A Nag

Max thinks I’m a Nag. He just came out with it this morning. Of all the descriptions to label me, I find this one the most annoying, perhaps because I feel it’s unfair. Plus it’s the one thing I strive not to be. Being a ‘Nag’ somehow seems to go with the territory of being a mother. I’d like to treat my children as I would my friends, have a relaxed attitude to the condition of the house, general day-to-day scheduling and organisation. Not worry about such minor details as their general attire, completion of homework, body and hair hygiene and teeth cleaning, but that would undoubtedly result in total carnage. No washing, no sleeping, filthy plates and mugs left to rot everywhere. Total chaos.

General mayhem appears attractive to a teenager in theory. In practice, any ‘fall out’ would be my fault and I would be expected to fork out the cost, be it financial or domestic, to remedy the situation, pronto. So boring, so unfair. I feel it best to provide the odd reminder now and then. I’m wise when to pick my battles and do let a huge amount slide, turning a blind eye on so many occasions I feel I’m positively carefree and relaxed.

Max was talking to Paul about getting ready to go out to East Barnet and get some new shoes. He knows full well that such an outing would be classified as a bonafide trip. Exit out of the house, travelling in the car to a destination of merit, involving other people. That means no wearing of scuzzy trousers. We have this agreement he & I. Max has some distinctly awful trousers which he mistakenly thinks he looks really cool in. He doesn’t. They are a worn out pair of denim leggings in a size 22. They are very comfortable I have no doubt, and there was a time when he was slightly younger and thinner when he looked reasonably ok in them. It was at a time when I struggled to find him any clothes to fit and before I found a great web-site called Premier man which caters for the out of the ordinary male figure like Max.

He mistakenly thinks he looks dashing and cool in them. I understand that they are comfortable and can go along with his misconception to a certain degree, but it’s got to the stage where it’s obscene to let him out of the house in them. Max and I have discussed it and I’ve explained the matter to him in the gentlest way I know how. He gets it. So he can wear them around the house as much as he’d like, but the minute he passes over the threshold of the front door, he has to change into another pair of his many, more suitable trousers.

This morning, once again Max chose to forget this little agreement. I suspect he sometimes gets away with it with Paul. For an easier life I can imagine Paul turning a blind eye and letting the fact that Max looks like an overweight middle aged woman with shocking taste in clothes, pass by. Paul only sees his adorable son; Max has him nicely wrapped around his little finger. Whatever the deal, Max tries it on every time. I keep calm and remain patient with him, but sometimes it’s a struggle. ‘Let him out, however he’s dressed! I hear you cry. What’s the big deal?’ You obviously haven’t seen him.

So I reminded him, much to his disgust, that he needed to change, and that’s when Paul stepped in to defend me. The retort from Max which I found so hard to stomach was,
‘Mum’s such a Nag!’
‘Charming!’ I cried.
‘Right, that’s it. I’m going on strike. You can all take a running jump. No more washing and cleaning, no more digging about trying to discover where all the rubbish you lot can’t find is buried, no more lamb curries, spaghetti bolognaise or macaroni cheese.’
There were cries of indignation from Charlie who hadn’t been involved in our verbal tussle and was clearly worried about the finding thing. Max just laughed,
‘Just kidding Mum!’ Little charmer.
We think he’s flailing behind us sometimes, it’s clear that he struggles to keep up with conversations; his sentence construction is short and limited, his articulation weak. He continually forgets to explain anything he’s talking about by way of an introduction or just a brief pinpoint of the topic, he just plunges straight in. Some of his speech comes out squashed up, like one big word, unpronounced and totally incomprehensible. But occasionally, more often than you’d think, he does impress and surprise us.
Paul and Max eventually said their goodbyes as they made their way to the car, Max looking smart in his denim trousers. Paul said.
‘You gonna drive then Max?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous dad! I haven’t got my driving licence!’