Parenting Malcolm

It isn’t weird that we call ourselves his Mum and Dad. We have to – he’d go crackers if he found out he was adopted and he’s hard enough to control as it is. I know that most polar bears suffer from behavioural problems but it’s just too easy to blame ourselves – he stays with me in the week and Alex at weekends, he doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.

It’s difficult to take him out in public – he’s got a very short attention span and his table manners are not good. We took him to a posh restaurant and he bayed for seal meat then, when the rare steak arrived, wrestled it onto the floor where he humped it and savaged it until he was sure it was dead. He later rode a horse.

We try to provide some stability by being as affectionate with each other as possible around him, but, like most of our friends, he doesn’t seem to appreciate our PDAs – Alex has the bruises to prove it. Malcolm gets very jealous of any attention not directed at him so we have to make sure we give him regular cuddles, which he doesn’t like either. In short, we have a difficult son.

Malcolm’s dirtier than we realised

When we first got Malcolm he was creamy white and fluffy. In the six months of utter debauchery since, his fur has noticeably greyed and matted with blood, he’s like a reverse Dorian Grey; we can only imagine there’s a painting of him in an attic somewhere angelically cuddling a seal cub. I cautiously suggested a bath and he told me I was welcome to try but he’d fucking glass me.

Malcolm’s only afraid of two things: fire and water. Fire because he’s 99% polyester, and water because he’s one of those microwavable bears and if you get his insides wet they’ll expand and ferment and he’ll go all gremlin on us. Still, it’s reassuring to know there’s something he’s afraid of.

Now  he’s peering menacingly at me from inside my lamp likes some kind of fucked up genie, he says he’s not getting down until Alex gets here. A mother’s love is never enough.

 

Malcolm hates UKIP, and everyone else

Malcolm’s getting very excited about the local and EU elections. On the way to the polling station yesterday Alex asked who he was voting for and he said ‘Putin’. He went fucking nuts when it wasn’t on the ballot paper. In the end he voted for one of the violent fringe parties, mainly because he’d heard they had weak leadership and thought his vote might be a good first inroad. Might have to ground him for a while.

We all watched Question Time together – Malcolm likes David Dimbleby. When Neil Hamilton (UKIP) started speaking about the Migration Watch website Malcolm began a low continuous growl in his throat then threw himself headfirst into the TV. I sometimes forget he’s an immigrant. He’s been goose-stepping around the living room ever since, we’re just cowering on the sofa surrounded by broken glass. Could this be his first unofficial concentration camp?

Malcolm’s problem, like all polar bears, is that he lacks team mentality – he doesn’t like the idea of having to serve the interests of others. However, the idea of others serving him interests him quite a lot, so a totalitarian dictatorship wouldn’t be out of the question. He has a poster of Pol Pot up in his bedroom. Alex tried to take it down and Malcolm threatened to piss in his paddy fields. Prick.