As I peered over the top of my Sunday paper and snuck a quick glance at my two teenage sons, I marvelled at how on earth I had got here. Married, middle aged with two teenage sons. For many of you, I’m sure adulthood has arrived and you’ve keenly grasped the mantle with both hands, super confident that you know where you are going, having nailed your life expectations. That has never been the case for me. I’m forty five this year and still haven’t quite decided what I’m going to do when I leave school. The fact that I have two teenage sons is quite disconcerting.
And another thing, when you realise that you are expecting a child, (Never mind thinking about special needs, after all everyone wishes for a healthy child and rightly so.) your mind can only make a small leap to visualise perhaps the baby stage, maybe a cute toddler. That giant leap some fourteen years hence forth is not quite within the boundaries of your imagination. Well, not in mine anyway. Plus it seemed such a long way off. Thank goodness, because I think you might stop right then & there and run for the hills.
Some great stuff is being written about the teenage brain and how to try and understand it. Apparently none of the grumpy moods, relentless arguments and monosyllabic grunting are any of their fault, a detail Charlie my thirteen year old delights in informing me. From thirteen to twenty the brain undergoes a monumental development stage, allowing teenagers magnificent leaps in creativity, logic and the ability to retain lots of information at the front of the brain. (Which we, the over forties, (i.e. old people) would struggle to achieve).
So why’s it all my fault? Mum gets it in the neck for everything. When Max or Charlie can’t find a missing wallet, book, coat, pair of shoes, it’s apparently all because of me. The great ‘steal everything’ fairy deliberately goes around the house messing up all their stuff and hiding it, just to be annoying – me, obviously. Plus they can’t find a piece of cheese in a fridge.
‘Mum, have we any cheese?’
‘Try the fridge sweetheart.’
‘I know, but what shelf?’
‘Try the third shelf love.’
‘No, you’re wrong, we haven’t got any. Mum?’
‘What’s that then?’
‘Oh, you never said it was behind the butter!’
They take all good things like clean sheets and good food totally for granted and have to be reminded to say ‘please and thank you’ on a very disheartening regularity, oh, and they smell.
My saving grace is a chat and mug of tea with my mate Caroline. With her I can moan and wail, truthfully recounting my woes. The ‘perfect mother’ image can be discarded at the door as we consol one another. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I love the fact that her three girls are as bad as my two boys. Caroline’s daughters are beautiful, charming and delightful. How encouraging to be told that they turn, like a pint of dodgy milk, into insolent, sullen and uncooperative wenches, completely on a par with my sons. It gives me such comfort to know that I’m not alone; other people (especially people who I rather like & admire) are having a rough time of it too.
The mum’s at school look so together and efficient decked out in stylish Boden and killer heels, with large expensive handbags. This morning I still had deep conditioner in my hair, so forced a flat cap over the soggy lot and covered my flannelette pink & brown spotted pyjamas with my large full length overcoat(if it had been summer I would have added a giant bug-like pair of sunglasses). I looked fine.
‘Mum! You can’t take me to school like that! Say we have a crash and you have to get out?’ (And I know what he’s really thinking is, ‘say one of my friends sees you.’)
‘Fancy getting the bus Darling?’
‘Can you tuck your trousers into your Uggs? And drop me by the roundabout, NOT in front of the bus stop at the school gates.’
Max came out with a classic yesterday.
‘Mum, where’s my mobile phone?’
‘No idea darling, can you remember who you last rang? Perhaps it’s on your desk?’
‘Ah, yes, here it is. Oh Mum! The batteries dead! You forgot to charge it!’
What a relief to discuss our inner fears of how awful we are as mothers and what a terribly hard, thankless and exhausting job it is.
Thursday, 26 February 2009
Thursday, 19 February 2009
Toilet Talk
Max has a long day on a Monday. That means I do too! After school and a quick bite to eat, we drive over to Muswell Hill and Max has an hour of dance (along side nine or so other teenagers with DS). He’s been going since he was very little, he was just seven years old when he started, and it’s his favourite pass-time in the whole wide world. Run by a wonderful lady called Sarah, who is beautiful inside & out. Then it’s on to Chickenshed, another passion and why we go to both in one evening rather than having to choose one over the other and miss out. Bit of a trek and a tad tiring, but well worth it.
That’s how I came to be in my pyjamas, sat at the bottom of the stairs waiting for Max. It was late, we were all ready for bed and he was in the toilet. My head was leaned against the wall as I patiently waited for him to appear. I know my place and was all set to jump to attention and supervise him brushing his teeth. I so wanted to crawl into my own bed and welcome the sleep I craved. But Max was sat on the toilet for what seemed like forever and in full ‘chat mode’. Such priceless gems of information can be gleaned from Max talking to himself. He does this all the time, but particularly while sat upon the toilet.
‘I hate it when they say I’m fat. I hate being fat. It’s all from that wrap I had for tea. I’m not really fat, it’s just my tummy. I wish I could fold it up. There, if I do that, it folds up out the way and then I’m not so fat.’
I wanted to weep. I sat on the stairs visualising the cruel playground at school, the mean remarks and the blunt jibes. I wanted to sweep my son up into my arms and make it all go away, make it better – and make him thin. Truth is, he is rather tubby. He carries a very large waist and being short and having the added burden of a low functioning thyroid, he is stands little chance of getting to grips with his excess weight. Max loves his food, but I make sure he eats healthily, Max thinks pudding is fruit.
But things slip in. Sausage rolls at parties, pizzas at a lunch out, Birthday cake, the odd treat, a sunny day ice cream, a biscuit here, a sweetie there. They all add up.
‘Why can’t I just poo it all out? Why does it have to stay? I’m not that fat, just my tummy.’
Similar thoughts I have had about my own weight! I catch myself in the mirror sometimes, shocked at the person looking. It’s not me. Max finally appears from the toilet and shoots me a grin on the way to the bathroom to wash his hands and clean his teeth. He’s completely naked, not in the slightest bit embarrassed and holds no issue with his body image – a least we got that right!
That’s how I came to be in my pyjamas, sat at the bottom of the stairs waiting for Max. It was late, we were all ready for bed and he was in the toilet. My head was leaned against the wall as I patiently waited for him to appear. I know my place and was all set to jump to attention and supervise him brushing his teeth. I so wanted to crawl into my own bed and welcome the sleep I craved. But Max was sat on the toilet for what seemed like forever and in full ‘chat mode’. Such priceless gems of information can be gleaned from Max talking to himself. He does this all the time, but particularly while sat upon the toilet.
‘I hate it when they say I’m fat. I hate being fat. It’s all from that wrap I had for tea. I’m not really fat, it’s just my tummy. I wish I could fold it up. There, if I do that, it folds up out the way and then I’m not so fat.’
I wanted to weep. I sat on the stairs visualising the cruel playground at school, the mean remarks and the blunt jibes. I wanted to sweep my son up into my arms and make it all go away, make it better – and make him thin. Truth is, he is rather tubby. He carries a very large waist and being short and having the added burden of a low functioning thyroid, he is stands little chance of getting to grips with his excess weight. Max loves his food, but I make sure he eats healthily, Max thinks pudding is fruit.
But things slip in. Sausage rolls at parties, pizzas at a lunch out, Birthday cake, the odd treat, a sunny day ice cream, a biscuit here, a sweetie there. They all add up.
‘Why can’t I just poo it all out? Why does it have to stay? I’m not that fat, just my tummy.’
Similar thoughts I have had about my own weight! I catch myself in the mirror sometimes, shocked at the person looking. It’s not me. Max finally appears from the toilet and shoots me a grin on the way to the bathroom to wash his hands and clean his teeth. He’s completely naked, not in the slightest bit embarrassed and holds no issue with his body image – a least we got that right!
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
POCKET MONEY CHORES
Domestic chores are my least favourite occupation. Cleaning is a necessity I appreciate, but for me, if it’s clean enough to not be a health hazard, then I’m happy. I think it’s the repetitiveness of it all I find dull, plus I can always find many more exciting things to do. I can gain a huge amount of satisfaction from a deep spring clean and love rearranging the furniture, but every day? Forget it. Max and Charlie are now massive contributors to the daily carnage in our home, grubby shoes, dirty clothes, teenage magazines everywhere, soggy towels, not to mention the squalor of their bedrooms. I decided it was about time they made a contribution to the clear up. About time! I hear you shout.
I gave a summoning yell to the pair of them (which always makes them slightly nervous) and suggested they sat on the sofa while I delivered my ‘helping me with the cleaning speech’. Up till now Max and Charlie have been happily sticking out their little hands for cash every Saturday. A nice little earner with no strings attached known as ‘pocket money’. A generous sum I’ve always felt and for no real effort on their part. I gave it to them succinctly.
1. All dishes to be taken to the kitchen and placed on top of the dishwasher (can you imagine the mess if they dumped them inside?)
2. Beds to be made every day.
3. Every Friday night, bedrooms must be tidy. No dirty laundry, no mess.
4. All dirty clothes to be placed in the laundry basket in hallway by washing machine – NOT dumped outside Charlie’s bedroom on landing. (It’s become a bit of a habit.)
5. I reserved two other chore options to be delivered later. (Thought I’d keep a couple back, always good to have the upper hand.)
I finished it off with a ‘I expect them both to be generally supportive and tidy, blah, blah, blah’, which in hindsight was waffly and weak. That small indiscretion is going to come back and bite me big time.
Max was the first to respond with a snappy retort.
‘You want me to carry all my plates out to the kitchen after every meal?’
‘Yes Max, it’s something you do very well already, so just keep it up and you’ll be fine.’
‘So, if I eat more food and carry more plates out to the kitchen, I get more pocket money?’
‘Nice try – but no.’
Charlie had been silent for too long and his negotiations predictably arrived.
‘How many reminders can I have?’
‘No reminders Charlie. (I figured go in hard to show you mean business and then slacken off.) Step up to the mark, or forgo the cash.’
They both looked quite bemused. Although I have to say things are going well, but then, it’s only day three.
I gave a summoning yell to the pair of them (which always makes them slightly nervous) and suggested they sat on the sofa while I delivered my ‘helping me with the cleaning speech’. Up till now Max and Charlie have been happily sticking out their little hands for cash every Saturday. A nice little earner with no strings attached known as ‘pocket money’. A generous sum I’ve always felt and for no real effort on their part. I gave it to them succinctly.
1. All dishes to be taken to the kitchen and placed on top of the dishwasher (can you imagine the mess if they dumped them inside?)
2. Beds to be made every day.
3. Every Friday night, bedrooms must be tidy. No dirty laundry, no mess.
4. All dirty clothes to be placed in the laundry basket in hallway by washing machine – NOT dumped outside Charlie’s bedroom on landing. (It’s become a bit of a habit.)
5. I reserved two other chore options to be delivered later. (Thought I’d keep a couple back, always good to have the upper hand.)
I finished it off with a ‘I expect them both to be generally supportive and tidy, blah, blah, blah’, which in hindsight was waffly and weak. That small indiscretion is going to come back and bite me big time.
Max was the first to respond with a snappy retort.
‘You want me to carry all my plates out to the kitchen after every meal?’
‘Yes Max, it’s something you do very well already, so just keep it up and you’ll be fine.’
‘So, if I eat more food and carry more plates out to the kitchen, I get more pocket money?’
‘Nice try – but no.’
Charlie had been silent for too long and his negotiations predictably arrived.
‘How many reminders can I have?’
‘No reminders Charlie. (I figured go in hard to show you mean business and then slacken off.) Step up to the mark, or forgo the cash.’
They both looked quite bemused. Although I have to say things are going well, but then, it’s only day three.
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