If…You are dealing with raging hormones on a daily basis, then this is for you, my friend
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing their socks and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself that you are doing the right thing taking phones away at 9pm, when all your children doubt you,
But make allowance for their door slamming histrionics too;
If you can wait for the bathroom every morning and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about on Snapchat, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated and hated and HATED, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good in their selfies, nor talk too wise in front of their friends:
If you can dream that one day they’ll be normal —and not make dreams your master;
If you can think that one day they’ll leave home—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph: no wet towel on the floor this morning! and Disaster: 12 dirty mugs in their bedroom
And treat those two impostors just the same; (no pocket money)
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by teenagers to make a trap for parents,
Or watch the things you gave birth to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with tissues, hugs and chocolate.
If you can make one heap of all the washing
And risk asking for help with sorting it out,
And lose, and start again with another heap the next day
And never breathe a word about your loss; (Because they never listen anyway)
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To keep your sanity long after they are gone out the door to school,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to you: “Hold on – eventually their grunts will return to normal speech!”
If you can talk with crowds of their friends in your kitchen eating biscuits and keep your alcohol untouched,
Or walk behind them so they’re not embarrassed — nor lose their iPod touch,
If neither being told you’re stupid nor so old can hurt you,
If all their comments count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill a minute of their unforgiving music
With sixty seconds’ worth of your choice of radio station in the car,
Yours is the House and every child that’s innit,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Parent, my sympathy.
By Kipling, partner and me