My nephew Wee Meddy, a bit younger then than now:
(He looks uncharacteristically spotty there. My apologies to his mum, I must have been playing with him in his sandpit)
Well, it’s Thursday today. Wee Meddy is planting broad beans in my garden, not because it’s useful (it’s the wrong time of year) but because it keeps him occupied. This is my third day of looking after him while his parents are away, and it’s fun.
Waving is his latest fad, so he waves at everybody, even Horse. He waves earnestly, as if it’s the best way to get ahead in the world.
To me he is tiny, although apparently he is huge for his age. My way of differentiating a baby from a toddler is by looking at their hands. If the knuckles are dents, the kid is a baby, otherwise the kid is a toddler. By this definition, Wee Meddy is a toddler (just).
Before his parents dropped him off here I had it all planned out. There are a thousand things to be done, but Wee Meddy has put paid to my best laid schemes. There’s the cliff to watch out for, and Dog, and Horse, and the cattle – all of which attract him like magnets. At one stage I even toyed with the idea of putting him on a dog’s lead – one of those stretchy ones that dogs always insist on keeping at maxed-out length.
Wee Meddy rushes about with seemingly boundless energy, then crashes. I found him sound asleep in the vegetable patch yesterday, clutching a packet of seeds, not a care in the world.
The Buck Has to Stop Somewhere:
I wonder if he will be like me, heaven forbid. He reminds me of myself in a number of ways. When sailing or working on a project I’ll go non-stop for days before crashing into the sleep of the dead. I grew up on a farm. Nature didn’t stop when I needed to rest. Even as a little kid, I had to keep going. I had my own area of responsibility, minding livestock. There was no sympathy to be had, anywhere. There were tens of thousands of livestock and only one family to farm them. Life was tough. There are no subsidies or protections or tax breaks whatsoever for New Zealand farmers. In effect, we subsidize everyone else. We all worked hard on our farm. Nature didn’t stop for a pat on the back. That’s one of the things I want to teach Wee Meddy.
Wee Meddy doesn’t say much, but he’s a smart little bloke. He watches so close I sometimes have to push his face out of harm’s way when I’m hammering or sawing or working on engines. His favorite pastime is sitting next to me when I’m driving machines. His house is littered with the toy excavators and scrapers his parents have bought for him. His mum says the third word he ever spoke was “Cat”, by which he was referring to Caterpillar bulldozers, not furry feline quadrupeds.
What sort of world will Wee Meddy grow up in? Not nice, I’m afraid. Not many kids have mums as good as Wee Meddy’s. Most mums have stood by while fembots made it a bitch of a world for white boys: the worst educated of any race/gender, and the most negatively regarded by society at large.
Feminists have gone out of their way to make the world as negative as possible for boys – and are proud of it.
They think it’s a joke (British Member of Parliament Jess Phillips laughs at male suicide). All the money and attention keeps pouring in for over-privileged girls, notwithstanding the fact that it’s boys who are the real oppressed. Save the male! Britain’s crisis of masculinity and Britain’s young men are falling further and further behind. Does anyone care? Not most white mums, it would seem. Near enough to all of them are too group-biased to notice.
Wee Meddy’s parents are different. They will home-educate him for as long as possible, and will always be an offset to the female bias he will be exposed to later in public schooling and in the media from the outset. He’ll learn not to look at women through rose-tinted glasses. Actually, his default opinion of women will probably be low. Marriage won’t be a goal for him, and looking for a girlfriend will be one of the last things on his mind. He’ll know how to get sexual release. However he might, like me, be born with a deep-rooted need to have children of his own, and that’s where he could come horribly unstuck.
I’ve noticed that when young blokes are given the wherewithal to be physically self-sufficient, they are likely to become independent-minded as well. I’m in a position to teach Wee Meddy to be physically self-sufficient, so even if the world regresses to a dark age he’ll be able to live without it, and live well, with refrigeration and heating and all things electrical.
Who knows, Feminism might get its mad arse kicked out of human affairs for good, in which case he’ll be able to select a woman on equal terms. With his self-sufficiency and ability to look after himself, he’ll attract the attention of women, and he’ll be well and truly informed as to what a troublesome woman is and which ones to avoid like the plague (most of them, actually).
But I’m certainly not expecting such a non-feminist world to arrive any time soon. Thanks to female group-think, it’s likely that Feminism is with us to stay.
I will teach him what I know, that’s all I can do. I’ll look out him for as long as I can. The time will come when I’m gone, and his dad is gone, then the rest will be over to him.
In a gesture to self-sufficiency I’m pouring myself a glass of my own home made beer right now. “Cill’s Draught Down Under”. I raise my glass to Wee Meddy who is sitting here on my knee, his hands trying to steer the glass towards his own lips. Here’s to you, my little mate.