Scooby Doo and The Art of Parenting

I did a little de-cluttering over the holidays. Husband set me an example by completely clearing his study as he launches into his first sabbatical EVER, which, after 25 years of teaching, is quite a feat. I wish I had taken a 'before' picture but I couldn't tread far enough into the room to point a camera. There were piles of books and papers and folders and tea mugs literally everywhere. After the cleanse, it's a lovely space with actual flooring. 

Thus motivated, I scanned other rooms of the house for items that had overstayed their welcome, and my eyes fell on a battered biscuit-tin lid in the shape of Scooby-Doo's head. Should I toss it? Marie Kondo hovered in my thoughts, but I pushed her resolutely away. Scooby Doo sparks joy in me, and here's why.

Professor at work

Very often I second-guess my parenting abilities, convinced I've got it wrong, wrong, wrong, all wrong, and wonder how my kids have made it as far as they have with such a hopeless mum. It must be due to their excellent father, I conclude.  But every so often I find a shred of evidence that sometimes, somehow, the two of us together are doing okay. 

The Scooby Doo biscuit tin came to our family as a raffle prize about fourteen years ago, from a fête held at the Fold School, the tiny primary that our children attended in Hove. It was my first school fête and I remember being awed by the treasure trove of donations on offer to lucky winners: a wicker hamper piled high with gourmet foods and wines, a voucher for dinner at a very nice Japanese restaurant, a day out on someone's yacht. We bought a few strips of tickets and distributed them amongst our kids. When the time came to draw the numbers, we gathered round with the other families. The very first number chosen was held by our eldest child, aged not quite seven years old. Completely thrilled, he headed for the prize table, pausing at the food hamper, glancing at a regulation-sized football, not stopping until he reached the tin of biscuits decorated with his hero, Scooby Doo. He picked it up and returned to us, aglow, proudly victorious, chosen and chooser. 

We smiled with him, hugged and congratulated him, and then over his head, my eyes met Simon's as we both coloured in chagrin. Friends laughed and commiserated with us. 'Hard luck!' 'Hope he'll share!' Chuckle, chuckle. Other parents in the crowd had anticipated such a situation, done their reconnaissance, laid plans. One couple charged forward when their daughter's ticket was called and guided her hand away from a stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh and toward the voucher for the expensive sushi, mopping up her tears and plying her with sweets afterward. A well-prepared and clever mother told her son that she would pay him twenty pounds if he let her select the prize should his ticket be called (and it worked; they got the coveted food hamper). 

I admired the foresight and determination of those parents; Simon and I kicked ourselves afterward for our short-sighted weakness and vowed to do better the next time. I don't suppose we did, at least, not that I recall. Still, thinking about it now after the many long days and short years that have passed since then, I kind of wonder whether in some way, albeit accidentally, we had done the right thing. That restaurant meal is probably long-forgotten, the goodies in the hamper have been consumed or discarded. If I asked those winning parents to recall them, I bet they couldn't  (but if you're reading this and I'm wrong please let me know:)  Here in our house, though, on my bureau, I still have Scooby Doo's gormless face reminding me of our son's joy on that long-ago day, his bright smile, his arms hugging his lucky treasure. 

Once we had finished the Scooby-shaped cookies in the tin, we filled it with other ones. And when, eventually, the kids didn't care about him anymore, I moved the lid from the pantry to my bedroom and propped him on my dresser among the other detritus. Scooby Doo is not so much an object as an object lesson. He is certainly not clutter.

I could have done without the comment from the school secretary after the raffle ended, though, that day fourteen years ago. She came over to me, laughing, as we all helped clean up and set the room to rights.  "Do you know, at first I put that tin of biscuits in the hamper with the rest of the gourmet goodies," she said. "But then at the last moment, I thought, oh I'll just take it out to make a separate prize. Too bad for you, wasn't it?" 

I can't help but remember that, too, when I look at old Scooby. Also that he needs dusting.