My daughter discovers my blog

Last Sunday my daughter insisted on reading my blog for the first time and I admit I was nervous. She pursed her lips and studied the laptop screen intently, she smiled a couple of times and then laughed a bit. ‘ Which ones am I in? ‘ She scrolled down to her bits and read them all, her expression inscrutable now. Then she said ‘ It’s fine, you can write it. But I will be reading it every Sunday from now on so no sexual incantations please ‘. My guess is she meant shenanigans but I was seeing a small coven of witches around a large, bubbling cauldron solemnly reading out passages from the karma sutra, until DD said. ‘ You’re on twitter too aren’t you? ‘ I nodded my assent mutely. ‘ Then I shall follow you ‘. And she did, spending the next half hour laughing at my ‘sad’ tweets – ‘ Anyone out there a Larry David fan? ‘ being her personal favourite . “ Ah mama, you can’t be surprised no one answered that! ‘ and retweeting ones about her to her friends ‘ My teen daughter is driving me mad! ‘ causing a roar of twitter laughter from her fellow teens. So this is for you C, thanks for the material.

Living with Dolly Parton

Today my daughter has been a dream. We held hands and cuddled at the Mall as we stocked up on back to school supplies and bras – for her not me, it’s like living with Dolly Parton on a cosmetic surgery binge these past few months – and she insisted on buying me a rather delicious little takeaway lunch from M & S. The reason for this sudden burst of affection was my tearful admission in the car outside the Mall that all the last minute to-ing and fro-ing over DS’s 6th form choice had taken it’s toll and I was feeling well and truly rubbish, at which point she shrugged off her stroppy teenage daughter mantel and adopted one of kind, sweet, loving daughter instead and took me under her wing. Offering up a combination of real therapy tips and Harry Potter wisdom ‘ Be careful to exercise curiosity with caution ‘ not relevant in this instance we agreed but a good one to throw into the pot anyway – with distracting observations such as ‘ The communists are the same as the conservatives aren’t they? ‘ and gentle teasing about my supposedly funny ways ( it’s not normal to engage in conversation with people who serve you in shops apparently ), she took my mind off my worries for a good couple of hours and we had the nicest time.

When we got back I told her I was going to write my blog and she pinched my cheeks in a coochie coo way and said sweetly ‘ Ah, why? Nobody reads it mama, no one’s interested in your life …’ I told her she was wrong and in fact nearly XXXX people have read my words. ‘ Ah, no they haven’t, but it’s so sweet that you think they have ‘ and she patted me on the head gently as if not wanting to disturb my elderly delusions.

My Big Fat GCSE Celebration

 

This Thursday the GCSE results came out and amid the usual furore of news headlines, analysis and debate about the state of the nation’s education system, DS opened the brown envelope we had been waiting all day to open and I held my breath for longer than I am accustomed to. The news was good. Phew. He has done well and I am happy and relieved, particularly with his B in maths thanks to www.stuckonhomework.com – I am a proud mummy on all counts. So when he asked if ‘ a few ‘ of his mates could come round for pre-Motion ( pronounced Moshun? as if it were a question if you are a Bristol teenager ) drinks then I could hardly say no. How many I enquired? ‘ Oh, just the usual, you know, J, J, K, you know ‘. I don’t in fact know how many ultimately turned up as I lost count of the loud, ebullient youths going in and out the front door as they arrived, departed to get beer, returned, took over the kitchen, lounge, bedrooms and bathroom with their newly large man bodies, but what was probably no more than 12 seemed like 50. They’re so BIG. ‘ Is it ok if H stays tonight? ‘ asked DS. ‘ Just H? ‘ ‘ Well maybe J as well, but that’s it ‘.

The GCSE celebrants left in taxis about 9.30 and I began Operation Clear-up which lasted about the same time as the visit, ie. 2 hours, opening windows to get rid of the particular and clingy smell that is the combination of testosterone, beer and deodorant, before finally falling into bed shortly before midnight. Only to be woken at 2am by a collection of voices and laughter and tugging sounds at the back door. I stomped downstairs and let in what seemed like about 20 boys but was in fact upon a head count 7, drunk but all capable of speech, normal movement and good manners and no one looking like they might be sick. So I set about finding sleeping space and bedding for them as they moved from room to room deciding who was sleeping where and with whom, climbing in and out of the various bedding options on offer like large, tipsy puppies, their loud young men voices filling the air with the same jokes and insults about each other’s physical attributes and sexual orientation they have been making for the past 5 years. They were still jubilant, but tired and so asleep within the hour, not a problem if you are a 16 year old facing a long lie-in. I on the other am some considerable distance from my youth and not so blessed. At work by 9, I spent the day drinking strong coffee and avoiding looking in any mirrors in case I caught sight of the bags under my eyes.  And of course telling everyone I spoke to how proud I am of my son and his GCSE results.

My Inbetweeners on The Inbetweeners

Sunday, I’m In the car with my son on the way to the tip – 10 more bags of garden rubbish, another back breaking but eminently satisfying afternoon in the garden watched calmly by two stretched out cats and a sleepy dog – and he’s on the phone. ‘ Hey, you’re fraping me, I know you’re fraping me, get off now I’m coming round! ‘. Turns out Fraping means facebook raping, ie. he has left his facebook open at his friend’s house and K is now happily updating DS’s status with a series of what I imagine are typically incriminating and disgusting messages. Teenage boys are many things good and bad, and one of those things is definitely disgusting, a conclusion arrived at after years of close proximity with said creatures and recently captured so well by telly drama, The Inbetweeners. I watched both series with my son, avoiding any eye contact during scenes of a sexual nature, in particular those involving frantic teenage masturbation and we both laughed a lot. They really got it right, the awkwardness, cruelty and pain of adolescence mixed in with some truly, stomach churningly disgusting behaviour and the odd dollop of sweetness.

In case you didn’t know The Inbetweeners movie has just come out and both my teens and most of their mates have already been to see it – unlike my good self who is reluctant to drop 20 quid plus in Vue on nearly 2 hours of four drunk 18 year old lads on holiday in Malia even if it is funny – and it’s a hit. When DS and his mates returned from watching it he said ‘ It’s so funny, seriously funny. ..but I couldn’t watch it with you…’ Why not?  I enquired, we had after all watched 2 series together. ‘ Oh you know, it would just be really embarrassing being at the cinema with your mum watching it…’ ‘ Because of all the w…ing and stuff you mean? ‘, asked his friend J – nervous laughter and much looking at feet from everyone present apart from me. ‘ I don’t need to see it ‘ I say, “ I can just watch you lot. Well, some bits, others I hope I never see. Goodnight, be quiet and don’t make a mess ‘, and I leave my own gang of Inbetweeners to it.

I’m Bored

DS has been back from schools rugby tour in S Africa for three days and he is bored.  Most of his friends are away and he has no transport and no money and apart from daily visits to the gym – you should see his muscles, in fact, if you come to our house you can see them all the time as he never wears a top indoors, preferring instead to lope  around topless, occasionally feeling and flexing his muscles or looking at his reflection in anything he can find – he is passing the time eating, facebooking, watching TV and eating a bit more.  I was in the garden where I have been solidly for the past few days, cutting back, clearing and weeding like the new convert to the church of gardening that I am, when he appeared on typically silent feet and started whacking a tennis ball against the fence with an old hockey stick I had unearthed from under a large bush which I found under  a small tree which I didn’t know I had.

‘ I’m bored ‘, he announced in a bored sort of way. Whack. ‘ Why don’t you dig out some roots? It’s very therapeutic ‘.  Trust me, wrestling stubborn bramble roots out of the ground with a large garden fork in a Herculean battle of woman versus root  – I lay back fully on the fork at one stage using my entire body weight as leverage – is deeply, deeply satisfying. Whack.  ‘ I don’t need therapy ‘.  I balance on my trusty garden implement, pushing it far down into the soil.  ‘ Not yet ‘ I say wobbling slightly but he is already gone, back inside to the safety of the TV and away from annoying mothers who are deluded enough to think that a 16 year old might want to do some digging.  Through DD’s bedroom window I can hear Helen Reddy singing from her laptop, “ I am strong, I am invincible, I Am Womaaaaaan ‘ and I feel the roots tremble on the points of my fork.

Goodbye Harry Potter

It’s probably a good thing my daughter came back yesterday as I have started to live like a student this past week, neglecting domestic duties in favour of watching telly and eating bowls of cereal and biscuits because I can’t be bothered to cook. We had a sweet reunion DD and I, lots of hugs and kisses, then a lunch at Wagamamas where we talked about her Majorcan sojourn and definitely out of left field this one, her new interest in becoming a WAG.   The catalyst for this ambition was the handsome and talented foot balling, Majorcan Moroccan lad she had met -‘ I didn’t get with him or anything obviously, because I like, have a boyfriend, like‘ – and her eyes widened in wonder at the thought that if she were to become single again she could pursue the relationship and ‘ I could be a WAG! ‘. Hummmm, not really my ambition of choice for DD but I fear rich husbands will never go out of fashion so long as there are handbags to be bought.

Then we went to see the latest and final Harry Potter movie, something DD has been both anticipating and dreading since The Deathly Hallows part1.  She is an avid and passionate Harry Potter fan, which has not lessened with the onset of teendom and although she loved the film, burst into painful tears as soon as we were back home because, ‘ It’s the end. I’ve grown up with them and now it’s over ‘. I really felt for her as she cried like the little girl she still sometimes is for the end of Harry Potter and because without yet knowing it, she was also crying for her own scarily fast growing up these past few years. It’s tough being 15 and not knowing if you want to be a WAG or a wizard.

Not My Responsibility

I write these words in a house empty of teenagers. No music, voices, slamming doors, trails of large, adolescent forms up and down the stairs, clothes, make-up and damp towels strewn across floors. No requests for lifts or money or both, no last minute sleepovers or late night meals required because ‘ I am a teenage, bottomless eating machine that needs 5 meals a day and I’m starving. Again ‘. Tonight the house is quiet and I’m off duty.

They are both away, she in Majorca with her dad and he on schools rugby tour in S.Africa and I have a whole week off parenting. Bliss. One of the mums at the S.Africa send off said ‘ I’m going to miss little Jonny so much, I hate it when he’s away..’ and though I nodded with seeming empathy the truth is, I love these rare periods without my darling pair. It’s not just the massive reduction in my domestic load, down by, oh I would say, 85%, but also the sheer relief of just not being responsible for them. Not worrying about where they are, where they’re supposed to be, whether they’re drinking, whether they’re drunk, why they seem upset, why they won’t eat, why they won’t stop eating, why they’re not answering their phones, what will happen if they don’t do enough revision – for one week only, Not My Responsibility.  And it feels good, I tell you.

Then my iphone beeps, incoming text from DD. ‘ Miss you a lot xxxxxxxxx ‘. Curse the wretched, digital umbilical chord that is the mobile phone, now I know that she’s missing me I feel bad about not missing her. But the feeling passes quickly when she texts me that’s she’s on her way to the square for a night of traditional Majorcan festivities which include large amounts of sangria being consumed and children tying fireworks to their heads before running around amongst the crowd – eat your heart out elf and safety – and it’s Not my Responsibility to keep her safe.  Thank God under the circumstances. So I text her the usual warnings about strange men and the perils of alcohol and then I turn my phone off and head for the sofa, free for once from sprawling teenage bodies and occupied only by one small, neat tabby cat.  Budge up Boo.

The lesbanian wedding

My idea of a good time is not to be shut in a car with two tired, stroppy teens on a five hour journey in holiday traffic, but that is how I spent Saturday. We were headed for my niece and her girlfriend’s wedding at my sister’s home in Cornwall, a family occasion we were genuinely looking forward to, but first we had to get there without me throwing my DD’s ipod out of the window. DS had borrowed said instrument of torture for the duration of the journey and due to his poor quality headphones I was subjected to the unbelievably irritating, second hand sound of his musical choices, for hours. And I mean hours.  But despite things getting a bit shouty at the service station when I finally put my foot down and made him turn it off, we all arrived in one piece and a wonderful wedding unfolded. Against the backdrop of a deep blue sky in a field in Cornwall two of the nicest people you could ever hope to meet made their vows, and we were all deeply moved.

As we stood afterwards with still teary eyes and glasses of champagne my DS commented on how much the ceremony had touched him. ‘ I cried, I really did ‘. He looked around at the other guests. ‘ There’s lots of lesbanians here isn’t there? ‘ – it’s a current trend amongst The Young to add extra letters into words and I liked the extended version but requested that he keep his observations to himself as ‘ Grandma  is on her way over and I don’t want to get her onto any controversial topics ‘. My mum is 82 and going deaf which makes her prone to loud comments about people standing within earshot, and as a devout Christian of advancing years she struggles with the ‘ physical side ‘ of gay relationships and I did not want her to express this view in public today. ‘ Do you understand?’ DS nods sagely, ‘ Won’t mention lesbanians once. Promise. Hello grandma, can I get you a drink? ‘

After a sit down feast in a glorious rustic chic themed tent one of my nieces did DJ duty and we danced. It’s the first time in a long while since I danced with my kids and I thoroughly recommend it as a bonding exercise.  All memories of traffic jams and family rows were forgotten as we threw some shapes together, and my DD didn’t say ‘ God, you’re embarrassing, stop dancing ‘ once.

My first teenage hangover

Spent the weekend at Wellington Education Festival exhibiting Stuck on homework and listening to some inspiring speeches by Sir Bob Geldof, A.A.Gill and Sir Terry Leahy.  My friend and ex-child minder K came to stay to babysit the children and the house, despite my DD’s requests to be left alone  ‘ You can trust us, it’s not like we’re stupid enough to have a party or something ‘. This is not all reassuring as DD has clear criteria as to what constitutes a party and apparently anything under 20 teens is ‘ A Gathering ‘. If you have ever seen 20 teenagers in one normal sized house you will know that it is more like a Viking raid than a bloody ‘ gathering’, so K stayed over to supervise.

I returned last night to find the house clean and tidy apart from a crate of empty beer bottles next the sink and my DD with what seemed suspiciously like a hangover.  It turned out the empties were the result of DS and a few of his mates spending the afternoon in the back garden wearing flat caps and sunglasses drinking ‘like northerners’ in celebration of the visit of J’s Manchester cousin. Only a couple of lads were still there and no one was the worse for wear so northerners are clearly a good drinking role model. DD on the other hand looked decidedly ropey. She had spent the previous night at  a party .‘ Yeah, about 50, definitely a party, L’s parents are so cool they didn’t even mind when P was sick in the pond. There’s, like,  fish in it ‘.  ‘ Not anymore ‘ I tell her. ‘ So, you appear to have a hangover…’ “ It’s not a hangover, I just drank a bit much and I don’t feel very well today ‘ .  ‘ That’s what a hangover is. And you’re too young to have one so no more parties for a month ‘. I ignore the immediate rise in decibels as DD berates me for my meanness and lack of understanding as to what it’s like to be young –  she’s wrong of course, it’s because I remember only too well what it’s like to be 15 that I can see through DD’s flimsy attempts to pass off her first hangover.  She slams the kitchen door loudly behind her as she leaves the kitchen and I put some washing on, empty and reload the dishwasher and debate whether to go out for a bit with the most low maintenance and easy going member of the family – the dog. DS enters the kitchen. ‘ What’s for supper, I’m starving? And can you take me to rugby tomorrow and I need to get some new shoes…’ ” I kneel down beside the dog and whisper in his ear ‘ I like you best ‘.

Old enough to know better

Friday night and my DS is out celebrating the end of GCSEs with a group of his friends.  In the week that saw the publication of yet another report detailing the dangerous rise in teenage drinking, I am prepared for the worst when he appears in the kitchen dressed in his going out clothes, a vapour trail of hair product and deodorant behind him.

‘ We’re going to celebrate the end of our exams, can I have some money please? ‘  ‘ Where are you going?’ I am expecting the mumbled name of some tenacious teenager who has somehow persuaded his or her poor parents to let them hold a party where much excessive drinking and unsuitable jolly japes will take place. ‘ Nando’s ‘.    ‘Oh ‘.  I am thrown for a moment but recover quickly.  ‘ But where are you going after Nando’s? ‘ I have him now.  ‘ Home. J is staying, his parents are away and I said you wouldn’t mind. So can I have 20 quid please? ‘ I hand the money over happily, it’s  a small price to pay for a celebratory night of fine dining with one’s companions, and think about the contrast between this Friday night and the one about 18 months ago when I received a call from a friend of DS informing me that  DS ‘ wasn’t very well ‘ due to ‘ er, you know, too much alcohol ‘. I was surprised by the news as he had left the house less than 45 minutes earlier to head to the downs ‘ to hang out ‘, so much damage had been done in a short time. We established he was conscious, sitting propped up against a tree being poorly and had consumed 3 cans of lager and about half a ( small ) bottle of vodka.   I fetched him home and mopped his brow while he groaned ‘ Why do I feel so bad, why do I feel so bad? ‘ Like the rest of us DS learnt the hard way that evening that what seems like the best fun ever can rapidly turn into a nightmare of head spinning, sickness and occasionally A & E, something obviously forgotten by hundreds of lashed up Take That fans Old Enough To Know Better this week.

DS returns at the appointed hour, ie. 11 o clock, barely even smelling of booze and looking every inch the model teen. Something I doubt he is going to replicate when he goes to Newquay in a few weeks – oh God.