Exam results day for The Teenager.
Bitten nails, late-night angsty-chats with friends, contemplating the future.
And that’s just me.
These last couple of months have been an exercise in diplomacy, negotiation and extreme patience:
‘I’ve failed. I know it. I just know it. I have. So there.’
‘You haven’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Well, um. Ah. Good point. You tried really hard? And, you went through a lot of post-it notes?’
‘S’not fair. I bet the exam markers hate me. Maybe they couldn’t read my writing.’
‘I’m sure they’ve seen it all, don’t worry.’
‘Mum. You’re, like, so not helping. Please, leave me to my despair and close the door behind you, ta.’
This morning, finally, we got here. The Teenager plonked himself with a grunt onto the sofa and watched beaming kids opening their results live on telly. Probably not his best idea ever.
I went to work (after offering to take the day off and do something nice, like feed the ducks), put my phone on loud and waited. And waited. Phone rings.
‘Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum.’ (heavy panting down the phone)
‘Hello dear!’
‘Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum! I’m in!!’
‘Wonderful! In what, dear? In school? To get the results?’ (non-committal, just in case)
‘D’ur!! Like, I diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiid it! I passed, gonna do my A levels, do my A levels, yay, like A levels.’
Phew.
I collapsed in a crumpled heap outside work.
‘Muuuuuum, just one problem.’
Gah.
‘You know how I have to register for the next two years? For the A levels? Well, like, I threw out my results from last year. By mistake.’
Oh.
Long story short, I left work, took him to school and he got a print-out. Sorted.
I dropped him off at a friend’s house before heading back to work.
I was a wreck. He’s out celebrating.
It’s all good. We got there in the end.
