I’ll never understand the grown-ups. That’s why I’ve made a serious decision.

To stay little forever no matter how old I get. But not like those grown-ups who pretend to be little ones who wear leather and ride motorcycles and who keep proudly recounting the tramps they made in their youth. Kind of like my dad.

But it’s not just my dad who’s weird, it’s also my mom who keeps sending me mixed messages. For example, the other day, while she was yelling at me to get up to go to school, at the same time she covered me with the blanket since I was uncovered, in order not to get sick. My dad came over and uncovered me yelling. I guess my dad didn’t agree with my mom. And I guess my mom didn’t agree with herself. That’s why I’m telling you… I’ll never understand grown-ups.

But I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Peter and the place where I live, like its inhabitants, has its own nickname. They call it Zavolochori and we, the kids, do our best to honor its name. And how could we do otherwise? In this little place all the parents are lunatics. How can anyone take them seriously?

Do you think I’m exaggerating? I’ll give you some examples to help you understand.

Lunatic #1: Mrs. Nana the mayor’s secretary. Always looking for an excuse to make a counter argument and then complaining that her daughter is sassy.

Lunatic #2: Mr. Makis the grocer is always comparing his son to the other children in the village and then wonders why his son is insecure.

Lunatic #3: Mr. Peter the fisherman keeps accusing his daughter of being the same as her mother while he chose to marry her.

Lunatic #4: Mrs. Sissy the hairdresser is always yelling at her son for being late for school while she keeps hitting the alarm clock at least 3 times every morning until she gets up. 

Do you want more examples?

Mrs. Pepi the church cleaner, who says good morning and lowers her eyes, she constantly complains that her son is shy and coward.

Oh, and Mr. Giannis the postman who keeps accusing his son of being afraid of his own shadow? The last time he went to a doctor he was a pediatrician, out of fear hearing something unpleasant about his health.

And Mr. Alekos the shopkeeper, who calls his son lazy, while he is bored to the point of batting his eyelashes.

And Mrs. Pitsa the baker, constantly scolding her daughter for being fat while she grabs 2 ½ chairs in the village theatre.

The best of them all, now that I think about it, is my mom, because I can make her do whatever I want.

I think you’ve got a picture of our crazy society. And that’s how crazy and beautiful our days were. Until one morning on the way to school with Mom, we saw the streets lined with flyers. Some people stepped on them, others ignored them.

But my mom, who also happened to be an environmentalist, and to set a good example for me, bent down to pick up the flyer that was under her foot. Making to toss it into the special recycling bin, her eye caught the large letters and what she saw intrigued her.

SCHOOL FOR ABUSED PARENTS

(DR. DIONYSIS DIONATAKOS)

Or Mr. Nionios as we all called him in the village. Mr. Nionios had moved to Zavolochori in the last couple of years and was short and fat as a jar. And his eyes, which were hidden behind his thick, black, grainy glasses, were permanently half-open as if he hated the whole world. He didn’t talk much, but he didn’t miss a thing.

“Because his intelligence compensated for his height ” my mom used to say.

And while no one really liked him much, everyone spoke to him with great respect. Just like my friend Paul does with his dad.

“Get that out of your mind Nitsa,” my dad told her. “You won’t go. You want the whole village to think that control has been lost in our house?”

“But Bambis, the situation with Petrakis has gotten out of hand now. Soon he’ll be in his teens and he will get completely out of control.”

“What more can Mr. Nionios do for it that I can’t.”

“Uh, well he was a professor at a research center. He must know more than that.”

“But now he’s retired and has nothing to do. Like you, it seems.”

That’s what my dad said, but I guess his last words bothered mom a lot, because she didn’t speak to him for days afterwards. And he decided it was time to leave the house. And for days after that, I didn’t talk to them.

“We’re neither the first nor the last to live separately,” our parents would say over and over. “Look at Katerinoula’s parents and Pavlaki’s. Even Menios’s parents are ready for it.”

Anger wouldn’t pass, but the day when Mr. Nionios’s classes would start was approaching, and I had to focus on uncovering his plan. I had a bad feeling about this so-called school. Because for some reason Mr. Nionius hated anything close to his height, which was all children. And he showed it at every opportunity. The only thing he didn’t done, was to chase us with a shotgun every time our ball fell in his garden.

“I’ll show you one day,” he used to say over and over. Maybe that day had finally come?

Other times, dressed in camouflage clothes, he would hide among the bushes, waiting for the ball to fall into his garden again. And when it happened, the ball simply disappeared. Who knows how many of those he had collected in his basement.

And here came that day. Despite my dad’s objections, my mom was the first to arrive outside the old town hall, now used as an events venue. And she was excited. Because despite telling friends and acquaintances that being a mother and a housewife was a full-time job, deep down she always wanted a diploma. Even if it was from a School of Abused Parents.

“I came out of curiosity Mr. Nionio, don’t think otherwise”, I heard my mom excuse herself by hiding outside the window.

Second is Pitsa the baker.

“There you are Nizza and I was looking for you? Do you happen to have some flour we ran out of in the bakery?”

You lousy liar, Mrs. Pitsa.

Pepi the pharmacist is third.

“I’m here to keep Pitsa company.”

Slowly the classroom filled with mothers trying to look casual and cool.

We kids can easily understand these fake ones. But no dads in the class?

“I make the child’s cookies with my own hands. I never buy from the ready-made,” said Nana the snooty one, making Mrs. Pitsa feel ashamed and hide behind her back the packaged chocolate croissant she had stuffed her mouth with. 

But that’s a big lie too. Because every day, Mrs. Nana’s daughter used to buy her lunch from the school canteen and when she didn’t have money, she even ate from ours.

When Sissy the hairdresser arrived last and sweaty, Dr. Noni coughed to signal the start of the conversation.

“I’ll keep this short as I know time is money and we don’t have any money to waste do we?”

Big cheapskate, Mr. Nionios. Rumor had it that at the taverns he went to, he always took even the leftover bread with him.

Without wasting time, he began distributing a brochure to the class.

“What I’m giving you is the survival decalogue for parents. It’s a brochure that will solve many of the problems you encounter in your daily life with your children.”

“What are you talking about, Mr. Nionio?

“Problems? What problems!”.

“We don’t have any problems!”.

The mothers in the classroom were upset.

“SILENCE!” Mr. Nionios said with a loud voice.

They all fell silent at once at his command as if time had turned back and they had become

schoolgirls again. I imagined them in aprons and with ribbons in their hair as was the custom in the old days and With great effort, I refrained from laughing and revealing myself. And, of course, my mother would be the class nerd.

“So, this brochure is the result of my 25 years of experience as a parent, and without wanting to brag, I’ve done an exceptional job,” Mr. Nionios continued.

Mr. Nionios’ son, in his words, was every parent’s dream. Gentle, diligent, active, a gifted child. Of course, none of us had seen him in person because in recent years he had been living abroad where he had been working after completing his postgraduate degree on a scholarship.

“May I ask a question?” timidly said Mary, the teacher. “Ask your questions after we finish reading the 10 rules,” Mr. Nionios replied as he began distributing the brochure. And without wasting any time, he started reading.

Decalogue of survival of a parent

1. Do not admit your mistakes to your children. They will see it as a weakness that they will exploit at the first opportunity.
2. Don’t reward them. That way they will always need your approval.
3. Compare them to other children. This will enhance their competitiveness.
4. If they don’t pick up their things you will throw them all over their bed. At bedtime they will be forced to pick them up.
5. To play on the computer-tablet-mobile they will have to help with the housework first.
6. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Did anything happen to us who got beat up?
7. Remind them daily that the head of the household is you.
8. Who is the head of the house? You!
9. Who is the head of the house? You!
10. Who is the head of the house? You!

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This decalogue dripped with hatred and venom.

Nothing like the decalogue of Moses. I felt choked with anger. Which in the end, if the villains of the case were us kids, the ones who needed to be punished were our parents who had failed in their role. But the cunning Mr. Nionios had finally found his way to get his revenge on us.

Mrs. Nana’s shrill voice brought me out of my thoughts.

“Mr. Nionio, the last three rules are a repetition of the seventh.”

“Yes, Mr. Nana. So that you can understand its importance. Don’t misunderstand me. Your little children are adorable and I love them as if they were my own children.” Mr. Nionios continued to say in a beehive tone that didn’t suit him at all. “They just need to be taught a little discipline, with your guidance of course! And this decalogue, I tell you from experience, is the ultimate tool you need. Who is the head of the household?” Mr. Nionios continued while all the women looked at him with confusion.

“We are!” exclaimed Mrs. Pitsa, my mom’s friend.

“Let’s say it again, all together. Who is the head of the household?”

“We are!” came some timid voices.

“Louder! And you too, Mr. Nitsa! I can’t hear you!”

“WE ARE!” they all shouted together.

Oh my God, what was I witnessing! I felt like I was a witness to some long-forgotten religious ceremony from centuries ago.

“That’s all I had to say.” continued Mr. Nionios. “You may leave. The last one to turn off the lights.”

“What time shall we come to class tomorrow, Mr. Nionio?” chanted Mrs. Pepe.

“Start with these and see how you get on and we’ll see.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Nionio. In the brochure you refer to a school and not a seminar and a fast-track one!”, Mrs. Nana grumbled again.

“Will you give us a certificate of attendance?” asked my mom anxiously. Again she made a fool of me.

“What do we owe Mr. Nionio for your wonderful advice?” said Mrs. Pitsa who seemed excited about the lesson.

“You insult me my Mr. Pitsa. I’m doing it purely out of interest. And if you support me in the upcoming election and I become mayor, I can do even more for the wonderful Zavolochori!”

Ah, the sly one! He wants to become the mayor too! Two birds with one stone! Revenge and mayoralty.

“And why not?” I heard Mrs. Pitsa say to my mom as they sipped their coffee in the living room of our house. “He has the education, the intelligence and apparently the interest in creating a better place. Maybe he can accomplish what the previous mayors couldn’t.”

“Something doesn’t sit right with me in the decalogue. Anyway, we have nothing to lose by trying it out at this point. Maybe this way, I’ll manage to set some boundaries for Petrakis,” my disappointed mom said.

“Forget about that now, and let’s go read your coffee,” Mrs. Pitsa reassured her.

Reading the coffee was a new habit my mom had picked up since my dad left the house.

“Ahhh…Big door you’re going to walk through, Nitsa, and soon.” exclaimed Mrs. Pitsa.

“I’m thinking of continuing my studies that I left in the middle of when I got pregnant

to Petrakis. Do you think it’s the door of the University?” my mom asked anxiously.

“What can I tell you, Nitsa. Maybe.”

Oh no, we’re in trouble. If my mom goes to university, I will have to take on more chores. mrs Pitsa said goodbye to my mom and left singing Mr. Nionio’s words like a military marcher.

“Who’s the leader? Who? Who? Who else? ME!”

Mrs. Pitsa seemed to have taken the decalogue very seriously. But my mom also as that very night she threw on my bed everything I had scattered left and right all over the house. But when she went to her bed too, a surprise awaited her. Namely, a bed full of her own scattered things. You can’t talk about tidiness if you’re not tidy yourself. When she asked me to do chores at home, I invoked my status as a child and various other excuses until she got frustrated and did them herself.. And her voice from that day on had changed. She became serious and shrill as if she was trying to imitate Mrs. Nana. She was talking and I couldn’t help but laugh. And when she compared me to other kids in the village, I reminded her of their negative traits. I was very amused by Mr. Noniu’s decalogue. I was starting to feel super strong since I could even beat Mr. Nionyu’s 10-logue with his supernaturally wonderful obnoxious child. My mom on the other hand looked more confused than ever.

However, even my teacher had a hard time with me, and getting kicked out of his class had become a habit. And so it was today. But it had become monotonous now. What could I do alone outside of school without my friends? I took walks around the village, bored. Boredom was turning into frustration. Why did my friends stay in class? After all, they were teaching us nonsense. Then I remembered my dad telling me that life is like a puzzle, and if you lose a piece, it’s challenging to replace it. What if I lost a piece of the puzzle outside the class? What if my classmates all became successful and prominent while I didn’t?

I felt anger towards my mom. What did she do wrong, and why didn’t the decalogue work for me, while Mr. Nionios’s son was a model? These were the thoughts in my mind, and without realizing it, I had reached Mr. Nionios’s house when I heard voices from inside.

“I told you not to set foot in the village until the elections at least!”

“Give me 500 euros, Dad, and I’ll go back to ‘London.’ There, you haven’t told everyone that I’m working?”

“Take it and disappear. And go find a job finally. Everywhere you go, they kick you out.”

Dad? So, this is his son? The role model of a polite child? So, these are the results of Mr. Nionios’s decalogue? The biggest liar and cheat that ever passed through Zavolochori!

I ran quickly back home. My mom was right not to trust him, and I wanted to tell her.

“Mom, Mom… Mr. Nionios is a fraud. I saw his son…”

I didn’t finish the sentence when she asked angrily, “Why aren’t you at school, Petros? Did the teacher kick you out of class again?”

“But, Mom, I have something important to tell you. Mr. Nionios’s son isn’t studying abroad, and everything Mr. Nionios said is a lie.”

“You’re the liar, Petros! Quickly, to your room, and don’t come out unless I tell you.”

I ran to my room crying. I might have been many things, but I had never been a liar. My own mother believed a stranger more than her own child. Sleep overcame me as I cried. When I woke up, it was already afternoon. I heard loud conversations and voices from the living room. I recognized Mrs. Pitsa’s voice saying that she learned Mr. Nionios’s son doesn’t work in London, that it’s all lies, and that his son is lazy and arrogant. They were all going to confront Mr. Nionios and demand an explanation from him, as he turned out to be a big liar.

“Or we can do something better,”  said my mum, who I’ve never seen so furious.

When Mrs. Pitsa left, I ran back to my bed, expecting the big apology. However, as soon as she entered my room, I couldn’t hold back.

“See? You didn’t believe me?” I said to her with a triumphant tone.

“Did you eavesdrop again?” she asked me, feigning annoyance.

“I’m waiting for an apology!” I told her, pouting.

Instead, she told me to shut up and go to the kitchen to eat pastitsio and I, as i was hungry like a wolf, went.

In the following days, she locked herself in her office, writing, reading, and tearing papers. She was immersed in this routine, writing, reading, tearing. And one day, she triumphantly emerged from the room, shouting ‘READY!’

A month later, new promotional flyers filled our village. A new meeting was scheduled for the parents, but this time, the speaker was my mother, who, in turn, presented her own decalogue.

Nitsas Decalogue

1. First of all, let’s cultivate a relationship of love and acceptance for ourselves.
2. Let’s accept our children without conditions.
3. Don’t be strict out of fear of losing control.
4. Don’t burden our children with our mistakes.
5. Let’s speak to our children from our hearts with love and sincerity.
6. Children need boundaries, and they communicate it through their behavior.
7. Remember that children want to be loved and do the right thing.
8. When we ask them to do something that needs to be done, feel confident in our hearts that it will be done.
9. Buy the same design and color of socks for the children. That way we won’t have the hassle of matching them when we wash them.
10. Friday night we remind them that they have to study the next morning. That way they won’t wake up from their wild Saturday mornings to play and we can enjoy our morning in peace. After all, we are human too.

Finishing her speech, my mom said the following, which I didn’t quite understand but it sounded catchy.

“In every mistake we recognize in ourselves as parents, there is always a positive side. So let’s forgive ourselves and remember that everything we do, we do with love. And at some point our children will need to learn to forgive our own mistakes. And since our children are still too young for that, let’s make sure we do it for our own parents.”

And it was probably catchy indeed because in the elections that followed in the following days and in which she herself had run as a candidate in defiance of Mr. Nionio, 90% of the village had voted for her. While Mr. Nionios learned his lesson since the only vote he had was his own.

So my mom became the new mayor and no one called her Nitsa anymore but Nietzsche. And Mrs. Pitsa gave up the bakery to her husband, the former slacker, and officially became the coffee lady of the village and the surrounding area. And I may see my mom less because of her increased responsibilities, but now I have more since I entered high school this year and decided that when I grow up I want to be useful and happy.

And our life has become much better. And even though mom no longer lives with dad they seem happier than ever with each other. I held a grudge against them for a long time, but in the end, I decided to forgive them. I imagine I would do the same if I had a little brother. I would enjoy seeing him only if he lived in another house. Because in the end, adults are a bit like children. And children are a bit like adults. And that’s what makes me believe, that it can’t happen otherwise, at some point… we will meet each other.

END

Irene Zoganas