The Punchbag

Mum is full of frustration and rage this morning.

She storms in behind where I am sitting at my desk.

'Sometimes', she says, 'I could just break this bloody thing in half'; her iPad is held between both hands. I imagine she may slap it down with force on my desk and indeed break it in half so I put my hand out to take it from her.

What's the matter? I ask

It won't ring. When somebody calls me on the telephone, my computer won't ring. So I keep missing them.

Skype.

She relies on it heavily. Her single easy (usually) connection to the world - given her geography and her inability to read or write easily - means it is precious and tenuous.

As soon as I begin touching icons on the screen she demands, 'what are you doing, what are you doing to it?'

Trying to fix the problem, mum.

I'm going to call you, I say, and I bring my own Skype account to my screen

There's no point in doing that she says, furious, impatient as if I have not understood, I won't hear it ring.

I know I say, as calmly as I can, but unless I call you I won't know whether I've fixed it or not.

She hovers which puts me on edge. Often she demands, 'if you would only show me, if somebody would only show me how to use this bloody machine I wouldn't have to keep asking'.

I have shown her dozens of times.

Mum, I say as gently as I can, why don't you leave this to me, I'll fix it. But i can't fix it with her peering over my shoulder asking cross questions that I can't answer.

She acquiesces. Leaves my room. Goes outside. I hear her taking it out on the dogs now - my young labrador is inclined to greet people with happy whimpering and sticks as gifts, oh don't be such a bloody baby she snaps.

I sort the problem out - the result of her frequently furious directionless swiping and tapping random icons, she's muted it.

I deliver it. It's sorted,  I say.

She glares at the offending tablet I've put down beside her, 'why don't they give you a bloody instruction book on these things' she demands. I don't know, I sigh (but I do not add, you wouldn't understand it even if they did, Mum).

She eats toast mutinously and then I notice she has begun to cry. 

I don't know what to say. Or do.

It's ok Mum, lots of people struggle with these things. I do, I say. (Which is not true).

Later, with her skype up and running, she makes happy calls and cheerfully reports back that she has spoken to so and so and they said such and such.

I smile and acknowledge her news. I am happy that she has reconnected to the bigwideworld via the worldwideweb.

But I want to cry. I feel wounded. I am the only one she can lash out at it.  But I'm also the only one who can help. And she cannot understand so I cannot remonstrate.