from now on. The “you’re nearly grown up, deal with it”-line has been creeping in from both mum and dad.
Sometimes I don’t want to deal with it. Sometimes I want to be seven again and let them deal with it. Is that weird and contradictory? I mean, I’d be furious if they would try to interfere in stuff that matter to me.
Mark has been going on about the boson today. He even watched the press conference from CERN, and looked so happy when they finally announced that they had found the illusive little bugger. And he spent about an hour talking to his science geek friends about it, and I couldn’t understand a third of what he said.
Sometimes our differences are so sharp and stark and light up. It becomes a bit disconcerting, to be honest. It’s like we have separate bits of ourselves that are beyond the understanding of the other person. Maybe it’s just jargon and that, or maybe it’s a fundamental difference.
My mum has tried to make me a scientist, so I do get some of it, but most of it is well beyond me. Like that conversation. They could have spoken Chinese for all I knew.
Mum has also sent me Swedish books again. She has this policy to try to prevent me from losing my Swedish. And I do find that sometimes when I talk to them on the phone, I slip into English. Particularly with mum, since she’s English to begin with. We suddenly just stop, realise we’ve been speaking English, and then continue in Swedish.
I’ve only been here a year. Could it be an onset of dementia already? I have also found that I substitute too. I want to say a Swedish word, but then just use an English one instead. It’s weird. Like I said, I shouldn’t lose my Swedish so fast.
So, Mum tries to prevent that, and sends me books in Swedish, and that’s what I’ve been doing for a couple of days. Just sinking into that language. And you know what? It’s beautiful language. I guess I can say that now without being jingoistic. It’s a very melodious tonal language, and the word creation tools in it are awesome. You can say easily descibe anything. Ordkonstruktionsbehandlingsestetik.
That was an inside joke. Swedish has this innate ability for word-formation that English doesn’t. Wordconstructionmethodaesthetics, would be the English equivalent. Except in English you’d have to break those words up into their separate ones. Everyone in Swedish would immediately understand that Swedish word. It’s got those kinds of tools in it. You grow up with that tool. You use it every day. It’s awesome.