Category Archives: The Teenager

Aug 24 2016
10 Comments
The Teenager

Flying The Nest … Almost …

teenagerThe Teenager is off to the Reading Music Festival.

He left with a huge amount of stuff a couple of hours ago. Early tickets.

If I read those sentences again, I sound almost casual.

Believe me, I’m not.

After 17 years (he only turned 17 last Sunday), he will be without anyone looking after him for 5 nights. Five whole days and nights. Oh, the possibilities.

The planning has been months in the making: the gear – tent, groundsheet, sleeping bag, super-duper mobile charger. I shelled out for a locker. Plus part-payment towards a gazebo when he’s there. The wellies, the thick socks. The sun cream.

Last night, he asked me if I could pack his bag if he put everything he was taking on my bed. Yeah, no worries. I’m the master of packing.

I got upstairs and surveyed the room-full of stuff to fit into a tiny bag. Out went the white t-shirts (really?), the jeans, the fourth pair of shorts, the shower gel, the toothpaste. I jumped on the bag and closed it. The wellies were non-negotiable.

In work yesterday I had a text;

‘Urgent, need funds for haircut’

‘You got your hair cut last week?’

‘Not Reading-fresh? Please?’

So, he had his hair razored. With a bit at the front, strangely reminiscent to those 80’s Aha haircuts? Anyway, we ran through the Parental Lecture. It started easily enough,

‘… son, Chris …’

‘Mum, I know what you’re going to say, and I, like, take it on board.’

‘… but …’

‘No, it’s fine …’

‘… but …’

‘Mum.

‘Can I just say  it?’

‘Mum. I know. No drugs, no women. Got it.’

‘Women? Who said anything about women?’

Anyway, he got the bus to town earlier and met up with nineteen other friends who will be sharing the gazebo.

I had a think, after taking some deep breaths. I should be proud? I should marvel at his desire to be unwashed and dazed for five nights. To worry that someone will steal his groundsheet?

I can’t talk. Shortly after turning sixteen, I took my backpack and tramped around Norway, The Shetlands and The Orkney Islands for six weeks. Without nineteen friends. All on my own.

And I came back almost unscathed.

Maybe I should just text him, see if he’s eating properly?

Tagged , , , ,
Aug 08 2016
24 Comments
The Teenager

An Awfully Big Adventure …

taxiLast weekend, The Teenager spent his first night Alone At Home.

I was off to an MS Society meeting as a Council member, in Carmarthen, 64 whole miles away.

I planned to stay overnight on the Friday as we’d arranged to hook up with local peeps connected to MS that evening, before the meeting on Saturday.

So far so good.

Would The Teenager manage to hold the fort, feed the cat, lock the doors and hang up his towels for 24 hours without parental supervision? Worth a shot?

It started well: I’d booked an early train, smug in the knowledge that I could read my book whilst sipping a cup of coffee and admiring the beautiful coastal scenery from my reserved table seat next to the window.

Erm. No.

The previous train was cancelled so when mine pulled up, it was a free-for-all. Elbows, swear words and shoving. I somehow pushed my way to my seat (now fully occupied, natch) and started to cry. Honestly. I went red, stuttered and pleaded. I explained the MS and nerve pain and I sat down in the vacated seat, embarrassed and humiliated.

Almost two hours later, I arrived, dragged my case and headed for a taxi. The hotel was up a steep hill and half a mile away, the sun was blazing and I was close to collapsing. Long story short, I was refused a taxi; my journey was too short. I offered to pay a tip. I explained the MS. Again. I was still refused.

Reader, I thought I was going to die. It took me almost an hour to stagger to the hotel. I stopped numerous times, heat intolerance bearing down, my legs yelling in pain. I arrived at the hotel eventually and crumpled in a heap at the reception desk. Not the best start.

Anyway, The Teenager. Throughout my epic journey, he’d been texting me:

‘Where’s my goalkeeper gloves?’

‘Can I order a game off Amazon? Got your credit card saved :-)’

‘It’s on offer :-)’

‘You know when I go to the Reading Festival, can I have some spending money?’

‘Can you transfer £1.28 to my account so I can buy a calendar for my phone?’

Back at the hotel, after lying down for an hour, I had a brilliant evening and went to bed looking forward to breakfast in the morning; there’s something about hotel breakfasts, with their mini pots of jam and rubbery scrambled eggs.

The next morning, I checked in with The Teenager:

‘Morning! Have you fed the cat?’

‘Nah. She’s dead.’

‘Oh.’

A bit later;

‘Mum. Ok if I have some friends over for breakfast?’

‘As long as you clean up. How many?’

‘Eight.’

‘We only have a tiny house?’

‘S’ok.’

Our meeting went well and I packed my things together ready to go home. My phone beeped:

‘Oh yeah, I’m going to go for a world record’.

‘In what?’

‘Most chicken nuggets eaten in 3 minutes.’

‘The current record is 31.’

‘I did 20 in 1:10.’

‘Ah. Ok.’

‘You looking forward to having a record-breaking son?’

What could I say? I got home, aired the lingering smell of bacon, eggs and beans and was greeted by a very-alive cat.

We survived.

p.s. a follow-up – BBC Wales picked up the story of the taxi refusal and reported it here. Also, Carmarthenshire Council have traced the driver through CCTV and will be inviting him in for an interview …

Tagged , , , , ,
Jun 20 2016
12 Comments
The Teenager

Hurdy Gurdy, Bork Bork Bork …

hurdy gurdyI am teaching The Teenager how to cook.

He’s quite possibly flying the nest next year and bit by bit, I’m teaching him valuable life skills, such as:

  • If you hang your towel up after a shower rather than leaving it in a heap on the floor, it will dry!
  • If you lock the door after coming in late, we might not be burgled!
  • If you bring the tower of bowls and plates down from your bedroom, you’ll make your long-suffering mum very happy!

It’s taking a while and we still haven’t cracked the loo-roll dilemma (i.e. replace an empty one) or the milk carton angst (when it’s finished, it doesn’t go back in the fridge, d’uh).

But I live in eternal hope.

Today, he was deep in thought, sprawled out on the sofa, fingers flying across his iphone keypad as I was trying to type up some uni notes for my first dissertation meeting.

‘Mum. Muuum. Mum. How many calories in an egg?’ he asked.

‘Dunno.’

‘Four eggs?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Three eggs?’

‘I. Don’t. Know. Why?’

‘Well, I went to the gym this morning – see, look, muscles (obligatory muscle flex), I’ve got 1367 calories left to eat. Minus the protein shake. Plus the jelly snake I ate on the way home from school.’

‘That’s nice dear.’

‘Muuuuum?’

‘What?’

‘You busy?’

‘Noooooo, why?’

‘It says here on my app that I should cook scrambled eggs with four slices of brown bread, no butter. How do I make it?’

I talked him through it. Twice.

‘I hate cracking eggs.’

‘Most people do.’

‘Can you help? Pwwwweeeaaassse?’

I abandoned my not-going-anywhere proposal, sighed deeply for dramatic effect and joined him in the kitchen. A carton of eggs lay decimated on the counter. There were four left un-bashed.

I demonstrated what he had to do and he massacred the remaining ones into a bowl.

‘Now whisk.’

‘Am whisking.’

‘Put your bread in the toaster. Heat your frying pan up, put in a drop of oil and wait for it to get warm. There. Now!’

‘Use the spatula. Spatula! Not the ladle. No, and not that one, that’s a potato masher.’

‘Mum, spatula is a funny word, isn’t it?’

‘Erm, yes, I guess so.’

I showed him how to sweep the eggs gently around the pan, then handed control to him. The eggs were pummelled into submission, not daring to become anything else but scrambled eggs.

Finally, all was assembled. He splattered the resulting meal with tomato sauce, grabbed a drink and ate it all within two minutes.

‘Mum! Mum. That was ace (a surprising, new word in his vocabulary). And it only took two minutes! Result.’

And with that, he tapped his food stats into his app, put his empty plate in the kitchen and sauntered upstairs.

Tagged , , , , ,
May 26 2016
4 Comments
The Teenager

The One About The Teenager and A Tense Stand-Off

examsExam Season.

Two words guaranteed to strike fear into any parent, never mind the students.

It was all going so well, at the beginning. My printer was working overtime as The Teenager printed off reams of study notes then carefully highlighted relevant paragraphs in day-glo orange and yellow.

He drew up a study schedule, factoring in breaks and even ten minute ‘Talk To Mum and Ask Her To Make Toast’ slots. Bless him. Loo breaks were twenty minutes but I didn’t take it personally.

Inwardly, I was congratulating myself. After the drama of his exams last year (shudder), he seemed to have turned his life and attitude around. I would boast, ‘oh, my son, he’s doing awfully well, you know. Studies every night for four hours.’ I felt like a Good Mum.

So I wasn’t worried when he trotted off to his first exam, clutching his bottle of water and new pens. I went to work and waited for the inevitable text – ‘Easy. Banter. Lolz. Are there any bananas in?????’

Instead, I got: ‘I need to speak to you URGENTLY. I’m leaving school.’

‘Ok dear, see you at home. We’ll have a chat when I get home.’

‘No, I’M LEAVING SCHOOL.’

Oh.

The Teenager was in meltdown. His exam panicked him. He panicked. And decided to leave school, permanently.

When I got back The Teenager was pacing round the cottage, which at 6’3″ took him three steps one way and two the other. He seemed frustrated.

A very long story short, there followed 48 hours of tense negotiations and stand-offs, including two trips to school to talk to his head of year. I was drained, he was exhausted. We broke for Noodle Box deliveries then resumed discussions, round and round and back again.

I downloaded college applications, Burger King applications and apprenticeship applications and looked up the French Foreign Legion (my patience at this point, wearing thin). We reached an agreement. He would drop one subject, get through the rest of the exams and wait for the results in August.

His last exam was on Monday. Today is Thursday and I’m still recovering. We had a chat last night and The Teenager said, ‘I don’t know what I was so worried about, that was easy. And now I get to catch up on my X-Box, and play footie with my friends all summer. Nice.’

I didn’t have the energy to reply. Instead, I cut myself a jumbo slice of lemon drizzle cake that my friend had baked for me to cheer me up, switched on the telly and collapsed onto the sofa. Nice.

Tagged , , , ,
Feb 22 2016
6 Comments
The Teenager

I’m So Last Century …

dinosaurSomeone asked me the other day how I get The Teenager up for school.

Easy, I said, just unplug the Wi-fi.

Sit down and wait for the piercing scream of abject agony.

It works – try it.

Anyway, as I’ve been jotting down my Master’s dissertation by hand these last few weeks, The Teenager has been streets ahead of me, organising his A Level files at the stroke of a button.

He laughs at my hand-drawn mind-maps. He chortles when he sees my scribbles, turning his ipad towards me, shining with beautiful study notes.

I take off my fingerless gloves and turn the heating on. I gently explain to him that Great Art involves Great Suffering. I am trying to channel words and images into a superb piece of writing. I could in fact be The Next Great Novelist, given half the chance.

Until I’m rudely interrupted:

‘Muuuuuuuuum. Mum. Mum. What was it like BI?’

‘Wha?’

‘D’uh. Like. Before. Internet?’ Where you deprived? Did you feel, like, sad?’

‘Ah. No. We went to a place called A Library and looked up an Encyclopedia. That’s a book.’

‘Sad,’

‘Not really.’

‘You mean, if you wanted to find something out, you had to, like, order a book? Really?’

‘Well. Yeah.’

‘Oh M’God. ‘

I am a dinosaur. The Teenager cannot comprehend a life without facts at his fingertips. I could be impressed, chuffed even. Until he sends me bizarre links of what is trending on Twitter.

Take yesterday. The Teenager should have been researching British Politics. Instead, I had a breathless text, ‘ya seen Twitter?’

‘Not yet, have you cleaned your bedroom?’

‘So funny, have you seen, OMG, hysterical.’

‘What?’

‘DamnDaniel.’

‘Oh really? A kid?’

‘S’fun, s’like real.’

I worry.

Tagged , , ,
← Older posts
Newer posts →