Category: Teenagers, love ’em

I find that the hardest thing, above all else, about having kids, is the lack of head space they leave you with. For me, this comes above the money they cost and the heartache they cause. They are human white noise, that as well as playing in the kitchen, the sitting room and the bedroom, it carries on playing in the toilet.

It doesn’t get any better when they get older. They still shout: mum, where are you? This is just seconds after you’ve darted into the loo, to try to get a moment on your own to gather your thoughts. If you don’t answer them, they text you and if you ignore the text, then they’ll ring. ‘I’m in the bloody loo, trying to escape the incessant drone’, you want to scream. ‘I’m not even having a crap. I’m just sitting here, on a half comfy seat, staring at the lino and trying to clear my head.’

Sometimes, your head feels as if it is literally going to explode. In fact, it does explode and out of your mouth comes a whole day’s worth of white noise frustration. It’s like a banshee wailing. Words come out that make no sense, so it does absolutely nothing to improve the situation: you lot are driving me…uuuurrrrggghhhh…I’m just so…grrrrrr….it makes me feel really…angreeeeeee…and the kids all stop what they are all trying to tell you at once for exactly 5 seconds, wondering what the hell you are going on about, which would give you 5 seconds of head space, but you are now filling that 5 seconds with your own screams.

When my kids were all much younger, I devised a plan. I would always strap them into their car seats 10 minutes before we had to leave to go anywhere. I would leave them each with a book or a toy and scarper back into the house, where I would get my shit together, both mentally and literally ie all the paraphernalia that was required for the day. This plan only worked because I had a driveway, but it was my only way of staying sane. Even now, I try to follow the same plan. However, after 10 years they are wise to it and resist. No longer able to strap them in, I am thwarted.

This human white noise also accompanies me to supermarkets. When the girls were little, I could shove them in the trolley and if they were pissing me off, I could leave them at the end of the aisle I was in. Nowadays it is pure hell supermarket shopping with teenagers. Their incessant dialogue of what they feel is missing from our cupboards, makes focusing on the weekly shop impossible. If a toddler throws a tantrum in a shop, people either try to ignore it, or give you looks of sympathy. When a teenager tantrums because you won’t buy her the latest type of superfood to have been discovered in South America, people look at you as if you are both freaks. It is literally exhausting. I leave the shop with half of what I had intended to get still on the shelves and an armful (because we always forget the bloody bags: see blog: Crackerjack!!) of two extremes: organic goji berries for some godforsaken recipe from google that daughter 1 wants to create and mars bar cookies, because they were reduced to 10p.

The three most annoying things about the human white noise, are firstly, it results in nobody in the house being called by the correct name. Invariably, the girls are called by a sort of hybrid of all their names, until I reach the correct one and partner has gone by Fatcat’s name, on a couple of occasions. I frequently have entire conversations with the wrong daughter, because I have started the conversation with another daughter’s name. Secondly, that it turns me into a teenager myself: all I end up hearing is: bla, bla, bla. This frequently leads me to miss out on some really quite vital information, such as where they are going to be staying for the weekend and I then spend the weekend wondering where they are and sending text messages that aren’t directly asking: whose house is it you’re at, because then they will know that I wasn’t listening. Thirdly, when the human white noise isn’t there, I miss it and that irritates me much more than the noise itself.

When I was pregnant with number 4, so many people said to me: trying for a boy were you? I would smile and shake my head, as the true response wasn’t what they would have been expecting and would have taken too long: no, actually I have just got back from the World Championships and I was feeling the need for another challenge, as the next Worlds isn’t for two years. I looked into Iron Man, but it’s really hard to fit in all that training with 3 kids under 4, so I suggested to my husband that we try for another baby and we were so incredibly lucky that I fell pregnant and we are really excited about the probability – well over 80% – of it being another girl. Partly because we have a shed load of girls’ clothes and mainly because I can wipe a girl’s bum really well now and find boy’s bits trickier to whizz around with a baby wipe.

And another girl she was and still is. So, for all those people who presumed that my husband and I would have wanted a boy, here’s why having daughters rocks!

1. You can share tampax when you are out and about and get caught out (well, not literally share)
2. You can watch rugby with them and comment on the players’ bodies, as well as their fantastic ball skills
3. You can put bunting everywhere (I LOVE bunting)
4. You can share pants (this isn’t strictly true, but I have put it in because daughter 2 has just bought 5 pairs of pants from ‘PINK’ and I want them
5. You can drop hints that you want 5 pairs of PINK pants for Mother’s Day
6. You get bought body butter for Mother’s Day…birthdays, Christmas…
7. They share your body butter (this is listed as a good thing because I now have so much of it, my only storage option is sharing)
8. You can share clothes (but see previous blog: Feeling Young Again, for pitfalls)
9. You can ask their advice after you have asked partner’s advice, on what you look like. This is because teenage girls cannot hide their disgust, whereas partner will lie to get me out the door
10. You can consult them on what partner looks like, when it’s time for him to get a haircut and he thinks there is at least two weeks of growing time left. Their looks of disgust usually prompt action. Ditto trimming his beard
11. They bake a lot of cakes and granola and dinner when I leave out a note saying: before you start your homework/GCSE revision/A level project, please can you cook a spag bol, love Mum xxxxxx ps walk the dogs, feed the cats and record a programme at 9pm BBC4 (I cannot fathom how to record)
12. You can rely on them to understand why you had to spend £10 on a moisturiser, when partner is exclaiming: how much?!, as they know that being a female is not cheap.
13. You can watch as they grow into mini me’s and listen to number 1 friend telling them stories of what I got up to at their age and worrying at the thought that they may do similar things

So yes, for these reasons and many more, having daughters rocks! Step son was too old to be my boy guinea pig when he lived with us and as he traumatised me with maggots (see blog: If Maggots don’t get you, the Alcohol will), I will reserve judgement on whether having a son rocks – you tell me.

Daughter 1 has never, in her 16 and a half years of life, ever been sick and by that I mean thrown up. When she reminded me of this fact the other day, I could hardly believe it. However, having had enough time on my hands this half term to actually clean my kitchen cupboards, I can now completely understand why. They were filthy! I have been feeding my family food from bowls and plates that are kept in these cupboards for the best part of five years and they are utterly disgusting. Which is great, because it means that all the kids have developed an iron constitution and it is for this reason, I have definitely decided, that daughter 1 has never puked. Nevertheless, I did give them a cursory wipe and then turned my attentions to the fridge. Now, since the fateful morning that step son’s bright red fishing maggots, yes, the whole stork margarine container full of them, escaped from the fridge and into every corner of the kitchen, the fridge has never, ever been the same…and neither have I. 

I came downstairs early one Sunday, to find daughters 3 and 4 on their knees with a dustpan and brush, desperately trying to sweep the maggots up in their hundreds, as a pool of red wriggling creatures slid, on mass, out of the top shelf of the fridge, across the kitchen floor and under the skirting boards, leaving a trail of red dye behind them. Today, a good two years later, there are still traces of that red dye in the fridge that simply will not be scrubbed away. It’s only food colouring, step son had told me at the time. I wasn’t impressed. 

Bearing all of this in mind, the likelihood is that daughter 1’s first chundering experience is going to be self (alcohol) induced and neither I, nor the state of my cupboards, will have any influence over it whatsoever. 

To Mothers of daughters

Tell your daughter that you love her every day
But expect a few, ‘I hate you’s’ in return
Tell her that she is beautiful just the way she is
But let her dye her hair anyway
Tell her that it doesn’t matter whether she is tall or short
But if she is short, accept that she will use fake id
Tell her that it doesn’t matter if her hips are wide,
But still support her periodic healthy eating campaigns by buying quinoa and dates
Tell her that what really makes her beautiful cannot be seen in the hundreds of selfies that she takes every day
But ‘like’ them anyway
Tell her that what is important is in her heart
But expect it to be broken several times and be there to piece it together again and again and again.

I have decided, that since they were about three months old, I have been a fairly awful mother. I have let them get away with things that they shouldn’t have been allowed to get away with, I have not followed threats through and I have tried to be their friend – big mistake. The annoying thing is that I know exactly what I have done wrong, but they seem to be able to wind me around their little…paws. 

The worst bit about it, is that with the girls I developed a bit of a reputation amongst friends and sisters and I was frequently used as a threat: if you don’t eat your broccoli I will send you to your Aunty – the wicked witch. I ran the house like an army boot camp, as it was the only way I felt I could maintain any degree of control with four so young and so determined. 

Then the dogs come along, with their cute, wet button noses and big doey eyes and I find myself giving in. Dog 1 is on the bed as we speak – what is the matter with me? 

Number 1 friend was at the dentist today with her eldest son, who was having two teeth removed. She has a phobia of needles and nearly fainted. She was no support whatsoever, as she sat with her head between her legs. This reminded me of daughter 2’s teeth extraction experience, which started in a similar way, with me perched at the end of the couch, back towards her, muttering the words: you know I’m here if you need me – just wave your right foot. This prompted me to reflect upon the top 5 bad things I have done as a mother, that the girls remind me of fairly frequently and that no doubt they will be in therapy for in years to come:

Sent daughter 2 to school on the train, with open, bleeding gums and feeling faint after tooth extraction, because I was feeling too queasy to deal with her 

Made daughters 1 and 2 share the same pack of 2 school shirts up to years 11 and 9 respectively. I finally gave in and bought a new twin pack for daughter 1’s final year in uniform – which they shared

Made daughter 4 walk through a hospital  and into school without any shoes on and in holey tights (see Shoe Storm). Apparently, the sixth formers who were in the classroom where her trainers were stored found it very amusing. She, as a small year 7, didn’t. 

Kept daughter 1’s dead hamster in the freezer for a few days, while I worked out what what to do with a dead hamster

Put all daughter 4’s cuddly toys in a bin bag and took them to Oxfam – where she discovered them for sale and bought two of them back with her pocket money

So, I am resolving that from now on, I am going to be firmer with the dogs, in the same way that I have always tried to be with the girls. I would never have let the girls sleep in our bed, for example, as I would have been too worried that it would become a habit. 

That said, I’m looking at dog 1 lying on the bed now, curled up in a large fluffy ball, keeping partner’s side warm and I just can’t bring myself to do anything about it. I’ll be a better mother tomorrow, I tell myself, just as I have often told myself, lying in bed at this time of night and with that thought, I turn out the light. 

Partner picked up yet another fake nail from the carpet and identified the owner by colour. The girls are off to their dad’s for a few days and it is stressful as they get ready. This is not helped by the fact that daughter 2 stayed with FaceTime friend last night and so has ordered her sisters to pack a bag for her too. We need to do it via video call, she told daughter 1, as I need to try a few different tops. This sounded to me like a very long winded approach to packing and daughter 1 obviously agrees, as they are due to leave in 5 minutes and, as yet, no call has taken place and nothing has been packed for her. 

You are all very stressed this morning, I comment to daughter 1. It’s because we’re wearing fake nails, she replied. Everything is made so much harder with fake nails. It’s true, daughter 4 pipes up, fake nails make life a lot more stressful. 

My god, I thought, as I picked one out of dog 2’s fur. If removing the stresses in my life were as simple as taking off my nails, life would be so much easier. 

The familiar, ‘beep, beep’ thunders from ex’s car and ricochets off every house around our estate.  Nothing is packed for daughter 2, their rooms look like a hurricane has whipped through – which isn’t far from the truth and there is a distinct aroma of acetone in the air. I am not going to see them for a week, so rather than letting rip in my usual manner, I take a deep breath, give them all big hugs and watch them stagger down the path with their bags. 

I come back in and survey the scene. I sit on daughter 1’s bed. I do miss them when they are gone. My phone rings. It’s daughter 2 on FaceTime. Mum, please can you help me pack, they’re on their way back to pick up my things. Please put on my black polo neck jumper and then try on the cropped grey one with no sleeves…I get up from the bed, tread on a nail and wince. 

We’re back in the Previa on the way to my sisters to pick up the chest of drawers. One man’s shite is another man who lives in a house with lots of girls who have lots of clothes’ gold. 

Look at my Mr Potato Head, daughter 3 says. I have no idea what she’s talking about, until I look round to see her pointing at the plastic on the inside of the car door. Do you remember when I drew my Mr Potato Heads in crayon over everything? And this gets me thinking about all the awful things my kids did as toddlers, that I have resigned to my distant memory. The top 5:

Daughter 1 cutting daughter 2’s hair with the kitchen scissors and we’re not just talking a trim here. It was a good 6 inches, without any formal training. 

Daughter 3 cutting her seat belt completely on a journey to Heathrow, using only plastic craft scissors. That cost £180 to get fixed. 

Daughter 4 getting her head stuck in railings, causing a sports event to come to a halt while she was freed.

Daughter 2 getting her finger stuck in wooden chairs on at least two occasions and having to be sawn out (must have been attention seeking).

And the drawing of Mr Potato Heads (who was Mr Potato Head anyway?)

Obviously, this list is far from exhaustive and doesn’t even touch upon incidents that caused or had the potential to cause major physical injury, of which there have been a few, including daughter 4 drinking white spirit, then 2 weeks later dislocating her elbow. Same A&E, seen by the same doctor who said: shall I give you a different colour teddy bear this week? Four kids under 5, we accumulated a good collection of hospital teddy bears. 

Of course, now that they are nearly all teenagers, these incidents, that caused huge stress at the time, can be laughed about at their expense. That faded Mr Potato Head serves as a reminder, that even on the most disastrous of days, we all pulled through.

Arriving at my sister’s, my niece is home alone. I’ve taken the drawers out for you, she says with a smile. The chest of drawers is huge. Definitely bigger than average and partner and I man handle it down the stairs. In a manoeuvre that, in my defence, is to save the kitten’s life, the chest of drawers makes a slight swerve left into the newly painted banisters. My niece looks horrified, my brother in law is a house proud perfectionist. Don’t worry, I say to her, as we all look at the scratch through the barely dry Dulux White. That will fade, I continue knowledgeably, just like all those Mr Potato Heads and one day, he will even laugh about it.  

Postscript
Social Services were never involved. 

I’ve gone through five kids, four of those are genetically connected to me and finally, by the fifth, I think I have one who actually likes languages. She even likes Latin, goddammit. In fact this term’s interim report puts Latin top of the pops. ‘Did you learn Latin at school, mum? Because it is an old thing,’ daughter 1 says. ‘I’m completely the wrong side of 40’, I reply, ‘but I’m not a Roman’.

The truth is, despite getting four interim reports every however often we get sent them – I still have no idea what the numbers actually mean and just as I thought I had the hang of it, new school, new number system, no idea. Whenever I show the slightest disappointment in one of the girls’ grades, I’m just met with an exclamation of: ‘Mum! A … is a really good grade’ and I don’t feel that I can check this with anyone, because I was probably told about the grading system at a year 7 induction meeting and have now forgotten. So, I just nod and say ok and cross my fingers behind my back that they are all doing alright. 

Not only does daughter 4 love languages, she is also convinced that dog 2 is Spanish and so only speaks to him in Spanish. Obviously, this is a completely crazy idea, however she is practising her linguistic skills, so I’m going with it. I am ignoring the fact that so far her year 7 Spanish has only covered ‘hello’ and the contents of a pencil case, so I think their conversations are limited. 

Despite my excitement over daughter 4’s linguistic ability and their good grades (so they assure me), I am often surprised at how little they know and I don’t think it’s just them. Google has killed the need to retain anything and just churns out information on a need to know basis. Don’t get me wrong, I love Google, mainly because there is absolutely no room in our house for twenty volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. However, when research is simply an exercise in cut and paste, not a lot extra seems to go in. 

This instantaneous information is also not developing staying power and the art of patience. Which is why I was rather pleased to hear that daughter 4’s friend spent 3 hours translating Adele’s song ‘Hello’ into Latin. Now, that’s what I call patience and commitment. However, she was, of course, using Google translate. Who said Latin’s a dead subject? 

Own clothes day – baton down the hatches. We even have to pay a pound for the privilege – I’d rather give a fiver for it not to happen. I never, ever thought I’d say this, but it’s worse than dress as a character for book day and that is bad. 

When step daughter moved in and book day came around with its usual wave of trauma, I said to her: at least you don’t dress up on book day at senior school. She looked at me with complete incredulity, oh yes we do, she said, I got a prize last year…aargh, more pressure and the Alice in Wonderland costume I wheel out every year won’t fit a 14 year old. 

Back to the here and now and it all started before our alarm clock had even gone off – a commotion over skirts going on in daughter 1’s bedroom. I groaned to partner, before dog 1 kindly sat on my face and blocked out some of the ever increasing noise. 

Next come the phone calls: are you wearing your skirt today? Daughter 2 asks FaceTime friend. Are you sure? But I don’t have a coat to wear with it. What shoes are you wearing? 

Daughter 2 barges into my room and seems to be able to ignore the fact that I am starkers. Does this skirt look alright, mum? She asks. Yes you look gorgeous, I reply. And then the ultimate put down comes, as she asks her sister for a second opinion. 

She comes in again and asks: is it too short? Now I’m worried. I don’t think it is, but if a teenager is showing concern, then perhaps I should be more responsible. I look at my watch, ten minutes until they leave. Just time for five more changes of outfit. I think I’ll take the dogs out early, partner announces and within seconds, he’s gone. 

There is a thick frost clearly visible on the ground, yet the debate over whether coats are required continues. Every now and again I put in a: yes, you do need to wear coats, but I am being completely ignored and they carry on regardless. Mum, does this coat look ok? Yes. Good cos it’s the only one I’ve got. No it’s not, you have the one that matches your sister’s. Yes, but I can’t wear that because we’ll match. 2 minutes until they go. I feel a pang of guilt about willing the the time away, but remind myself that they will be back in 9 hours, picking up from where they left off.