Category: Teenagers, love ’em

I come in from the dog walk, that no teenager wanted to come on. They were too busy being in bed, screens lighting up their faces, still creased from sleep. Catching up on the latest news, from their friends who are posting from their beds. Taking photos of nothingness to keep up their streak on Snapchat. Why are you taking a photo of your bedside table? I ask, stupidly. Don’t worry about it, Mum comes the impatient reply. So I don’t. It is of little concern to me when there are bigger, more important worries than pointless photos. I am simply intrigued and want an insight into this other world. A world in which I don’t want to exist, other than as a pain in the arse.

So that very same pain in the arse returns from the dog walk. I enter the kitchen that I had left an hour ago issuing strict instructions on how I wanted to find it on my return. Can I have bacon for breakfast, Mum? If you wipe the hob down afterwards. Make sure you wash up, wipe the table, sweep away the crumbs. The pain in the arse drones on to deaf ears, but continues undeterred. It makes me feel better. It makes me feel as if I might be achieving something by giving orders. That maybe, just maybe, someone will be listening. One out of four? Perhaps there is a chance that one out of four may hear a small part of what I am saying and fulfill my expectations.

I scan the kitchen on entering. It’s not so bad that I can rant, it’s not good enough that I can’t comment loudly. So I grab the dishcloth and shout my way around the work tops. Moan a little over the splashing washing up water and grumble loudly about the state of the floor.

Silence.

I shout a little louder. No response. I’m muttering to myself, how I imagine Old Mother Hubbard would have done, when she went to her cupboard and found it bare.

Partner comes in and asks who I am talking to. The girls, I reply. They didn’t leave the kitchen to my standards.

They’re all out, he says. You’re talking to yourself.

Always, I thought to myself. Regardless of whether they are in or out, I feel as if I’m always talking to myself…myself and the dogs.

One of my daughters has lost her smile. Her smile that normally lights up a room, has disappeared. Exams? Friends? Me? I don’t know why. I can only guess and ask and be told that she doesn’t know.

The absence of her smile has shut me out, when normally she draws me in with her quick wit and insightful comments, that pick out the funny side of life.

I know that it is temporary, but as a mum, it still hurts.

It makes me think about all those parents who must face a child every day who has lost their smile. The agony that it causes the parents who try to reach out to that child, but who are constantly pushed away. The anguish they must feel for their child, who is unable to express why they have lost their smile. Or, perhaps the reason is painfully clear, yet the help isn’t there to find it.

Mental health issues among young people are rising. 1 in 4 young people in the UK experience suicidal thoughts. As a mum, I find this terrifying. It plays on my mind daily. I admit, it scares me.

I know that my daughter’s smile will come back, but for those mums who aren’t sure, my heart feels heavy.

You’ve lost your smile.
I asked you where it was,
You shrugged.
You didn’t know.
I asked again – too soon.
You got annoyed,
But it wasn’t a demand –
It was a care.
I suggested that we search for it
Together.
You physically recoiled
And instead you forced a smile
On to your face
Which made me cry.
I can’t even bribe your smile back
With promises of chocolate and Netflix.
A mum can give hugs,
Wipe tears, stick a plaster on a wound
And listen,
But only you can find your smile.

Take a teenage girl and tell her that she can enter an environment where no-one cares what she looks like. Where it doesn’t matter if she’s tall or short, fat or thin. Her hair colour is irrelevant – no-one is judging. She doesn’t need to wear make up, or put on any mask.

She may be tempted; it sounds so liberating compared with the stifling, judgemental arena of school.

The environment is sport.

Tell a teenage girl that she can enter into sport and statistically she will back away.

I teach Taekwon-do. It’s a Korean martial art and it’s an Olympic sport. Every time we get a teenage girl joining our club, I whoop with joy. I’d do a dance if I could, because the majority of teenage girls in the UK don’t do sport.

The reasons are varied. I can tell you from my years of experience teaching, that sweat plays a big part: girls don’t want to sweat. They see sport as unfeminine and this, coupled with a drop in self esteem as they hit puberty, makes the drop out rate high.

Do you remember the campaign: Like a Girl? When asked to run or throw like a girl, adults responded meekly, but young girls did it with athletic vigour – they had yet to be conditioned.

We need female role models. We need varied PE lessons. We need to ensure that as parents we’re not favouring the boys when it comes to encouraging sports.

Quite often girls feel that it is the most athletic girls in the school who get all the attention and I would really agree that this is so often the case. In addition to this it has been suggested that girls like to connect with other girls and to form relationships, that they then don’t want to jeopardise with ruthless competition.

I have 4 daughters and a step daughter who are all black belts in Taekwon-do. One of the 5 has always played every sport going, the others were less sporty. This is why Taekwon-do is so good for teenage girls. They don’t have to conform to any athletic stereotype – they can be themselves. They can perform like the girl that they are. This is empowering in itself. Their self confidence grows, while at the same time they are learning skills in self defence.

There is no ‘like a girl’ negativity associated with Taekwon-do. Males and females are equal: both face the same personal challenges. Our challenge as coaches and parents is to do everything we can to encourage girls to ignore the stereotypes, embrace the sweat and smash it like a girl!

Step daughter smashing it like a girl

I got a call from daughter 1: I’ve had my cartilage done. Oh god, I thought. I have no idea what you’re talking about, but it sounds bad. It’s not unusual for me to be clueless when my daughters speak, so I just repeated: your cartilage? hoping for positive enlightenment. Yeah, it didn’t even hurt, she replied. Oh good, I said, expecting to see a part of her bandaged when she walked through the door. But of course, it’s her ear. Another hole stapled through.

On the dog walk today, more teenage speak: I want to get my seconds done. Eh? I replied. My seconds done, she repeated, oblivious to her mother’s lack of fluency in this language.  Now I know that it’s a hole above her first piercing, but not in the cartilage.

Normally when I ask for clarification on their language, I’m met with exasperated sighs and: oh, don’t worry. But I do worry. I worry that if they don’t tell me I will end up as a foreigner in my own home, surrounded by teenage natives who are all fluent in their lingo. I’ll be the one shouting and flinging my arms around to make myself understood.

After all, I’ve only just found out what a ‘streak’ is and I had to google, ‘on fleek’ last week. I have to say though, that even if I teach myself their language, I won’t be using it. It makes me cringe when I hear parents adopting their teenagers’ speech. Remember, you’re not their friend, I want to say. Let’s stick to the language we know: tidy your room, pick up your towels, don’t leave your pants on the floor, 11 o clock latest, put your phone down, DON’T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!

So for any middle agers out there, here’s a translation of a few of the words being banded about at the moment –  but please promise not to use them yourself…

PAP Post a picture
Bad ‘hot’ as in someone is looking sexy
Ship short for relationship
Dime 10 on a scale of 1-10. The best something can be

Oh, and you might want to know, that next time your daughter tells you she’s going to her friend’s house to:

Netflix and chill

Don’t bother buying her popcorn…

The minute I was offered that cup of tea, I knew that my consent was required. Teenagers don’t make cups of tea unless you specifically request one. Tea is not on a teenagers’ radar. Teenagers will bake cakes and biscuits, they will offer to cook dinner sometimes, but they NEVER offer to make me a cup of tea. So I knew it was a biggie.

She plonked it down in front of me and sat on the sofa opposite, clutching a notebook, looking nervous and defiant at the same time – a look that only a teenager can carry off. They perfect the defiant part as toddlers and the nerves develop with their heightened awareness of self. I made sure that I played my part in the drama that was unfolding, by looking serious. She started to speak and immediately two sisters appeared through different doors to listen in to the conversation. Sisters are able to sniff out a juicy one from upstairs rooms and from the garden – it’s a knack. I wonder if boys are on such heightened alert…I doubt it.

She told them to go away. Now we’re all intrigued. They need a tit bit before agreeing to go. She feeds them one line: I’m talking to mum about the sleepover. It’s enough for them. they are bored by that. It isn’t that she’s got a boyfriend, is gay, or anything about sex. They scarper.

THE SLEEPOVER…I hate those two words. I never used to hate them. I was always cool with friends staying over. I felt it was good for the girls to get used to being apart from us and sleep somewhere different. I didn’t mind having kids to stay – as long as they weren’t the whingy ones, who did nothing but demand attention, wouldn’t eat the food, didn’t seem to like your kid much either and then you had to drive them home at 1am because they’d puked everywhere and they wanted to go. Those kids suck.

No, I’m talking about teenage girls’ sleepovers, where they load themselves up on popcorn and Haribos. Watch back to back horror movies until 4am. Take endless selfies. Laugh loudly. Scream. Wake up too early, because the rest of the house is awake. AND THEN THE CARNAGE…

Have you ever experienced a sleep deprived teenager acting up in front of her friends? IT’S HORRIBLE! Your usually fairly pleasant child turns into a MONSTER! The shit that comes out of their mouths is so unbelievable, you are almost left speechless. Even the friends shift nervously from foot to foot, trying to hide behind this person who is somehow possessed. This creature who is talking to you as if you are a piece of crap, rather than someone who has just accommodated their wishes for the past 24 hours and will probably end up picking pieces of popcorn and sweet wrappers from under their bed for days to come.

“I’ve made a list of points saying why you should let me have a sleepover this weekend,” she started. One by one, she read them off the page. At least she’s reading, I thought as I listened. I admired her wanting a proper debate, rather than an argument. I was impressed with the way she put her points across so clearly. I was rather touched by her sincerity.

“No!” I said without hesitation. Because no matter how calm and mature her behaviour is now, ultimately Mum knows best.

Teenagers!!! I’ve just got to say something about them…to get it off my chest: they’re just so bloody amazing sometimes! Quite often actually. To be honest, I haven’t wanted to mention it in case of repercussions (demands for a raise in pocket money, for example.) However, I really feel that I have to come clean and admit, that while teenagers have the ability to annoy the crap out of us, they are also flipping brilliant. Not just mine, many, many teenagers.

Firstly, they come to my rescue with the t.v., specifically remote controls: five of them…I have no idea why we need 5 remotes, but they know. One shout of: heeeelp! and at least two or three teenagers appear and they are happy to try to work out the problem too. They are willing at a time when I am losing the will and I really love them for that.

Then there’s the times they cook for me. Scenario: stressful day, I’m feeling guilty as it is for f##king up somewhere…a planner unsigned or a letter forgotten and daughter 1 will text: shall I cook tonight? Yes! Yes please, because I have had a really shit day and you have no idea how much your text means to me. Even packed lunches will be made if I ask and combine it with a look of pity.

  All made by daughter 1…I looked particularly pitiful on this occasion, with                             a  glass of wine in my hand and sunglasses on

They babysit. Not just their younger siblings and other people’s rugrats for money, but some teenagers I know pick brothers and sisters up from school and take on quite a lot of responsibility, at a fairly young age.

While I’m at it, I want to shout about all the teenagers who are child carers. Those children who have a parent who really need their help and are not just whingeing that they are stressed – what a bloody amazing job they do! My heart aches for them that they may be missing out on stuff their friends are doing, but my heart sings for what it means to that person they are caring for and what they are undoubtedly gaining from doing it.

I am incredibly impressed with how my teenagers deal with exam stress. I was so bad at this one. I went into melt down at year 7 exams, but you guys have it sorted: revision (revition – you applied a rule, just the wrong one) folders, flash cards, face time friend work buddies… I admire you because you have it all worked out and under control. I will just buy you vitamin water and maltesers to get through the worst bits. I’m a good mum 😃 (I will then get cross that you finish all the treats on day 1…)

                                       First subject to revise: English

What about how they deal with friends and specifically other girls. Oh my they can be cows. I admire teenager girls for dealing with other girls. I can’t comment on teenage boys, as I have none. However, I suspect that their experiences with friends are very different. Girls require the diplomacy of Donald Trump’s hairdresser, the patience of parents at Peppa Pig World and the thick skin of a politician. We can only hope that our daughters will grow up having high self esteem and courage of their convictions.

So, here’s to teenagers: you make us angry, you make us cry, but as long as you keep making us dinner from time to time and making us laugh, we will all stumble through (with the odd bruise).

A couple of things have recently made me question: when will my girls ever feel liberated? You know that wonderful feeling when you feel free from constraint and free from serious worry. I think that I was probably first aware of this feeling of liberation when I went travelling for 6 months before university. Away from parents and everything else that was known, I felt liberated by the lure of the unknown and by the fact that I didn’t have to be anywhere at any particular time. Reading the Times today, Emma Duncan points out how different backpacking is these days. It’s more a case of, not if you will bump into someone you know in Laos or Vietnam, but who and when? Hostels can be pre-booked by smart phones and debit cards work in most places. I guess that google maps may ensure that you never get lost. None of this sounds very liberating to me. I would send a postcard home when I felt like it and could never afford to ring, so never did and because no-one expected me to, no-one worried. Now, even if your child is in deepest Borneo, you at least expect a Facebook update and quite often a photo on Instagram of them in a Starbucks at some iconic site.

I was chatting to partner about this liberation malarkey and asking what he thought. When they get their first flat! he said triumphantly, that’s when I felt truly liberated. But they won’t be able to afford to leave home, I said pessimistically/realistically.

Watching the girls on their phones, I feel even less convinced that they will ever discover the true meaning of liberation, at least in the way that I understand the meaning of the word. Their obsession with keeping a snapchat streak going, leaves me with little hope. Duke of Edinburgh weekends really get in the way of the streaks. (Please don’t ask me to define a streak – I was told once, but am still not sure. I am fairly certain that no-one takes their clothes off). Oh, the stress of how this streak issue would be overcome, completely overrode the need to check that the tent was complete (it wasn’t…)

I have recently made a huge effort to get to grips with Twitter. By ‘huge effort’ I mean that I have stared at it with fear and trepidation and no understanding whatsoever of the symbols and even less understanding of the etiquette that is evidently involved. I know I sound old, but I can tell you that it doesn’t leave me feeling liberated. Twitter makes me feel beholden and stressed and even when I am more accomplished at it and I can remove the stress, I think that I will still feel beholden to it. So I’m guessing that this is how my girls feel to what lies within their phones. Rather than these amazing pieces of technology liberating them, they are being tied down by them and frequently tied up in knots by them. Online bullying, for example, is so much easier than punching someone in the face; silent and invisible to others. The online bully is in your bedroom day and night: they go to sleep by your side and wake you up in the morning.

Then there’s sex and according to Peggy Orenstein in her new book: Girls and Sex: Navigating the Complicated New Landscape, ‘girls feel entitled to engage in sexual behaviour, but they don’t feel entitled to enjoy it’. In her research, she interviewed 70 girls and young women aged from 15 to 20 and found that, ‘half the girls had experienced something along the spectrum of coercion to rape’. One 17 year old girl said: “I’m proud of my body and I never feel more liberated than when I wear skimpy clothes.” In the next breath, however, she said that when she put on weight she didn’t wear suggestive clothes because she was worried that boys would call her, ‘the fat girl’.

Add to this the rising pension age and by the time my girls are 60, they could well have another 15 years to work their socks off.

So I asked my girls: when do you feel liberated?
What does that mean? they replied.
You know, I said, that feeling of freedom that makes you feel so good. After exams, when I will be able to drive, when I’m 18, came the replies, oh and when I have my phone, daughter 1 said definitively, because without that, I feel trapped.

What do I know about this generation…? I am still learning. Understanding Twitter and understanding my girls and their experiences, are both still very much work in progress.