Category: Teenagers, love ’em

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

Morning! I say cheerily to daughter 2. Why are you all annoying me so much, this morning? Is the reply. Ah ok, it’s a morning when the floor is strewn with egg shells. 

In the kitchen I am making their lunches. Daughter 2 is stomping around and declaring, loudly, everything that is currently disgusting her: there is dog hair everywhere, I hate beetroot in my salad,  there is nothing I like for breakfast, why is there never anything I like…We’re all zoning out, including the dogs, who are flat out on the floor, ignoring the hormonal fuss. She trips over dog 1. It sets her off again: why is he there, why isn’t our kitchen bigger, why are you all ganging up on me…

I contemplate voicing my irritation at her early morning ranting, but there just isn’t room for two of us going on, so I resort to the breathing techniques I learnt in my NCT classes 16 years ago, when one of the drama queens was but a cute little package, surrounded by calming amniotic fluid. 

She’s flounced off upstairs, where her grievances are continuing to be aired to her sisters: why do you have to use my hairbrush, why don’t you get your own moisturiser, why are you wearing my tights…

She’s back downstairs. I brace myself. Muuum. I know that voice. That voice can only ever mean one thing. Can I have a friend over for a sleepover on Friday night? I look into her pleading eyes. Well, the thing is, I reply, I wouldn’t want you to be embarrassed bringing your friend to such an awful place, filled with such irritating people…and before she has a chance to respond, I gently ease her out the door to school. 

I have identified a problem with being the mother of teenage girls – I am a control freak and teenagers don’t like being controlled. Sometimes they will humour me and then, free from my clutches, carry on their way regardless. Other times they will dig their unhealthily high heels in and refuse to budge. 

I am a professional snooper. So far my snooping has averted a large gathering taking place in our house whilst we were away, an inappropriate one night stand, use of a hip flask and late night doughnut eating. And that is just one – I have four more to go. 

This week, however, my snooping has simply led to frustration and worry, as I overheard a snippet of conversation that has left me desperate to know more, but unable to find out. God knows I’ve tried. First, I started subtly: are you ok? Yes mum. Later that hour: everything ok? Yup. Later that evening: school ok? Yes. The next morning I’m haranguing other daughters to find out what’s going on. They don’t seem a bit worried – this worries me even more. Perhaps they are all in this together…paranoia sets in. By the evening I can’t stand it any longer and I am going for the direct approach: is it a boy? Are you gay? Are you wondering whether you might be gay? No, I’m not gay. Has someone touched you inappropriately? I don’t know what that means, so I presume not mum. Are you pregnant? No! I decide that this is an exclamation of true incredulity. I’m momentarily relieved. I go to start again. I’m gently pushed out of the room and the door is shut on me. I’m left standing outside the frontier, debating the rights of teenage privacy over a parent’s need-to-know and still I am none the wiser. 

Can you just give me a clue, I ask through a crack in the door. Only if you promise you’ll stop going on, comes the reply. This seems like a fair starting point, so I agree. It’s not about me, she says. And that’s it – I’m off again: is it about your sisters? Is it about your friend, is it about your friend’s friend? Is it…MUM!! I’m being screamed at now and even I know that it is time to let it go. 

Daughters 1-4 and step daughter all work for us. This gives them a certain amount of disposable income and we feel teaches them invaluable life lessons on money management. 

Daughter 2 is going to Spain in the summer holidays with face time friend. I am paying for the ticket and she is paying me back in installments. Don’t forget how much I’ve given you, she said this morning, accusingly. I am writing it all down as well, she adds, definitively. You haven’t given me anything yet, I reply. 

She is off school with a sore throat and a temperature. I go to check on her. She’s had a sleep and says she’s feeling a little better. What’s for lunch, she enquires. Salad, I reply. Quinoa salad and mackerel. She doesn’t look impressed. I’ll come down in a while and get it, she says. 

Partner and I are eating lunch. The doorbell goes. It’s the Dominoes Pizza man. I look at him confused. Daughter 2 is leaning over the banister, brandishing a ten pound note. Good money management, she croaks at me with a smile. 

Daughter 2 has bought white jeans. She won’t let me wash them. She takes them to face time friend’s mum to wash. I’m offended. You turn all my white things grey, mum and these cost me a month’s money. I pull a face. Face time friend’s mum doesn’t mix her whites and her darks, she continues, nailing the coffin.

It is true and I do have a reputation. I admit to representing my country in a pink tracksuit – much to the amusement of the England Taekwon-do squad. As soon as I saw the white tracksuit with St. George’s cross adorning the left hand side, I knew that I was doomed, before even stepping foot inside the ring.

Underwear is a nightmare. I once turned daughter 4’s first bra so grey, that she preferred it to the white.

Back to the jeans and daughter 2 asks me if she can do her own washing from now on. Every grey cloud has a silver lining.

 

How did your hair go up today? Partner asks nervously on return from his shower. Looking for a prediction on how today will go. I point to the mirror…

I had decided that the girls need specific chores. I hatched the plan whilst sitting on the loo (of course) in Costa, as I admired the efficiency of their loo cleaning chart. I printed off four copies of the January google calendar and assigned one to each daughter. They are blue tacked to the wall. Each week they must complete their chore and sign it. In order for it to count it must be countersigned by a supervisor – partner or myself. After one or two teething problems (they all forgot to do their chores in week one), the system is now up and running. However, like any system, it is open to abuse when workers start getting more confident with usage. Daughter 3’s chore is the dusting. As I peered into my mirror to do my hair this morning, I found myself staring at, what looked like a cock and balls, squirted in Mr Sheen. Daughters 1, 2 and 4 came in: oh, you’ve got one too mum, they said. I marched downstairs in full supervisor mode, demanding an explanation. I don’t get what you don’t like, says daughter 3, the eyes or the tongue poking out…or the fact I haven’t rubbed it, she adds with a grin.

Tights are going to send me to prison. Their very existence is going to force me into committing a murderous act. Four girls, five schooldays a week, same size, same colour – you get me? Daughter 1 bought her own tights. They have a special name with special features, but unfortunately they look exactly the same as all the other pairs of black tights that hang on the airer like grim reapers, waiting until they are dry enough to create merry hell in our house at 7am every single morning.

Daughter 1 has special tights, daughter 2 likes tights that aren’t too thin nor too thick, daughter 3 likes tights she can do the crouching down test in (?), daughter 4, being last on the heap anyway, is least fussy with tights. But they all look the same!

Under the tights they wear socks. Is this new or did I have my head stuck in the sand during my schooldays. So not only do we have tight war every morning, but occasionally sock war too.

On school day mornings, partner’s hiding place is the shower. He only appears as the girls are disappearing out of the door. He misses out on the wars. I try to ignore the wars.

Within seconds of tights finding a person, they hole. We need a second mortgage for tights in this house….and tampax for that matter. I think you should roll your own, partner says (from the safety of one of his hiding places). Where’s that weapon…

Having five girls is a constant source of joy, irritation, fun and frustration.

Two pre-menstrals, three menstrals and one peri-menopausal make mood swings in our house like a Newton’s Cradle. Daughter 2’s mood swings are like a huge pendulum coming crashing towards you, that you either slip to the side of or take full on, depending on your own mood. But as quickly as it hits, it will swing back happily the other way and she’ll have us all laughing again.

The four males in the house: partner, dog 1, dog 2 and fat cat, all look on with amusement and despair – depending on their moods.

When we got dog 1, scaredy cat was never to be seen in public again, whereas fat cat takes the dogs on. He wears his big ginger status with pride. Scaredy cat now has special hiding places where she lives. I have noticed that partner is starting to develop a similar pattern of behaviour: current favourite hiding spots when Newton’s Cradle in full swing: toilet, our bedroom where his two guitars are, tv room as we have free sky sports for three months due to Talk Talk cock up, garage which is now an office.

He has bought us (himself) a pressure washer, which I feel he is overly excited about. It came in several parts – all of which arrived separately and all of which had to be delivered to our neighbour as we were out. Part one: the pressure washer itself. Left neighbour knocked at 10pm. He looked weary. The box had been taking up his entire hallway since 2pm. I apologised profusely. Next came the small brush. He dutifully brought it round – more apologising. Then it was the large brush (when I say ‘large’ I mean HUGE – like a stingray) So I don’t have to do as much brushing, partner said gleefully. It was delivered, yet again, by left neighbour. I’m sure there can’t be any more bits to this pressure washer, I said to left neighbour, in a vain attempt at lightening his mood. Then partner got an e mail: the cleaning liquid will be delivered tomorrow, it read. Left neighbour lobbed it at us from his front door as we returned from work that evening, narrowly missing fat cat, who is inclined to lounge on the pavement outside our house, seeking love from anyone susceptible.

Pressure washer, now complete. Us, now struck off left neighbour’s Christmas card list. A week later, boxes still stacked, unopened in living room. Ah well, I suppose it gives partner something to hide behind.

Daughter 2 is dyslexic. Once we got over the screaming sessions that resulted from her never picking up book to read, and the mess she makes of the shopping list, we often find it hysterical.

Daughter 1 was off to work this morning: Matt , ICS Matt, started work at the leisure centre yesterday, she was telling me. Omg! Dyslexic daughter 2 exclaimed, he’s a member of ISIS! No, daughter 1 said disdainfully, he’s doing the international citizen service.

Daughter 2 puts her porridge into the microwave. How long mum? Two minutes on high. She peers in half way through, as the porridge is bubbling over the top of her overfilled bowl. Omg, I must have used self raising milk! Omg….