Teenagers are just fabulous – they may wreck your house, bankrupt you and leave wet towels everywhere, but you get a refreshing honesty from them in return.
Take yesterday. He leapt downstairs in boxer shorts en-route to his Special K, and paused to show me his body-building moves.
At the time, I was catching up with ‘Come Dine With Me’ (final episode of six), absent-mindedly dipping into a bag of crisps.
‘Aaaaand, this (new pose), aaaaaand this (deep squat), aaaaaand look mum (muscle flex).’
‘Wow, that’s lovely dear. Most impressive.’
‘Well jel, yeah?’
‘Oh, yeah, very jealous. Well done!’
‘You know mum, and don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not fat, not like that programme about obese people who have a year to save their lives, like, you could do it in a couple, you know? I mean, if you act now you could even get a Valentine’s card, you know?’
‘Yeah, thanks for that.’
Last week we were in the car (I was probably driving him to the gym) when, out of the blue, he said,
‘Muuuuuuuum, do you ever blog about me?’
‘You know I do. You even have a compliment on an Amazon book review. So, yeah.’
‘Am I like, the main character?’
‘Oh look, we’re here already, have a great training session, ta ra!’
A couple of days ago, I was trying to wrap up some uni work when The Teenager texted me (he was upstairs). Expecting yet another video of wrestlers/Adele in a car/cats scared of cucumbers (google it, it’s odd), I ignored it. My phone went again.
‘Mum. You are a Legend. I love you.’
I melted then texted back,
‘Aw, and you are the best son ever!’
‘D’uh, you’ve only got one.’
‘I know. Still love you. Monkey.’
‘Calm down. Can you make me some toast?’