Photograph hair before washing...

In a shock development Daniel decided to have his hair cut.  About 90% of it.  Given his reaction to scissors has always been a little like a rabid dog to water (see Hair, Hair Everywhere), I am still reeling.  I have to say it looked really good and it was great to see more of my son’s face than just his nose poking through the hair.

However the next day he commits the fatal error of washing it.

Dan:       I can’t get it to look right
Me:        Um
Dan:       Can you try?

All can do with hair is tie it back with an elasticated band and my fears increase as he hands me a tub. 

Dan:       She used some stuff on it
Me:        Oh

Stuff, or the equally non-descriptive Product fills me with dread.  This is a newcomer to our house and until I went grey, the only Extra I’ve used on my hair has been conditioner.  It took me years to come to terms with the idea of hair dye until my husband clinched it, telling me he wasn’t ready for a grey haired wife.  So I’ve put my head down (in the basin) and got on with being brown.

I have no idea how to apply Product, and even less how to tug the hair afterwards into the right shape.   I shun the tub as his hair already feels like cardboard and I’m assuming it’s been Stuffed enough.  Then I try pulling it through all points of the compass, in the chance that one of them might be what he’s after.

It’s not of course, and I feel awful as hope falls from his face.  I’d thought one of the joys of having boys is my ineptitude with hair, makeup and clothes wouldn’t matter.  It does though and I tick another box in the Crap Parent dossier. 

I swallow, admit I’ve failed and suggests he goes back to the hairdresser for instruction.  And I’ll book an appointment too, and see if it's not too late to learn something.

Duke of Edinburgh - drowning not waving

Organisation at pitiful low when Jamie informs me after his Friday night Duke of Edinburgh training session, that he has his first D of E expedition tomorrow.  This consists of trekking about twenty miles through the wilds of Surrey, whilst laden with a backpack stuffed with everything he’ll need for the weekend - as long as it's not electronic.

Me:          It’s not till next weekend
Jamie:      No, it’s tomorrow
Me:          I checked the website
Jamie:      Well, the person running it has just told us and she should know

Scurry to supermarket to collect supplies, including enough sugar highs to get him to the summit of Everest.  Apparently, emergency energy drinks and emergency energy foods are essential, though they sound more like a scam for legitimising crap. 

Suspicions confirmed when Daniel vets Jamie’s supplies and denounces them.

Daniel:      I never got this
Me:          You’ve just forgotten
Daniel:      No.  You told me I had to make do with fruit and water
Me:          Well, you had better weather

After weeks of summer skies and temperatures, April’s delayed showers have decided to arrive this weekend in an almighty downpour.  Manage to persuade Jamie that waterproof coat is not optional but spend rest of weekend listening to rain batter the windows and wondering if they managed to get the tent up.  Can’t work out how they will cook supper with the skies flooding, but maybe that’s the cue for emergency chocolate.

Following day, soggy teenager and dripping backpack collected.  Everything soaked, and I am congratulating myself upon making him take the waterproof coat until I realise it has gone AWOL and not made it home.  Also notice that no emergency food stuffs have returned, though can’t have been that much of an emergency, because the apples came back.

Not sure why I’m the one who gets to dry out tent, sleeping bag, walking boots and backpack, but maybe it’s to help me feel more involved?  Still, at least he’s still got them, talking of which…

Me:        Where’s your coat?

Revision - don't you just love it?

Don’t write about the weather they say, but this much sunshine can only mean one thing. 

Exams. 

Jamie’s Do-Well-Or-You-Won’t-Be-Allowed-To-Take-Triple Science exams start tomorrow and Daniel’s Do-Well-Or-You’ll-Be-On-Washing-Up-Duty-For-Life GCSEs start in ten days. 

As you can tell, I am totally relaxed and confident in their outcomes and a lifetime subscriber to the No Pressure philosophy.  No Pressure, Why Bother that is.  It’s not that I’m a pushy parent (despite appearances, honest!) it’s just you need to understand the importance of something to value it yourself.

When I was at school, we’d have visiting speakers shock us with figures for the swathes of rainforest destroyed as we listened.  Whilst they spoke it was devastating; but when they left, they took their message with them and no one mentioned it again.  It’s not that we didn’t care, it’s just when you’re a teenager, seeing the wood from the trees thousands of miles away requires encouragement.

So when Jamie eventually gave in and lowered his head into his Science book for a whole hour – albeit wearing headphones – I was really chuffed.  It’s a while since I’ve seen that much concentration away from the Play Station and I’d like to think it’s because he actually enjoyed it.

The sad thing about school, is that most of the things they teach are interesting.  It’s just that there’s so much and over such a long period that it takes a remarkable teacher to keep children enthralled.  So if it means I need to be interested in the sexual reproduction of a plant, to reinforce what my kids are learning, I should be grateful.

I might not need to know this anymore, but as the hours frittered on Google testify, learning can be fun.

Maths revision - just another way to feel inadequate

As part of GCSE revision, Daniel is completing maths practice papers.  Great I thought until I came to mark them and found that even the answer sheet is testing.  Would be fine if he got them all right, but when he doesn’t, we both try to decipher the step by step answers and still don’t have a clue.

So the answer book says if you find this hard going, take a look at Circle Geometry.  Ah ha, I thought and I did.  It told me that:

-          Tangent-Radius meets at 90°

-          Angles in the same sequent are equal

-          Chord Bisector is a Diameter

Whilst I remember the mnemonic from school comparing two classmates to Radius and Diameter (little Redman, big Davey), the rest is a mystery.

So I studied the answer book.  I studied the revision guide.  And I studied the question again.  Can I prove that the angle CAB = BCD?  Not a chance.

Daniel:        Well?
Me:              How about some English?

Still at least they have revision guides now.  And they’re beautiful things.  Lots of colours, graphics, summaries after every section and as easy to read as a comic.  A million years apart from our dry textbooks or paltry notes we took during lessons.  When they question annually why exam results are improving, I think they should look at the revision tools.

Best thing of all though, was The Now Show (thank you Radio 4).  It asked the audience for the signs of Spring and a teacher replied that All 16 year olds Are Doing At Least 4 Hours Revision Per Day.  At Least.  And Not Including Breaks.  Made us all laugh, but it revised my expectations.

So is Daniel doing 4 hours revision per day?  Probably not, but it feels like I am.

The last of the Easter Egg Hunts (probably)

At 14 and 16 the boys are too old for Easter Egg Hunts.  But when you’re scared at how quickly they’re growing up, you bring out every childhood ruse to pretend they’re still kids.

 

So I picked up a packet of 25 foil covered eggs – perfect for Easter Egg Hunts it said – and took great pleasure in getting up early to scatter them around the garden.  Not so bad, you’d think, but by now I had committed 5 mistakes:

1.   Very hot day and by 10am eggs were melting and needed to be rescued ASAP

2.   Daniel still asleep and didn’t appreciate being hauled from bed

3.   Garden more weeds than neatly manicured and everything invisible

4.   Red, green and pink foil wrappers, hard to spot in grass when you’re red/green colour blind

5,   Boys are too old for this and less than impressed I’ve hidden their chocolate

Ten minutes in, they were bored, so I had to point out probable hiding places.  Half an hour later they’ve given up entirely.  Quick count reveals Jamie far more successful than Daniel and 9 eggs still missing.

Daniel:    S’not fair
Me:          Well look then
Daniel:    Effort
Me:          Oh grow up

One hour later, I’m scouring the garden by myself and have found another 4 of the MIA’s.  Two hours later, husband has joined in the search and our tally is up to 7.  Three hours later I go through bin to check packet and that it really did say 25, not approximately.

Later that afternoon, idly poke around garden from time to time, but have accepted they belong to the hedgehogs.  Don’t mind the loss of the eggs, just irritated that I can’t find them.

Just hope I remember this for next year.  And have grown up enough myself to realise that it’s no fun being treated like a child when you’re a teenager.

No one minds getting older - when you're a teenager

The sun is at its most splendid in a faultless blue sky which is filled with a cacophony of birds, singing for sex.  Okay, I assumed the sex bit, but it is spring and isn’t that about nesting and eggs and stuff? 

It’s the holidays, and far too good a day to waste at home.

Me:            Let’s go to the beach

Daniel:       I’m meeting friends soon

Jamie:       Why?

Not so long ago, the beach was our favourite destination and as likely to be turned down as an ice cream.  It’s one of the few places that doesn’t feel spoilt by *progress* and I love going somewhere that’s still run by nature.

Deflated by their refusal, I fall back on prosaics, offer them lunch and stand in the garden listening to the first cuckoo.

Trouble is, we’ve got conflicting agendas now.  The older they get, the more they want to break free, and I’m clutching at these last few years together whilst watching them pull away.  I know it has to happen, but so do taxes, and I don’t welcome those either. 

They’re at the age where getting older is one of the perks of being a teenager.

Daniel:       I don’t know why you mind so much – I’m happy to be older

Me:            That’s because you’re young

Daniel:       So?

So indeed.  When you’re young, everything is close together, and you haven’t learnt that age separates you from people and times that you’ve loved.  I wouldn’t mind ageing if it meant I could still keep my memories close, but the years jump in to pull us apart and they dissipate.

I don’t want to return to the early years of parenthood, where sleep was someone else’s dream, cleaning your teeth a luxury and the greatest gift was being given time off.  However, a quick visit back in a time machine would be fab.

But for now at least, I’ve still got teenagers and whilst they might not be as cuddly as babies, they’re much more fun.

Don't blame the teachers, but they're the reason

The last few weeks before GCSEs start are whizzing past and Daniel is working really hard.  Just a shame it’s on the bass and guitar, rather than his text books.  I even heard him playing the guitar in the bathroom the other day, but decided I really didn't want to know why.  Wish he showed the same attachment to revision.

He is going into school over the holidays, for some extra revision days, but you can imagine how popular those are.

Dan:        Look, I’m just crap at maths

Me:         Course you’re not

Dan:        I don’t understand anything in his lessons

Me:         Well, ask then

Dan:        Eye swivel

Maybe he’s right.  My maths teacher wrote on my school report that “Suzanne should desist from asking questions”.  She had a point because her answers never made things clearer.  It was only when our teachers changed and the fabulous Mr Northover took over that everything became easy.

Still I managed to persuade Daniel to sign up for a maths revision day – run by a different teacher.  I was dubious: a whole day of maths lessons is hardly welcomed by the keenest teenager, especially when it’s during the holidays and they’ve forgotten what 9am looks like.

Eight hours later he’s home again.

Me:         How was it

Dan:        Fantastic

Me:         Really? 

Dan:        Yeah, we covered 40% of the course and it’s really clear

Me:         It all makes sense now?

Dan:        Yeah, she’s a brilliant teacher

Now I really don’t blame the teachers (they work hard, it’s a tough job, they don’t get enough credit or respect), but at the same time this makes me so cross.  How you do at school depends entirely upon your teacher.  And it’s not even whether they’re good or bad, for one child’s Awesome Teacher is another child’s Nightmare.

Trouble is, a teacher you don’t gel with can turn a favourite subject into your worst.  No one should leave school thinking they’re rubbish at certain things, and yet we all do and those feelings are hard to shed.

So how do I think Daniel will get on with his next revision day, now that he no longer has that subject’s Awesome teacher?  Best not to comment.

This hurts me more than it does you

Yesterday used to be my mother’s birthday. 

Seven years on, it’s as important to me to visit her grave, as it used to be seeing her when she was alive.  I like the boys to come too and normally they’re happy to oblige.  Yesterday though, Jamie was busy blowing zombies apart and half an hour later they were still chasing him around the internet.

Me:            Right, you’ve got two minutes left to kill them off

Jamie:        I can’t.  They’ll always be more

Me:            Okay.  You’ve got two minutes left to die

Jamie:        I can’t.  I’ll let the others down

Me:            Who are the others?  D’you know them?

Jamie:        No

Me:            So some strangers matter more than Granna?

I’m hoping this kind of talk is standard in families, and also the next bit where I tell him he’s got ten seconds to get in the car or the Playstation vanishes for five days.  Of course, rather than ten seconds, I end up waiting ten to the power of something much bigger, but he still misses his deadline.

And so I’m in the horrible position of having to deliver the consequences.  Thankfully, ultimatum standoffs don’t happen much these days, but when they were little, I’d dread the words falling out and do anything to pervert their enactment.  

So now the Playstation’s out of action and I’m in the doghouse.  Five days feels harsh, but every time Jamie tries to argue his case he makes it worse:

Jamie:        All that Granna means to me now is Canada Dry, Elderflower Cordial and Cancer.  And I can get two of those in the supermarket

Me:            You can probably find cancer there too

Jamie:        Okay then, three out of three.  So why should I go to her grave?

I have lots of answers for him, but the truth is she’s just my loss now.  His memories  of her have been replaced by the next half of his life, and the last thing I want is for him to associate her with the Playstation. 

So what do you do?

Remembering to remember and other forgettings

Stunned to catch Daniel reading his chemistry text book.

Me:      Is that homework?

Dan:    No, I’m revising

Me:      Oh a test

Dan:    No.  They’re called GCSEs

Whilst I know his exams start in six weeks, I can’t quite believe that he does.  When I was 16, six weeks was so far in the future that it barely figured and concentrating on what felt like the never never, was near impossible.  But for a boy who’s counted down the 56 weeks to his next Muse concert, perhaps it’s closer. 

The trouble is I’m not a poker player and rather than playing it cool about his chemistry book, my reaction was more in keeping with news of a Nobel prize.  So now I’m convinced that he’ll think Job Done on the revision front and not open a book again till the day itself. 

Obviously, this totally disregards the fact that he is virtually grown up and can work out for himself the merits – and nots – of revising.  I’m sure he’s much more interested in doing well for his own benefit than mine, but as a parent, sometimes it’s hard to remember that they know how to breathe without you. 

All I can offer in my defence is his brother.  Jamie is the archetypal Forget-His-Head-If-It’s-Not-Screwed-On child and recent entries on his reminder list include:

·       Wear more than a t-shirt outside when there’s a foot of snow on the ground
·       Go to the loo if you’re about to be sick
·       If you’re putting the left walking boot in your bag, also take the right

Still, unlike me he can grill bacon without forgetting about it till the smoke alarm goes off.  And he’s never left the rice burning on the hob in an empty house for hours - more than once.

So now that I’ve confessed where the apple’s fallen from, maybe I’d better stop waving it about.  But I’ll still keep a watch on his breathing.

The trouble with paintballing is you're the target

In a sexist kind of way, decided that eldest brother’s birthday bash should involve shooting stuff, so went for arrows and paintballs.

Archery was fantastic, and much better for de-stressing than fishwife impersonations at the children.  Suppose it's good to know that I stand a chance of procuring a meal, as long as it stands stock still, doesn’t mind waiting for five minutes and is about the size of a car door.

Sharp contrast to paintballing where I was the receiving end. 

Should have sussed when the bloke collecting our dosh told me to get each kid to complete a registration form.  Guess that female forty somethings only turn up as taxi-mums, and didn’t tell him that I was one of our younger "kids".

Any hopes for leniency died with the 50 or so squaddies stripping down and into combats (the good bit of the day…).  Amazed that paintballing could be part of their training, until the first session when you instantly discover how real this feels.  Adrenalin rips your breath away and trying to keep covered whilst shooting at the enemy and moving forward is a bit like patting your head and rubbing your stomach whilst doing a cartwheel.

The map of the Maldives now peppered over my left leg is testament to how useless I was – though prefer to think that as the only woman present, I was target practice.  Still, at least I haven’t got a bruise impersonating a hickey on my neck like my husband. 

However, this all feels uncomfortably similar to Sarah Palin's horrible hobbies.  So when my 50^th comes around, perhaps I'll suggest a spot of stamp collecting.  On a passport.

Fifty and growing younger

Ten years ago we devised a day of challenges for my eldest brother, before he was deemed eligible to become a respectable 40 year old.  These included crossing a river without boat or bridge (he swam it, backpack laden with bricks), learning something new (riding a unicycle), doing something illegal (painting a smiley face on a mini roundabout) and hoopla-ing a lamppost with a bicycle tyre – except he resorted to shinning up and down it.

Now he’s about to turn 50 and he’s getting nervous.  Trustingly he has still allocated us a day to abuse him, but how much should we take advantage?  I remember my mother suggesting that she and I should hold a joint 21^st/50^th birthday party - and to my utter shame, I thought Are You Mad?  Thankfully I kept quiet, but it really did seem like the other end of life, and nothing to celebrate.  Now it seems we’re far too young to be anywhere near it, and the closer it draws, the more my crime grows.

So when 14 year old Jamie teases me about my age, I remind myself that the perception of age is not a linear scale.  The gaps are much larger when you’re young, but the older you get, the more they shrink.  My mother’s no longer here to grow younger, but my father has stopped ageing and two of my favourite people have celebrated their 65^th wedding anniversary.

Age is only a handle that strangers use – like the cow (heifer?) at the makeup counter commenting on my mature skin.  And my main concern about ageing is realising that life is no longer infinite.  So time to stop faffing if I want to fit everything in.

Which reminds me.  My brother’s only going to be 50, so what’s it to be?  Tightrope walking or high trapeze?

The rights and wrongs of teenage drinking

This might not be the normal concern, but I’m worried my kids don’t drink.  Yes, they’re only 14 and 16, but I don’t want them to grow up like me.   You see I’ve never learnt to like tea or coffee – let alone alcohol – and I wish I did. 

99.9% of the time I drink water (still, not even fizzy) and I always feel rude and ungrateful when I turn down everything else.  My wise and wonderful friend Hilary told me to say, No Thanks, I’ve Just Had One - but that’s not so good when offered a glass of wine after a long drive.  Especially when you’re returning someone else’s child home and his Dad’s a copper.

So when the boys asked me to bring them back some cherry beer from a trip to Belgium, I was quick to oblige.  Was rather glad my case had been emptied and extensively searched on way out (wish I’d packed better underwear), as karma kept it safe from inspection on the return.

The chocolates did attract more interest than the beer, but when they had run out, the boys turned to the bottles.  Cherry beer bottles are quite attractive – pictures of cherries and all that – and Jamie decided to keep one. 

Next morning at breakfast, a rinsed beer bottle sits beside Jamie’s toast and marmite slabs.

Husband:    For ****’s sake

Me:             What?

Husband:    I can’t believe you’ve let him drink that

Me:             Well, why d’you think I got it?

Husband:    You can’t send him to school pissed

Me:             Lightbulb moment

After explanations, inebriated stepson fears allayed and school back on agenda.

But it’s tricky.  When you don’t do something yourself, it’s hard to know what’s normal.  And whilst I wish their livers all the best, I’d like to think that learning to drink at home will stop them binge boozing later on.

What to teach a teenage boy?

Ever since my father lost a 2 year old Daniel for half an hour in Winchester city centre, he’s been fanatic about making sure the boys can look after themselves.  Whilst I would fuss with Not Too High, or Hold My Hand, he’d undo my namby pambying and encourage them to be fearless.

Realised he had a point when Jamie was devastated at the prospect of his 10 year old brother travelling alone on a train.  I learnt to drive a tractor at ten and my farmyard childhood varied from castrating lambs to chopping kale.  So I was less worried for Daniel’s safety and more concerned that Jamie really DID think Daniel would be murdered, mugged or mutilated.   Definitely too sheltered.

Now that the boys are almost his size, my father has stopped worrying about their physical safety and moved onto Life Skills.  At first I thought he meant SAS stuff: skinning rabbits and making fire.   Instead, he’s read an article extolling the importance of cutlery skills and he’s determined to ensure the boys can wield a fish knife.

 

The upshot of this is he wants to take them on some Fine Dining experiences.  Okay with me, I think, envisaging some scrumptious puddings round the corner.  Except he’s decided it should be a Boys Only affair and rather than me, he’ll invite my brother.

So now I’m worried.  What sort of Life Skills necessitates Boys Only, especially as he thinks only 16 year old Daniel is ready?   All I can say is that if he’s teaching him to roll fivers - with or without fish knife - to stick into dancing girls’ underwear, charity begins at home.

Just hope Daniel doesn’t mind that rather than dancing, I’m likely to be cooking, and being his mother, socks are more appropriate.

How to fall out with your teenager

Dropped boys at school this morning (late – the Monday morning factor) and Jamie hands me a form to sign, acknowledging his latest bad piece of homework.  Half a page allocated for my comments, but as I hadn’t even read it, just signed my name as large as I could get away with.

Resolve to address subject in caring manner on way home.

Me:         Why was your mark so crap?

Jamie:    Cos I didn’t use religion

Me:         What – if you’d prayed you’d have done better?

Jamie:    No.  I should have written about killing off Jesus and stuff

Me:         What?

Transpires essay was about whether it’s right to kill but as it was for RE, needed a religious slant.  Fair enough until I decide part of caring manner is to ask him what he should have included.

Jamie:    Religious stuff

Me:         Duh.  Like what?

Jamie:    You know.  Cross and bits

Me:         Is that it, cross and bits?

Jamie:    I can’t remember, I did it weeks ago

Me:         D’you want to write this again, ‘cause you’re going the right way about it?

Why do my kids refuse to answer questions, as if they were under interrogation by the Gestapo?  Maybe I should see this as strength and offer them to MI5, for position of captured spy who won’t dob everyone in it. 

Meanwhile, homework continues to torture us all.  Assume This Will Hurt Me More Than It Hurts You must have originated with homework as I’d rather do theirs three times over, than sit through the moans and escape attempts as they turn 5 minutes work into 5 hours.

Sometimes feel that homework should be added to the Wasted On The Young list.  Wouldn’t it be nice to go back to the days when someone bothers to tell you what you’ve done wrong and rewards anything good with a House Point? 

But for now, I’ll just take the car doors slammed by both Jamie and me as an indication of Could Do Better.

Time for Bed

The joy of being grown up is no one tells you what time to go to bed.  Whilst this means I'm no longer the It’s-Not-Fair 10 year old expelled to bed whilst Norman Wisdom cavorted downstairs, I make little use of my extra hours.  If I plonk myself in front of the television, I'm usually asleep before the first programme finishes, and rather wish I’d gone straight to bed.

The boys do not suffer this way. 

Last time they fell asleep watching television was probably to Ringo Starr rumbling through another Thomas The Tank Engine video.  And until we corrupted Jamie with an iPod and laptop, he would take himself upstairs.  The first I would know of it, was when there was no answer to my shouts – because he was already in bed, minty breathed and sound asleep. 

Post electronics, he’s reverted to a toddler who I have to check through the Bath, Teeth, Into Bed and Lights Out process - each unguarded step interspersed with a screen.  And even then a glow comes from the room when he thinks I've stopped prowling and it’s safe to turn on a device again. 

Somehow, reading by torchlight under the bedclothes seemed more innocent.

Daniel, who never slept as a baby, hasn’t changed.  We had a few years of pretending he had a bedtime, but all that meant was he would lie awake for an hour or two, developing all the anguish of an insomniac.  From being allowed to keep his light on to read, he has pushed back the boundaries and now fearlessly plays on his laptop, his bass and his amp.

So why am I surprised when 11:30 pm sees us going through YouTube, looking for the best instructions on restringing guitars?  Bring back the world where the most sophisticated device was the television, programmes were finite and Zebedee reminded us go to bed. 

The Pros and Con(verse) of Teenage Fashion

Daniel’s trousers are the latest cause for complaint.  I thought we’d escaped the Bum Hanging Out look but should have realised when he no longer outgrew his trousers.  Instead of flapping around his ankles and calves, they’re hitched down from the top, and all it takes is a sudden move for them to slip down to his thighs.

Me:           Pull them up

Daniel:     Withering look

Me:           It looks so stupid

Daniel:     Muttered expletives

Me:           What did you say?

I’m told this originated in US jails for prisoners wishing to indicate their availability, but true or not, this is dismissed by my son as easily as any other I-Know-Better line. 

The trouble is that teenagers flick between the sort of indolence that could be mistaken for hibernation, and bursts of energy that see them hurdle any obstacle in their path.  I’ve noticed Dan no longer leapfrogs over traffic meters (low crotch traps you mid-flight).  However vaulting single handed over armpit high gates is still an option and leaves my jaw trailing.  The highest thing I jump these days is the cat sprawled over the carpet – when I see her in time.

Meanwhile, Converse pumps are truly All Stars.  After years of screeching at the boys (in vain) to undo their laces, Converse shoes necessitate it.  Like the trousers, my boys go for the Lo riding versions, but the opening’s so small  it’s impossible to get them on or off without untying laces.   And I get a kick out of watching them lace up afterwards, delighted that they do know how to, after all.

Maybe Converse just works for my kids because they have clown feet – long and thin – but, then again Luke’s discarded Converse sneakers look like a pair of canoes.  And they’re unlaced.

Bleak House 4 (Hair of the dog)

Last one about the front door, I promise, not least because I suspect my father’s mapping out a shallow grave for me.

Several people have queried the authenticity of the tales, but I’m afraid it’s all true.  The latest replacement for the front door, are blankets strung across the doorway, backed up with what looks like a board of MDF.  Oh, and he’s drawn the curtains behind it – so that must help.

In the interests of fairness I haven’t found hedgehogs pressganged to the floor, and I have omitted any ameliorating explanations.  But in true tabloid fashion, why spoil a story with context? 

So to conclude, I returned on Saturday to finish the painting.  I need to backtrack here and say that when the door was brought inside last Monday (for safe keeping?) it was taken to my father’s cell where he and the dog spend most of the waking day, playing on the computer. 

Whilst my father’s not that hairy - despite his recent beard - the dog is as hairy as any large self-respecting dog should be, and he’s shedding his winter coat.  Between the two of them the room was choking with dog hair and dust, and an airborne osmosis drift guaranteed the door’s fate.  By the time I returned to it, there seemed more hairs and dust stuck to the door than paint.

No option but to sand it again (lightly) whilst sucking the air to pretend I was filtering it, rather than exacerbating the problem.  Topcoat was then duly applied and both beasts (father and dog) banished from the room for the rest of the weekend. 

I’m told that the front door will be reattached this week, come hell or high water.  It's not that I’m sceptical but I’ll take a rubber dinghy next time I visit.  Just in case.

Shape matters and Food Conspiracies

Curly pasta (fusilli apparently, but not in our house) with bolognaise sauce for supper.  Smells good and tastes better, but it instantly attracts complaints because it’s not straight.

Daniel:    You never cook spaghetti anymore

Me:         Mmm

Jamie:    And why’s it always brown?

Quite simple, because my mother was right (see Exams, revision and aspersions) and when it comes to food for the boys, I need to pull out any stop I can reach on the sly, manipulative and devious scale.

The boys have always reacted to food as if I were tying them across the railway tracks and setting the points.  The number of airplanes they swatted away as babies would have heartened King Kong, and some days I’m not sure we’ve progressed.  Ironically, fruit and vegetables seem to be the only things they’ve always eaten without dispute.

At 14, Jamie has recently started eating pasta, having worked through the following stages:

1.          dry and uncooked

2.          cooked and dipped in chocolate

3.          cooked but totally plain

4.          finally with a little (teaspoon little) bolognaise sauce

Not recommended by the Fussy Eater books, but if you’re able to write an entire cookbook for children, you obviously haven’t got kids that won’t eat.

Whilst Daniel’s been gobbling pasta for years, he also dodges the sauce and behaves as if he’s on a rescue mission, extracting the pasta piece by piece from its contaminated lake.

So back to the curly stuff.  Quite simply, it’s a better conspirator.  The sauce hides in and clings to the sides like a frightened mollusc, so the boys end up eating more sauce than with scrapable clean spaghetti.

As for the wholemeal pasta, it’s payback.  I prefer it and until they eat everything they’re given, it’s brown pasta, brown rice, brown bread and anything else that has a brown version. 

This does mean that (brown) chocolate slips through as well, but I try to save them from it and get there first.

Bleak House 3 (That blasted door again)

I’m so lucky that my father is around to set an example for my sons – a How Not To Behave example that is.  I’ve realised that I should never moan about teenagers again, and every time I’m tempted, I must look at my father and realise how wise and sane the boys are by comparison.

Because just when I thought it was safe to start answering the telephone and opening emails again, my father’s front door saga returns.

I’m not sure I can count high enough to tell you how many coats of paint it’s now received. 

And lost. 

And received again. 

I’d come to terms with its varying states of undress and accepted that my next involvement would be the grand finale, scheduled for Thursday when I would be delivering the first of its topcoats.

Then I receive an email telling me the door was removed on Monday and is trestled up inside the house, ready for Thursday’s painting:

-  Yes, it’s still cold
-  Yes, it means that the house can not be left unattended
-  No, I still don’t know the full extent of their nocturnal defences

Wouldn’t put it past my father to have drawn up a sleep rota by now, and assume the hall must be peppered with assorted garden weapons – sorry - implements, and perhaps a few hedgehogs superglued to the floor in case the burglars take their shoes off upon (not) breaking and entering.

But what I want to know is, why you would take off your front door THREE days before it’s due to be painted?

Just hope when I go there tomorrow that I won’t find the dog has been pinned across the doorway in my father’s attempts to meet both insulation and security needs.

No sex please, we're wiser

My friend’s son got his first girlfriend for his 16^th birthday and now he wants to play with her. 

Okay, so maybe she wasn’t actually a present but the two events coincided so it seems a fair description.  One week later, she’s coming round to stay the night, which he just assumed would be in his bed.  Till his Mum said No. 

As you can imagine, teenage tantrums are little different from a two year old’s except they don’t forget their grievance so easily, they’re harder to control and every hour it’s a You-Can’t-Stop-Me and a But-Why-Not? 

My friend (no names to protect the guilty) says what do you do?  Officiously we agreed No:

• they’ve only just got together
• she doesn’t know the girl - nor even if she’s legal
• it’s an unfair pressure on the girl if she doesn’t want to
• what would her parents say…
• too young for authorised Under My Roof sex - we had to wait!

So then she says But What Do I Do If I Hear Creeping Footsteps?  What indeed:

a)    Get up and pretend you can’t sleep

b)    Get up and ask if he/she can’t sleep

c)    Get up and pretend you’re going to the loo

d)    Get up and tell him/her to get back to their own bed

e)    Ignore them and let them go on with it, because you’ve done your bit

To add another layer, a few weeks earlier this girl (allegedly) popped into M&S loos whilst shopping with her friends (including boyfriend-to-be), to pee on a pregnancy test.  All clear, but makes you realise that part of teenage sex is still about appearing cool.  And despite all the media coverage and sex education, our kids still know too little about staying safe.

Maybe we’re as guilty as them of finger crossing.  During next condom on banana session, must stress that crossed fingers don’t work as belt or braces.

Ways of being

Finally remember during journey back from school to tell Jamie he’s got a doctor’s appointment next week.

Jamie:    Okay.  Pause.  Out of interest, why?

Me:         Asperger’s meeting

Jamie:    Or as Dan would say, retard testing

Me:         Noooo!

We then proceed to have our standard conversation about the merits of being different, the importance of being yourself and the fun of eccentricity.  All going fine and I think I’m selling the Being Special line well, until Daniel butts in.

Daniel:    Except you’re not.  So good one, Mum, make him feel worse

Luckily for Daniel a) I’m driving and can’t reach to throttle him and b) Jamie thinks this is hilarious. 

I’d like to think Dan’s secretly a bit jealous that I don’t link him in conversation with other Asperger hopefuls such as Mozart, Einstein or Bill Gates.  Except he’s really into his social life at the moment, and I know he doesn’t care.

More importantly, Jamie’s not bothered and for him it just means that he needs to learn the rules of social interaction that other people seem to know innately.  The thing he’s minded most has been humour, but even that has rules and he's starting to get them.  Now he understands how to make people laugh, he's so chuffed and it's all the funnier because we're not expecting it.

As for me, your child’s your child and you wouldn’t have them any other way.  Jamie has this naivety and innocence which makes me look at the world afresh and even the dull things become special.  He’s the kindest child I’ve ever known and as he put it when he was eight:

“I know I’m weird, but I’m still a very good friend”.

Exams, revision and aspersions

My mother always said that girls are sly and boys are straightforward.  As the only girl amongst her four children, I still wonder what I must have done. 

But maybe this is why when Daniel asks me to help him devise a revision timetable for his GCSEs, I have a brief moment of euphoria before trying to work out his ulterior motive.

So far, the possibilities I’ve come up with in descending likelihood are:

• He knows it will take me ages to get round to it, and he won’t need to start because I haven’t done it
• He’s telling me what I want to hear so that I’ll leave him alone
• If he stuffs up his exams, he can blame my revision plan
• It’s a way of getting out of other chores
• The Father Christmas theory – believe and you’ll be rewarded.  Or in this case, have a timetable and you’ll be okay
• He’s responsible and hard working and wants to do well

See, sly: unable to take things at face value. 

I keep telling him that I don’t care how he does, as long as he’s done his best.  This is also underhand and of course a lie.  You see he has the mixed blessing of being academic, so if his results tumble down the alphabet, I know he hasn’t worked. 

I’m not a total ogre though and I’ve given him a Get Out of Jail Free card for RE.  He’s hated religious studies since he was six when he announced that in order of probability it was:

1.                  Father Christmas

2.                  The Tooth Fairy

3.                  Jesus Christ. 

Unfortunately, even when FC and The TF slipped from his radar, JC’s ranking never rose.

So now that he’s wiped out any chance of divine help, I guess it’s down to him.  Which reminds me, I must do that timetable tomorrow.