Tag Archives: pizza

That’s Dinner Sorted …

dinnerMe and The Teenager were having one of our Kitchen Katch-Ups the other day.

Generally speaking, if I hang out long enough in the kitchen, The Teenager will make an appearance, rummage through the fridge and continue a conversation he may have started a couple of days previously:

‘… and, you know, muvver, it’s fine.’

‘Er, what is?’

He pauses to measure out an exact amount of Shredded Wheat into a bowl, then an exact amount of milk, as dictated by his gym routine plan. Then gulps the whole thing down in three mouthfuls.

‘You know, when you get old? Like, say, 50?’

‘Right. And what’s going to happen then?’

‘I’ll build you a shed?’

‘I don’t need a shed?’

‘D’urrr. Like, a shed at my house? In the garden? You can stay there.’

‘When I’m 50?’

‘Yeah? But, like, if I’m rich and famous, you can have a flat.’

‘Oh, ok then. Thank you. But you know, I’ll probably be just fine at 50. But, um, thanks for thinking of me sweets. Very kind. Anyway, Christmas dinner. We need to decide what we’re having.’

I was poised ready with my pen, trying to shake off images of me trapped in a shed at the grand old age of 50.

‘How about I choose this year?’

‘I really don’t want a strawberry protein shake.’

‘Lol, muvver. You’re funny. I wouldn’t do that to you at Christmas.’

‘What do you fancy then? Turkey? Lamb?’

‘Can I choose? Anything in the world? A day off from my Buff Body Routine?’

‘Um, ok.’

He did.

And so it has come to pass; we will be tucking into Chicago Town pepperoni pizzas, curly fries and garlic dough balls.

I kid you not.

After getting over my initial horror, I thought, ‘Well, Why Not?’ It’ll just be the two of us, we’ve both already had our fill of turkey and we get to do exactly what we want. He’s chosen the food, I’ll choose the telly. And have first dibs on the chocolates, natch.

That sorted, The Teenager continued to rifle the cupboards and sigh loudly. ‘About your shed …’

‘No more talking about sheds. How’s school?’

‘S’fine.’

‘Studying?’

‘S’fine.’

‘You know where I am if you need me, sweets.’

‘Yep. Mum?’

I was braced for the worst. Or worse than pizza on Christmas Day.

He gathered together another bowl of cereal, balanced it in his hand, made to leave the kitchen and said, ‘You’re a great mum, you know. I love you.’

And with that, before I could reply, he had scooted upstairs.

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MS For Teenagers

AppleWe’ve had a very trying weekend and things came to an explosive head on Saturday evening.

The Teenager: WHY are you so tired just now? WHY’S your face all red? WHY are you hugging the fan? Oi, WAKE UP! Mum, mum, mum, mum, mum, mum, muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum. Can I have a Dominos?

Me: I’m awake. You’ve just had dinner so you can’t be hungry. And we’ve talked about this before. Sweetie.

Teenager: Yeah, you get…..tired…..and hot….and grumpy……and, I mean, like, I get tired and hot too. My X-box gets hot. The cat gets hot. And it’s summer, like d’uh. And I’m hungry all the time coz I’m growing. So ner.

Slammed door. Me, in pieces on the sofa.

How can I explain to him? I wrack my heat-addled brain, jot down a few points then fall asleep.

Later that evening, he thumps downstairs and I swiftly intercept him on his way to the fridge. We sit on the sofas. He slumps, like, whatever, working his way through two Müller Corners, a croissant and the lollipop he gave me earlier (the one I was keeping for later).

Anyway, here goes. Keep it simple. Ok. Heat intolerance – imagine you’re in a sauna and the door is locked. An hour later, exhausted and gasping for breath, unable to think clearly, you have to put the oven on and cook dinner. (at this point, The Teenager plays his trump card – ‘you could have called Dominos, dur’). Smug grin. I calmly continue; then you have to make a few phone calls, reply to some emails, do the laundry, feed the cat and water the plants. All the time you’re feeling hotter and hotter. The bits in your brain start to melt in the heat and send out the wrong messages and your body just doesn’t do what it wants to.

The Teenager: Oh. I get like that when I’m on the rugby pitch, for like, hours.

Me: Exactly! Imagine they won’t let you off the pitch to have some water. They’re pushing you to keep on going. You’re boiling.

The Teenager: Oh. ‘K. So why are you so tired. Tired, tired, tired, all the time. S’not fair. All the other mums don’t get tired. S’not fair, s’not.

Right. It’s not really tiredness like you know. It’s kind of the same as when I get hot. My brain (Teenager sniggers) gets tired out from working extra hard to keep sending the right signals so it gets tired more quickly than, say, your brain (snigger). That’s why I have to sleep a bit more, to rest it a little.

The Teenager: Uh, ok. Can I go now? Got friends waiting for me – X-box party. Paaaaaaaartaaaaaay! See ya!

Did I get the message through? I wander through the house, fretting. Until I come across my lovely, neat desk. Everything in it’s place. Except, under my goldfish paperweight there’s a takeaway pizza menu, topping choices thoughtfully highlighted by The Teenager.

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