Category: Teenagers, love ’em

We all want our daughters to be nice, right? Polite and agreeable. We want our teenagers to tow the line, because it makes our lives a whole lot more pleasant. We want them to think of others and not be the one causing upsets. We want them to dress appropriately – pull that skirt down a little and less of the cleavage. Basically, as parents we want them to be accepting and tolerant and that way we have a happy home.

The trouble is, that being nice is curtailing their potential and limiting their superpowers and let’s face it, if Wonder Woman is deemed appropriate as the UN’s Honorary Ambassador for the Empowerment of Women and Girls, then they are all going to need to don their capes and, as Rachel Simmons talks about in her book: ‘The Curse of the Good Girl’, ‘lionize the nice girl’.

So here’s my problem as their mum. A lion is a force to be reckoned with. I want to empower my daughters, but I don’t want them to be wild and uncontrollable. I want them to have an opinion, but I also want to teach them to listen. I want them to stand their ground, but I want them to be able to accept that they aren’t always right – even if they are a lion. A lion is king of the jungle, but I am still queen of this house.

Being a nice girl is a high standard to live up to and when they fail to keep it up they can become hampered by self-criticism. Add to this the pressures of having to look a certain way in order to achieve those all important ‘likes’ and you suddenly realise why so many girls suffer from depression and anxiety.

I had naively thought that by the time my girls were adults, the genders would be pretty much equal. I am still shocked that they aren’t. What’s going on? Why can’t we have equal pay? Why are we still subject to high levels of gender-based violence and sexual abuse? Why is there still inequality in sport? Why is there still discrimination and harassment in the work place? Why aren’t women’s voices being heard?

I want my daughters to be heard. Right now, I just really want them to have an opinion. I want to cut though their apathy on issues that affect them and their future. So I will keep asking their opinions, even if, for now, I get little back. They have time on their side, but I must lay the groundwork. I must put in the hard graft and get it right, now.

I must focus on how they are doing at school and not on their appearance. I must encourage them to try new things and make them aware of strong female role models. I need to tell my daughters that they don’t need to be liked by everyone, but that the right types of friendship are important. I’m not going to make decisions for them and they must take responsibility for their actions. I will help them to solve problems, but ultimately they must solve them themselves.

Does all this turn my girls into lions? I still want them to be what they are: girls.

Strong and sassy girls, who know how to challenge authority in a way that produces results. I want them to have the confidence to make waves.

I have my own mantras as a mum. They help. I think that these mantras, mentioned by clinical psychologist Barbara Greenberg, are fantastic for our daughters and of course for sons too:

• Make a decision from a place of power, not pressure
• In most situations you aren’t the subject of scrutiny, so be less self-conscious
• Kindness is the best form of communication
• Remember who you are

I will embrace who you are and I will prepare you as best I can for the challenges ahead.

Jo of Mother of Teenagers tagged me to ask my daughters some questions. ‘Oh no, not another tag post to do,’ I thought to myself – they seem to take me so much longer to write than any other post! However, I thought it would be interesting to hear their answers and when I read Catie’s reasons behind starting this tag, I was even more intrigued. This is what she said about it:

‘I went on the hunt for questions and came across this article in the Telegraph 25 questions to ask your child. This was just what I was looking for…

For an intriguing and often entertaining insight into how your children see the world, take a look at these 25 questions for kids…The answers might just surprise you…

Who is your best friend?

Yasmin Dodd. We’ve been friends since we were babies, because our mums are best friends. (So we didn’t have a choice, haha!)

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Singer, vet, radiologist, a dentist or an actress

If you could have one superpower what would it be and why?

To be able to fly, because then you can get around much easier

What are the 3 best things about being you?

I have a great family, I’m generally happy and I have lots of pets

What are the best and worst things about mum?

The best thing is she’s always loving and always looking after us and there for me. The worst thing is that when she shouts, she shouts

Can you name one thing that scares you?

Spiders

What’s the nicest thing a friend has ever done for you?

It’s not one thing, but Yasmin has always been there for me

How do you describe me to your friends?

I always say you are reasonable and that I love you

If you could go anywhere in the world for a day where would you go?

Ariana Grande’s house, in LA

Which 3 words best describe you?

Loud, sociable, an animal lover

Daughter 1, aged 17 years

Who is your best friend?

Multiples

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Alive

If you could have one superpower what would it be and why?

To know what people are thinking and to be able to go wherever I want to go easily. (I did point out that she was only allowed ONE superpower, but in true teenage fashion, she insisted on more and refused to give her reasons why!)

What are the 3 best things about being you?

I find these questions really hard to answer…(that was her answer…)

What are the best and worst things about mum?

The best things are that you make a dead good chicken dish and you haven’t got a saggy bum and the worst is that you have a go at me for no reason

Can you name one thing that scares you?

UCAS

What’s the nicest thing a friend has ever done for you?

A surprise visit on my birthday

How do you describe me to your friends?

Oh God, what’s she done now?

If you could go anywhere in the world for a day where would you go?

New York

Which 3 words best describe you?

Fun, chatty, sociable

So there you have it. I’m not sure that I got a great insight into my girls, but at least I now know that I haven’t got a saggy bum…

I tag the following lovely bloggers to bribe their kids/step kids into doing it, if they have the inclination and haven’t done so already:

Trista at Domesticated Momster
Bridget at Bridie by the Sea
Prabs at Absolutely Prabulous

Check out their blogs too 🙂

There’s nothing quite like a conversation with your mum to make you realise that you have fucked up as a parent…again.

My latest fuck-up was allowing daughter 2 to watch a band in Camden last night.

“What! On a school night? How old is she? 15?” Yes mum, you know that already (and actually she’s 3 weeks off being 16, which doesn’t sound nearly as bad). “I would never have let you do that on a school night!” Erm, well actually you did – remember, I went to see ‘The Bolshoi’ and when I told my teachers the next day, they all thought I’d been to see a ballet. “I don’t remember that.”

No, I sighed. You never do.

The thing is, I had felt as if I’d fucked-up when daughter 2 reminded me 2 nights previously that she was going. “You’re doing what?” I asked incredulously, confident that I would never have agreed to such a thing – especially on a school night. “Yes, you remember Mum. I bought the tickets ages ago.” I searched my brain for a glimpse of a recollection…nothing. “I thought it was tomorrow, but actually it’s the day after.” Ah, now the penny dropped. She had told me that it was on the night she stays with her Dad, so I had relinquished all responsibility for the decision. Now, with 2 days to go, she tells me it’s on my watch. Shit. Suddenly it’s left to me to explain to the police, if anything were to go wrong, that I allowed my 15 but nearly 16 year old daughter out on a school night, with only her 15 year old friend as a chaperone. I falter. I’m stuck. Partner shoots me ‘one of those’ looks, that says: she’s taking the piss. I’m thinking: she can’t let her friend down now. It’s too late to stop her. What’s the worst that can happen? At which point I just switch off.

Until the morning of the night of the concert, when I suddenly panic that I don’t know the name of the band she’s going to see, let alone the name of the club. I march into her room and demand details. She’s too busy getting ready for school to be able to pay me much attention, she just waves her hand towards her bag where the tickets are. I take a photo of the ticket. This makes me feel a bit better. What I actually achieved by this, I have no idea, but it did make me feel a little more responsible.

I spend all morning worrying that I’m a really bad mother, then her friend’s mum rings me and reassures me that they’ll be ok. I feel fine again. Anyway, I have other things to worry about, so I’m more than happy to put this one to bed. I text daughter 2 to tell her that I’ve spoken to her friend’s mum and she’s to ring me when she leaves the venue. ‘I haven’t got any credit’, she texts back. Shit, I think to myself and start worrying all over again. I ring her: “you can’t go to London with no credit on your phone. What if you get lost? Separated from your friend?” I’m back to imagining various scenarios that involve young males and police. “I’ll be fine mum,” she says, adding reassuringly, “I can still text.”

She sends me a photo: ‘we’re right at the front’. The text doesn’t serve to reassure. I can see the barrier. I envisage her getting squashed up against it. ‘You’re in the mosh pit’ I text back. ‘Don’t get trampled on.’ ‘Hahahaha we won’t it will be fine’ was her text back.

And with that, I let go of my worry. I cooked, I blogged, I stared mindlessly at Facebook. I periodically told the kids to get on with homework and I watched TV. Then I went to bed.

Shit! I woke-up at midnight. I’d forgotten to worry. I grabbed for my phone – nothing. I did a quick calculation of timings. How could I have forgotten she was travelling home? How the bloody hell could I have forgotten to worry? I sent a text: ‘you back yet?’ and waited…

‘Yeah. It was soooo good xxxxxx’.

Another worry put to bed, until the next one.

I’ve been inspired! I am writing a book with people’s positive thoughts on their teenagers.

Teenagers get bad press. I love my teenage girls, but quite often I write about the angst that surrounds them. This venture is to readdress the balance. It is to be a celebration of teens.

I am putting together a compilation of thoughts beginning: I love it when …

If you would like to be included in the book, then please leave your: I love it when … in the comments section of this post, e mail me at: alison.longhurst@yahoo.co.uk, or tweet me @MHouseMum

I would also love to include some photos that embody the positive thoughts of the book. If you have any photos that you are happy to be included, then please e mail them to me. In doing so, I will take this as your permission for me to use them in the context of this book only.

Let me know what name you would like displayed with your comment if when it gets published and names that can be used as captions for any photos.

To see what set this off, you can read my post here: I love it when…

Please spread the word to anyone you know who has teenagers.

Dear Daughters,

Don’t worry, this isn’t one of those schmoozy letters, where I tell you how beautiful you all are – apparently that would damage you for life, as it would eat away at your self esteem (and anyway, you already know you are). No, this is just me wanting to tell you what I really love about you. Because let’s be honest, we have to deal with a lot of crap on a daily basis – some yours, some mine and I really don’t want the good times to get buried. So here is a celebration of what I love.

I love it when I can lean on you – not emotionally – you have enough of your own stuff to deal with – I mean physically lean on you. Drape my arm casually around you and lean in close. It’s more subtle than a hug and I love it when you don’t pull away and even more when you rest your head on my shoulder. 

I love it when you say, ‘oh mum’ in a tone of pity drenched in love, when I don’t understand something in your world. Or when you say: I haven’t given you a hug in ages and you wrap your arms around me tight. Or when one who doesn’t often hug me, does. 

I love it when you help each other with your homework, because I can’t and when you bake together. In fact, I love it when you do anything together that doesn’t involve a fight. Walking into your bedrooms and seeing you lying together on the bed, laughing unselfconsciously as sisters do, makes me smile. 

I love it when we walk the dogs. It isn’t often that you can, because you’re in bed, in school, at work. But this makes when you can, a real joy. We talk with uncluttered abandon. We put the world to rights. We discover things about each other we didn’t know. 

I love it when another package arrives from far flung China. You are usually at school and as I place it on your bed in your full view when you walk in, I can feel your excitement. I text you to tell you it’s arrived, because you’ve been asking when it will for days and I want to be a part of your pleasure. I love that you have worked hard to pay for it yourself and that you are really good at your work and people appreciate you. This is your well-earned reward. 

I love it when, during a busy day I can text you and ask if you want to cook. I admire your confidence in creating meals for a big family and your willingness to do it. I value your independence, so I am not constantly at your beck and call. You respect, sometimes, that I too have a life and you appreciate it when I sacrifice a part of it for you. 

I love it when I am going out and I can ask you, with all the uncertainty of middle age, if I look ok and you reply with all the certainty of someone who knows that I have made an effort to dress up, that I do. I listen to your arguments between each other over clothes with a mixture of irritation and fondness. I find it endearing the way you share and annoying, but understandable, the way you fight.

You are 4 individuals who are changing and growing. I admire your strength and your resilience to the world that you find yourselves in. It’s your world for the taking. Just know that you are loved. 

Mum xxxxxxxx

You get through the night feeds and the nappies and the relentless grind. Getting up in the night AGAIN and not even having the energy to feel sorry for yourself. You survive the lines of snot and the tantrums, the far too early mornings and monotony of toys out, tidy away, toys out, tidy away. You rock bath time and story time, because the end, for just a few hours, may possibly be in sight (or not). You might even get a chance to eat dinner with another adult and have a glass of wine to toast drown the day and to tell each other: we will survive. 

You do survive. You are in control. It may not feel that way, but you are controlling your world and that of the little people who live in it. Whilst you spend many days feeling out of control and feeling as if you are hostage to a band of toddlers, ultimately you are the superhero. 

I am now an observer. I am detached and no longer have complete control. They have a phone and then a key. They have freedom, to a degree. Their world is no longer my world and I struggle to understand it, or to keep up. Yes, I am now an incredulous voyeur, who is looking at the number of make-up brushes and phone cases that make their way from China, with surprise. They have bank cards and money from their work. Clothes appear in the wash that I have no longer bought. Perhaps, that I don’t like. ‘Like’ becomes a loaded word. ‘Like for a like’, ‘gorge’, ‘stunning’, ‘hotty’, ‘beaut’, ‘get ugly’ on your 12 year old’s Instagram account. I am at an arm’s length in disbelief. At first you are astonished at their selfies. How can they possibly keep it up? It’s relentless. Every time you look at your daughter her phone is out and a Snapchat story is being written. You worry – is there actually enough time in their day for them to get their grades that will lead them to their goals and to their dreams? Do they have sight of goals? Do they dream?

You are a spectator. You are not totally in control. Control is now an art form and you must become a master of negotiation. You can’t slip up or you will now be found out. Gone are the days when you could lie and bribe. You have entered the realms of Secret Service tactics and so have they. It is now a battle of wits, where both sides have the ability to see the bigger picture and to fight for control of their territory and as you don’t fully understand this territory that you are now in, you struggle. 

You do survive. Through unconditional love. With tears of laughter and of heartache and with the help of tissues and of hugs. You get through the differences with understanding, communicating and by a bit of letting go. You are an observer. You might even get a chance to eat dinner with another adult and have a glass of wine to toast drown the day and to tell yourself: I will survive, and you do. 

It’s a dripping tap that plays with your brain like some kind of water torture. It’s not a tsunami that suddenly overwhelms you, it’s not a flood that has you drowning, resurfacing and spluttering. No, a normal day is definitely like a dripping tap that leaves you wondering why you suddenly explode. 

Yesterday the drip went something like this:

“She’s got my tights. Give me back my tights!”

Drip

“There’s never anything for breakfast.”

Drip

“Don’t forget it’s open evening tonight.” (Shit, I’d forgotten)

Drip

Train strike

Drip

Text: ‘Don’t wear your dobok to open evening mum’

Drip

Buy more new school shoes for youngest

Drip

Text: ‘Don’t bring youngest to open evening will you mum?’

Drip

Phone call: “you haven’t brought her have you mum?” (I foolishly joke that I am wearing my dobok and break the news that her sister is indeed with me)

Drip

“Go home and change and drop her off.”

Drip

At open evening, I touch her arm: “Don’t touch me, it’s embarrassing!”

Drip

“This is the long way home.” (Trust me, I know the fucking way home and believe me, I’m taking the shortest route to that glass of wine)

Drip

“What are you listening to Mum? It’s rubbish.”

Drip

“What’s for dinner? Rice? You said it wasn’t rice.”

“You know what? Make your own bloody dinner and while you’re at it, make your own bloody sandwiches for tomorrow because no doubt I’ll get that wrong too!”

“Jeez mum. I only asked whether it was rice!”

Guilt. Why did I explode like that? She only asked if it was rice for dinner….

Partner arrives home. I recount my day: the tights and the breakfast and the train strike and the open evening and the dobok and the youngest and the touch and the radio and the rice…

…and I suddenly realise why I had exploded. 

Chinese water torture is a process in which water is slowly dripped onto a person’s forehead, allegedly driving the restrained victim insane. (Wikipedia)

I was a victim of a teenager. I was restrained. I am being driven insane. 

It is not my fault. Less guilt. A glass of wine. Prepare for tomorrow’s dripping tap.