I got so worked up before my A Level history that my mum went out and bought me a packet of fags to calm my nerves. Half way through the kids’ GCSEs and things are surprisingly peaceful in our house. My teens require food, sleep and sympathy for their exam state but fortunately no nicotine. My DS used our new website, www.stuckonhomework.com to do his maths ( I know it’s a plug but it really works ) while DD, who is sitting 3 science modules, figures she can always re-sit if things go badly and could I pleeeeease just go away ‘ And yes, I will do some revision when I’m ready, stop nagging! ‘ So just as I was congratulating myself on a calm, stress free house with both teens present and correct in their rooms while I head off to bed at 11pm on Saturday night ( sad I know but I am 103 ), five teenage friends of my DS traipse through the back door, one of whom – J – is covered in blood.
It transpires that he had been kicked in the face by a lad whose brother he had brawled with at a party earlier in the evening and amongst other minor cuts and bruises he has a small but deep cut under his eye which needs stitches. I clean it up as best I can and make the usual mummy noises about being lucky no one was carrying a knife and how martial artists always say the best weapon you have are your feet because they will take you away from trouble and ..They all nod politely but I know my words are falling on deaf adolescent ears – they are young and so think they are invincible.
Contemplating his eye in my make-up mirror J says ‘ Chicks dig scars ‘ and they all laugh.