Category: Teenagers, love ’em

My youngest daughter is 12 years old. She’s talented and wonderful and lovely in many ways, and right now she is often angry. I talk to other parents about their pre-teens and they often comment that they feel the tweenie stage starts at 8 or so years old. She’s the youngest of 5 girls, whose changes I have observed…I know what’s coming and so this was our conversation:

Why does everyone keep telling me I’m so angry all the time? I’M NOT ANGRY!!! (said as a yell)

I sit down on her bed, wrap my arms around her and pull her close to me. Her head rests on my lap.

You see, darling, it’s because you are angry. Every time you answer a question, you sound angry. Whenever I ask you to do something, you look angry. Your hormones are raging around your body. You are at a difficult and at times horrible, angry age. You may not realise how very angry you sound, because those nasty hormones make you think that it is everyone else who is having a go and getting at you, but we’re not. We are just being us and you are just being you and in a few months time that ‘you’ will be a slightly calmer person. You will be a teenager. You will still be horrible and angry, but slightly less so. You will still think that everyone else is unfairly having a go, but you will gradually begin to see it from our point of view too. Then, not too long after this you will occasionally be pleasant. Just often enough that I see glimpses of how things might be one day, when we might go for a coffee and chat.

Until this time sweetheart, we will take deep breaths and we will tolerate your anger. We will sometimes shout back at you, but this will not make us feel too good. We will love you with every bone in our bodies and we know that this time will, as it has done before, pass.

 

 

I’m docking your pocket money next month, because you didn’t do your chores. What does ‘docking’ mean? I did do them. No you didn’t – your bathroom was disgusting. I tried to do it, but the black stain in the toilet wouldn’t come out. Well, it came out straight away when I did it. Well, it didn’t when I did it – you’ve had more practice, Mum.

Shoulders back when you’re eating. Don’t slouch. What does ‘slouch’ mean? Don’t talk with food in your mouth. How was school? Fine – the train was late again. I can see the contents of your mouth. You asked me a question and I’m answering it. Take your elbow off the table. Don’t scoop out the contents of your braces in front of people. Don’t give your mushrooms to your sister. Pass that wine bottle, please.

Why are you looking at me like that. I’m not looking at you, I’m looking at the cat. You were looking at me – you were pulling a face. Ok, I was looking at you. Why? Because you are beautiful to look at. Really, Mum, why? Oh for God’s sake, I wasn’t looking at you, but now I’m looking at you and wondering why the bloody hell we’re having this pointless argument. It’s not an argument, Mum. Yes it is. No, it isn’t – it’s a discussion. Oh whatever!

You’re all really stressing me out! We’re stressing you out? YOU are stressing US out. No, I’m not! You’re all stressing me out! What are you so stressed about? Nothing. Well, if you don’t tell me, then I can’t help. Nothing. Ok, fine, but calm down because you’re creating a bad atmosphere. I’m creating a bad atmosphere? Oh my God. Sorry for breathing – would you rather I went and breathed in someone else’s house? No, just talk to me. There’s nothing to talk about. (Slam!)

Get out of my room! I’m looking for tights. I haven’t got your tights. No – they’re MY tights – give them back poo bum! I hate you. You’re so horrible! Mum – tell her to give me back my tights – she’s always taking them! I HATE her!! I bought you all new tights a few days ago and they are still in their packet. They’re the wrong sort of tights. Tights are bloody tights. She’s wearing my skirt! You wore my jumper yesterday! Well, whatever, but can you plait my hair? Sure, once I’m dressed.

Can someone feed the dogs? Can you? I’m doing homework, can you? I’m on face time, can’t you? Ask her, she never feeds them. Can you feed the dogs, because you’re just watching telly. Oh, why can’t you do it? Because I’m on face time and she’s doing homework – you’re not doing anything – you can feed them. But I ALWAYS feed them – can’t someone else do it for a change…oh, you’re all so annoying!

We surrender!

 

 

 

I was hopping from foot to foot, desperate for the loo, but she was about to go 5 minutes ago and still hadn’t gone. I couldn’t hold on any longer: have a lovely time! I shouted, as I disappeared off upstairs. That wasn’t very good timing, I heard her say, as I shut the toilet door and that pretty much sums up daughter 2’s DofE weekend thus far.

This is my third DofE experience with a teenage daughter – you’d think I’d be an expert at it by now, but I’m not. I’m a ‘hands right off’ rather than a ‘hands on’ parent and with that comes both the good and the bad. Last weekend was daughter 3’s expedition and she happily prepared for it herself. True, she arrived at the camp site on her first night and had forgotten the groundsheet to the tent, but from this she learned the importance of checking your equipment beforehand (the bad was that she got piles…well, no she didn’t, but the potential for that with a bum on a cold ground was there).

I probably should have reminded daughter 2 of her sister’s schoolboy error, so that she didn’t repeat it and I know that a tiger mother would have been right on it, growling at her to be methodical and probably standing over her with the kit list on a clipboard, ticking it off herself. Instead, I sat down with a glass of wine on Friday night, telling daughter 2 that she had to get ready herself, because I was bloody knackered. I was actually really impressed with how she got on with it. She raided my drawers for all things polyester, coming downstairs with them all layered on: running shorts over leggings over cycling shorts. You’re only away for one night, I reminded her, helpfully. True, she said, I must remember to take my dressing gown.

I’d better go and find the tent, she cleverly thought. We were going to take a 2 man and a 3 man, but the girls in the 3 man have had an argument and so either we have to squeeze her into our 2 man, or we have to take a 5 man. This all sounded very complicated to me (girls) – far too complicated for me to contemplate after two glasses of wine on a Friday night, so I just nodded and off she disappeared into the shed – in search, I think, for some sort of tent. It was when she re-emerged that she discovered that the tent had neither poles, nor pegs. Oh shit, I muttered under my breath, oh crap! she exclaimed. She asked her sister, who nonchalantly told her that her friends still have them from her DofE expedition last year! She rang her friend, whose mother leapt into action in the way that I probably should have, but didn’t: knocking on neighbours’ doors and pleading. I presume that her pleas were to no avail, as this morning at breakfast, daughter 2 informed me that friend’s mother was going to Lidl to purchase a tent. Lidl – that well known camping shop…or the only shop close by, that opens in time for the pre-arranged drop off at 8.30am. Except, that it didn’t open on time. So poor friend’s mother was apparently banging on Lidl’s window at 7.30am and gesticulating that she wished to purchase a tent. (I believe she succeeded – go Lidl).

Daughter 2 put on her rucksack. Where do I hang my sunglasses? she asked, at the same time as not being too bothered about where the sleeping roll or water would fit in. We’re sharing a camp site with the local boy’s school, she bemoaned, as I imagined her slipping a lipstick into a side pocket. Instead, it was lip balm that she seemed most intent on remembering, food and a toothbrush took a back seat. In fact, her main source of energy for the weekend seems to be coming from a packet of Oreos and a large bag of Haribos.

In the car she had a sudden panic attack: I should have gone to the toilet, she wailed. I’m so cross with myself! You’ll just have to go behind a bush, partner said helpfully, but totally unrealistically to a teenage girl. This is the kid who travelled around the world with a rucksack on her back for 7 months aged 8. Overall, I’m not too worried, but if you are in the Ashdown Forest area today and you notice a group of 5 girls dressed head to toe in polyester, arguing – I would suggest you give them a wide berth.

 

What a lovely thought – your house is the house that all your teenage kids’ friends want to hang out in. Great idea. It’s win, win. You don’t have to taxi them anywhere and you know where they are and they get to be the popular one with the cool, laid back parents. When my kids were younger, this is what I thought too. Now that they are older: NO FUCKING WAY! You are having a laugh. For starters, I love my kids, but let’s be honest, kids are like dogs: you love your own, but other peoples’ are bloody irritating. Actually, other peoples’ kids are way worse than dogs, because at least with dogs you can stick them in the kitchen with a bed and a bone and they will pretty much shut the fuck up. Teenagers in your kitchen need food. Teenage boys need stupid amounts of food. I look at what a 14 year old boy eats and think, bloody hell! Seriously, how can your mother afford to feed you? No wonder she’s always wearing clothes from a charity shop – you’re eating all her fecking money! They also need drink. Now I’m not one of those liberal minded parents who think that giving your teenage kids alcohol in the home will make them more responsible drinkers – shut up! Come on! I’m not so old that I don’t remember raiding my parents’ drinks cupboard for literally anything we could get our hands on – yes, even that thick, creamy yellow shit, whatever the hell that was. Sticking it all in a plastic jug and thinking it was a great idea to goad each other to drink it. Hey, that made me really responsible – responsible for blocking toilets and covering carpets in puke. Then SO responsible, that rather than clearing it up, or offering to pay for damages, I’d feck off back to my own sick free, clean, cream carpeted home and into bed.

At least back then there was no internet. ‘It’s only a gathering, Mum’. Two police carriers, 15 armed officers, 2 police dogs, 16 angry neighbours and 60 drunk teenagers later, you realise the power of Facebook. I have a sister who is a police inspector. I’ll give you the benefit of her pearls of wisdom in reply to your teenager’s request for a house party: NO WAY! You see, you may very well trust your little hormone-fuelled darling, but teenagers have an uncanny knack of letting us parents down. Just when you thought you could book that weekend away to remind yourself which man is your husband, they’ll shit on you from a great height (your kid, not your husband – unless that weekend away really was rocking).

So, I will happily say, ‘no’ to my 4 girls when they ask me. I thwarted a gathering at our house that step daughter had organised when we were away. The gathering was gathering  Facebook guests by the minute, until we took her front door key away for that night and told her to sleep at her mums. Harsh – NOT AT ALL! Just look around at your lovely house. Look at the only mildly stained carpets and your three piece suite, harboring just the odd wine stain (and remember how pissed off you were with yourself for that one spillage). Wander into your toilet and admire how clean it looks – just the odd pube under the loo seat, but you don’t have to lift it up. Float into the kitchen, open your fridge and admire the fullness of it. Feel content. Now close your eyes and imagine a load of shit faced teenagers, rampaging throughout; forgetting that they actually do give a monkeys and are normally actually pretty nice people. Trust me, even your own bed will not be sacred. When teenagers want sex do you think that they give a toss that it’s a matching valence and duvet set from Laura Ashley?

If you do choose to trust them and more importantly, their mates to be able to resist spreading the word, then I can only apologise if one of my daughters ends up puking in one of your shrubs. Oh, those were the days!

Dear girls,
Thank you for coming on the dog walk today. It was fun. That is, until it ended in you getting cross with me. I refused to come into Waitrose because supermarket shopping with you is stressful enough, let alone when you’re already cross with me and I felt it best to bail out. I did still trust you with my contactless credit card. You see dear daughters, I do trust you. I trust you, even though on the walk you told me that when I gave you train money in cash that you hadn’t spent, you pocketed the change each week. I choose to just see that as me helping you to save your pennies and put it towards a good cause – like more clothes for your summer holidays. We laughed when you told me that you are working on your turkey body. I wondered why you wanted to look like a turkey, until I realised you meant the country. I reminded you to walk into your buttocks – a favourite phrase of mine when we’re walking the dogs. It’s normally partner who hears it, but today, dear daughters, it was you who got the benefit of my wisdom. All that work you are doing at the gym and a dog walk can also give you the buttocks you desire. Both of you complained that your wellies itched the whole way. I told you it was the leggings reacting with the plastic, so you pulled your leggings down and hoped no one was watching – only me, laughing. You commented very sweetly how kind the river looked. I was struck by how lovely that phrase was. I laughed when you asked me if we were getting closer to the rec and I thought you said Iraq, as we crossed the airstrip.
Dear girls, I love spending time outside with you walking. It’s when things get talked about that normally get passed over, unsaid, thought of as unimportant so not bothered about. But the things we talked about on our dog walk today are the things that make you, you. The details, the throw away comments, the heartfelt words. The things that touch my heart, but you would not understand why. Like you chatting about the new skirts you are buying from American Apparel, from China. What size to get? You are both getting the same skirt and your cousin too. It makes me smile because you fight over clothes all the time, especially when one of you buys the same item as the other, so I loved hearing you chat about the same skirt together.
So thank you girls, for being so refreshingly you and for sharing yourselves with me on the dog walk this morning and for not taking the piss with my credit card (although Greek yoghurt with honey and fresh pasta were not on the list).
Much love,
Mum xxxxxx