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.

Fast food fixes

Today was a Costa day. 

Daniel caught me late last night when my defences were down and gratitude high, having just sorted me (again) on Facebook.  I'd entertained vague hopes that he might have forgotten by today, but before I can even mention a postponement, Jamie jumps in.

Jamie:    You promised Mum

Me:         How do you know, you were in bed?

Jamie:    I heard you

Me:         You were supposed to be asleep

Have they trained themselves to lie awake for my moments of weakness, so that there’s always a witness to corroborate?  No wonder Father Christmas got caught.

I consider doing the McDonald’s trick, that I learnt from Dan’s friend last week.  Bad planning meant I was walking with three hungry boys past McDonald’s at lunchtime.  Personally, I find McDonald’s makes me feel more like washing my hands, my hair and my clothes than eating, but they were insistent and they’re bigger than me.

My two go for a standard meal (in a libellous sense of the word), but Luke opts for a box of 20 chicken nuggets.  6 minutes and 32 seconds later they are all gone, and Luke is green and bilious for the rest of the day. 

A few days later when Luke was next offered McDonald’s chicken nuggets, he (allegedly) retorted, “They’re just dead to me now.”

Wonder how many Costa muffins I would need to turn the boys against them, but daren’t in case it backfires and feeds their addiction.   Perhaps I should bribe a member of staff to sneeze – or worse – over the muffins in front of the boys? 

Then again if they eat McDonald’s, that probably won’t put them off.