She who would valiant be

Why is being a parent of a teenager such a tough call these days?

We want the instruction manual. Remember those early days with a baby, when you thought "why doesn't it come with an instruction manual?". It's like that all over again. I don't know if it's our education system, or our nanny state, or just human nature, but it always feels like there's a right way of doing something, and our job is to find it. We know this isn't true, but somehow it feels like it is.

Where to look for the ultimate advice?

• A book - but which one to choose? 
• A bunch of friends - but they all have slightly differing opinions, and there's that dangerous thing of asking a friend, and then deciding to ignore their advice. 
• The science - which can help (folic acid during pregnancy, that was an easy one, once they'd worked out that the advice should be just to take a tablet and not to try to eat a small field of broccoli or spinach every day - which actually was the advice when it first came out and I should know because I was pregnant during that tiny window before the advice changed to a more manageable course of action), but can also be seriously anxiety-inducing (MMR jabs, anyone?), and disempowering (Vitamin K jabs for newborns - have they decided whether that is risk-free yet, or are parents still having to decide between the rare bruising disease and the unproven link with some childhood cancers?)
• Parents - can be complicated.
• Blogs - always good, but they don't know your children. Only you really know your children.
• Intuition - usually good, but I think we're a generation of parents who have totally lost faith in our own intuion. 
• The Waltons. Yes. There's always a good parenting tip or two on The Waltons, and my friend has the complete box set readily available for borrowing. I am well set up.

Seriously, though. It is hard to be a parent of a teenager, and I'll tell you why. Because it plays on our own insecurities and fears. I'm guessing that few of us reached mature adult life (and I'm talking mid-twenties here) without some bumps and scrapes. Even though we may know that those were all part of a process, and though we may know that people get through and emerge ok, we are also hard-wired to protect our off-spring, and somehow we want them to have a smooth ride. Because if we had the instruction manual, and followed the instructions, then they would. Or so says the false voice in our heads.

I have found the whole Duke of Edinburgh thing very hard to navigate through....

At this point, I wrote a couple of paragraphs, explaining the exact circumstances. Then I realised that all I was doing was justifying myself to you. So I went back and deleted them. That's the very point I'm trying to make. I feel so out of my depth when I think about how to go about parenting this son of mine, that I just slip into self-justification mode. Because I don't want to fail. I want that instruction book, I want to follow it, and then no-one will be able to say I haven't done my best. But meanwhile, instead, I have a head full of questions that go round and round, and the gist of them is this: Have I prepared him enough? Have I done too much for him? How have I done, tightrope-walking that line between being over-protective and under-protective? 

It brings back all those feelings that we went through (I say "we" because I don't think it's just me... I've read enough blogs about this...) when we were trying to do well with our babies and toddlers.  That time in the park when your toddler fell over, and you picked him up, and your friend said "he needs to learn to get up on his own... otherwise he'll be too dependent on you". Or the GP who told you you were over-reacting when you thought your child was ill. Or that new mum group where it turned out that everyone else was doing x and you were doing y, and you'd been quite happy doing y until that moment, and then you went home and tried to do x instead, and it didn't work, and you didn't draw the conclusion that y was fine after all, but you felt like somehow you were getting it all wrong, and that it was your fault, and that you were letting your baby down.

16-yo is in London today (and this is one of the complications, that he arrives back at 10.00pm tonight and then goes off on the Duke of Ed trip tomorrow at 8.00am). He's been there for 3 nights, meeting up with a group from his old high school in America, who are on a trip to Europe. Before he went, I was so full of self-congratulation at how hands-off I am as a parent, and how he will find his own way and learn from his mistakes, and just what could go wrong, honestly? While he was away, all that fell by the wayside, and I was checking my phone for texts all the time, cursing the bad reception that meant a call from him dropped just as I answered it, sneakily texting his aunt who met him for lunch, to see how he was doing... I so don't want to be an anxious mother, and I so am.

I think he'll do fine, though. I put him on the train, having bought him a cup of tea and helped him find his carriage and seat. (You forget that a seat reservation isn't an obvious thing, to those who've never encountered one before...). As I walked away down the platform, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was him. "Mum, you're holding my tickets!" And I was. In under a minute, he'd realised the lack of tickets, tried to phone me, tried to text me, and then decided to run after me. Good call. Top marks for competence. I think he'll do fine. 

And the title? Well, you do have to be valiant, to be a parent of a teenager. 

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He who would valiant be

I still feel I'm new to this "parenting of teenagers" lark, but oldest is 16, so I suppose I have a certain amount of experience. Can I pass on to those of you who may be embarking on the journey one small word of warning?  Forewarned is forearmed, and all that. There is something you need to know about, a beast that rears its ugly  head from time to time during the teenage years. Learn to recognise the monster, and when you see him, turn tail, run, flee, as if your sanity depended on it (it may, in reality, do so). Those who stand and fight are courageous, but usually live to regret it.

The beast seems innocent enough. It starts off as a "letter home". The warning sign is this (take it from a seasoned recipient of the "letter home"): the letter home includes words such as personal development, initiative-taking, leadership-training, challenging, team-building or responsibility. These are the tell-tale indicators of the poison within.

Yes, dear Bloggy Friends, it's the Duke of Edinburgh Award Scheme Expedition. Enough of a monster in its own right, with its kit list, and its early morning start, and its production of dirty laundry mounds the size of mythical giants. But, worst of all, let it be known among you brave warriors of the teenage parenting cause, this challenge, this adventure, this quest, is not your child's but your own.

Thanks, Prince Phillip. Thanks very much. You thought you were giving young people the chance to flex their muscles, to develop their personalities, to grow in character. But, bless your recuperating cotton socks, you couldn't have foreseen how the way young people are treated would change, and that in fact you were creating a challenge of gargantuan dimensions for parents.

It starts with the letter home, and the request for a cheque. (Do some kids have to earn the money to pay for these trips themselves, or do all we parents just cough up?)

Then there's the kit list. This is the parent's first challenge. How do you get the kit list? Some parents, sneaky devils, ask the school, or download it from the school website, or even look it out from the pile of paper that arrived home at the end of the previous term. But there are noble saints, valiant champions of the cause of "teaching your young person leadership skills", who stand firm, and request the list, repeatedly, from their off-spring. Was it Don Quixote who tilted at windmills? I know how he felt. An honourably-intentioned, but fruitless, activity.

Then the second challenge. Buying the items on the kit list. I'm told there are those who go to shops and do so. Others, we of strong mind and valour, talk to our child of "taking responsibility", and set mind-taxing challenges such as "when can we find a time for you to come shopping with me?" We have close to our heart, the development of our child's problem-solving skills.

These foes must be vanquished, before the young adventurer can move onto the most difficult obstacle he has yet encountered. Packing. You must metaphorically hold his hand, as he advances forth into the bedroom, to extract the rucksack from the deep monster's lair known as "the wardrobe". Then you must stand sentinel, warding off maleficient younger siblings, as the young knight lays his belongings out on the floor, and grapples with the task of fitting them all into the rucksack. He who displays moral stature will succeed. Others will be distracted from the task by their trusty iPods, and expect the packing fairies (who they still believe in) to do the deed for them.

I could go on, but you get my drift. This is the second such trip my son has been on. Apparently they are "designed to give opportunities to develop leadership skills and show responsibility", but it's all a huge myth. The teachers and parents run around getting them ready. They jump into lochs, or go abseiiling, or climb over an obstacle course, but it doesn't teach them anything to do with responsibility. It teaches them abseiling and obstacle courses. Every time I try and inject a bit of "taking responsibility" into it, I just end up with a ridiculous dilemma, such as today's which is "do I let my son go off hiking in the Scottish Highlands without walking boots that fit, and learn through blisters and pain that it might have been better to have made preparations, or do I figure out a way of buying him some boots even though he now doesn't have time to get to a shop, and make it all ok for him on this occasion, thus implying that if you don't make preparations, it doesn't matter because someone will bail you out?" Neither seems a very good option.

I tell you, if I was King for a day, I could design an award scheme which would teach young people plenty of useful skills. It would involve

• several hours of picking up dirty laundry from bedroom floors, followed by several hours of putting clean laundry in drawers
• workshops on how to unload a dishwasher (with those who show exceptional ability given further training in how to unload a dishwasher without even being asked)
• lock-in sessions where they are kept in an enclosed space with younger siblings and not allowed out until they have worked out how to share the space without aggravating those siblings, physically, mentally or emotionally
• trips to the corner shop with a  pound coin to buy a pint of milk, including compulsory use of the pedestrian crossing, and with optional instruction in how to complete the task cheerfully and without implying to others that you are being asked to trek across half the city
• and finally - but mind you, this would only be for the gold award - how to get ready for a school trip without stressing out your mother.

And to any of my offspring who might be reading this at some point in the future, let me just say, wait till you have kids of your own and they start going on these kinds of trips, and you'll see what I mean.

Interesting post about being an expat

Alexia, an expat mum living in London, who blogs at A Mum in London, has collated a number of views of the best and worst about expat life. Definitely worth a visit - and see if you can guess what I said, before you click over.

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House

As you'll know if you read this post, my mother has just moved out of her house, downsizing and moving near to my brother. She and my father moved into that house in 1963, so it has been the family home throughout all my life. It's a characterful old house, a former farmhouse, in a beautiful setting. I was down there for a week over half-term, with Husband and the children, and it was a good week, albeit a heavy one. I wrote some reflections.

Look. There's me. I'm being born. November. Half past six in the evening. I'm being delivered by my grandmother and the community midwife. My parents' bedroom. Two windows, one facing west, one facing south. I wonder what my first sight is, when I open my eyes. The midwife? My grandmother? My mother's smiling face? Or the brown wooden railings of the bedhead? That bedhead is still there. Maybe that bedhead, which now sports a sticky label "Bedroom 1", was the very first thing I ever saw.

Look. There's me. I'm two and a half, and my brother is being born in his turn, in my parents' bedroom. My grandmother is here again, and the community midwife, but they can't both be with my mother. My grandmother has to spend precious moments with me. I know something is going on, and I want to know what. I want to see. I want to go into my mother's room. I won't settle in my own bed. There's my grandmother, singing to me, stroking me, outwardly lulling me gently, but inwardly hard urging me to sleep.

Look. There's me. I'm sitting up in the big Silver Cross pram, opposite my brother. You can take a square section of the floor out, leaving a well for a child to put their feet when they sit upright. My feet are in the square, but so are his, and I'm kicking him. It's fun, but I'm annoyed with him too. My mother is stopping us. "Behave, or we won't go out." This is my earliest memory.

Look. There's me. I'm at school now. I'm in my blue school uniform, and I have a brown satchel, which I like, but not as much as my friend Catherine's one. Mine is a dull brown, but hers is a shiny chestnutty brown. On summer days, we walk home from school through the orchards, kicking the cut grass with our school shoes.

Look. There's me. I'm jumping around on straw bales  in the farm with my brothers, sister and cousins. We know we're not allowed to climb on the machinery, or go into the cow pens. But we're allowed on the straw bales in the barn, and there's a lovely shivery feeling of danger and strangeness in that big barn, which is so empty and echoey and huge, and it always feels as if we're naughty interlopers when any of the farmhands come by. They know us, though, and leave us alone. My mother rings a bell out of the kitchen window when it's time to go home.

Look. There's me. I'm doing my O' levels and I'm sitting at my desk, working. The garden is hot outside, and I can hear the lazy hum of a bumble bee as it drones past the window. I have the Capital Radio Daily Top 10 on the radio, which I let myself listen to every day, before turning the radio off to concentrate more on my books. Just under my window is the porch over the front door, and when I was younger, I used to think it fun to go out of my bedroom window onto the porch, and into the bathroom from there. Of course it wasn't allowed. We did it anyway.

Look. There's me. I've just moved to London, and started work. The city is big and lonely, and I feel I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't really understand my job, but I'm meant to be good at it, as a graduate trainee. I come home often for Sunday lunch, and somehow the comfort of it makes Monday morning less intimidating.

Look. There's me. It's the 'do' after my father's funeral, and we're outside in the garden in the sunshine - which is odd, come to think of it, since it's early March. I don't really want to talk to anyone, but I have to. Someone asks me whether my mother will stay on in the house. What a strange question to ask someone at a funeral.

Look. There's me. I'm sitting in the garden in the sunshine, more than 41 weeks pregnant with my first child. That last contraction made me shift in my chair. This really is it. My mother has friends round, and I don't want to be dramatic, but my sister-in-law notices and, eyes wide for effect, mouths "GO HOME!" at me.

Look. There's me. We've been back from America for long summer weeks, based at the house, and returning to it from trips elsewhere round the UK. We're all packed up and the taxi to the airport will be here soon, and I'm doing 'the sweep'. I walk through each room, eyes travelling across every flat surface, including the floor, looking for stray items. I think I'm pretty good at the sweep, opening drawers, crouching down to peer under beds, but we always leave a few items: laundry in the airing cupboard, favourite toys under pillows, books under piles of newspapers. My mother holds them as hostage till the next visit. I hate the sweep now. Gone are the days when we're only heading off a few hours away in the car, when the pride of maternal efficiency is the main emotion. Now I can't even meet my mother's eyes as she greets me in the hall with her "Got everything? Well done! You're so organised! " It feels like I'm sweeping away the whole summer, leaving it behind us as we return to our lives in America. Our other lives.

Look. There's me. Back for another summer. Sitting in the garden with Paradise. She's a blogging friend, and I've got to know her so well through emailing, pouring out our expat woes, me from America, she from Albania. Here we are, meeting in the flesh, in real life. We share a long, lazy afternoon, in the sun, our children happily playing together. We'll be heading off in different directions, me to the West, Paradise to the East, but for these few hours, the strings of our lives knot comfortably together, a fixed physical event that tethers the part of my life that is lived in cyberspace.

Look. There's me. I'm sitting on the floor with my mother, sorting a box of old toy cars. I'm taking a few, and we're dividing the rest between two bags, one for the charity shop, the other for the rubbish. I take my favourites, and then the ones I can see my mother is struggling to part with. How do you sift and prioritise memories? These Matchbox cars are the ones that I used to pick for my team, zooming them round the house with my brothers, wearing out the knees of our trousers. I know the feel of them in my hand. I know which doors open, and which wheels are missing. They all had names, but I can't remember those. My children come into the room. "Oh, the cars! Are you giving away these?" The cars are holders of two generations of playtime memories.

Look. There's me. I'm lighting the candles on my son's 16th birthday cake. We're telling him the story of the day he was born, how I sat in the sunshine with my mother and her friends. It feels like a strand of life has joined up into a full circle. I think of two friends who have sons with birthdays on this same date. One is in America whose son is 11, and the other a blogging friend whose son is 2. I reflect how my life has oozed out in various directions, from this place. Sixteen years. And here we are again. Only one more day in this house.

Look. There's me. I'm getting into bed beside Husband. I whisper "This is the last night we'll ever spend in this house", but he's asleep. I bury my face into the back of his warm neck and drape my arm over his body, and I think to myself that I'll never manage to get to sleep. But then it's morning.

Look. There's me. I'm doing the final sweep, and I'm bidding farewell to the house. I go into each room, and say goodbye, out loud. No hostages this time.

Look. There's me. We're in the car, and I'm crying, and I can't stop. I wave out of the window, because that's the ritual. "Do the beep-beeps" says one of the children from the back, and Husband beeps the horn twice. In the wing mirror, I can see my mother waving, and there's something deeply, deeply familiar about that exact way she's standing, the angle of her arm, the movement of it, the position of her head to one side... And the house, standing behind.

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Role model

Thank you, lovely Bloggy Friends, for being with me through my insecurities.

Over the past few months, I've thought it best to keep blogging, because then, at least, I am writing. And that is better than not writing. Then occasionally, just occasionally, I write a post and decide not to publish it, but to keep it for my book. So there are just a very few pages written. A very few. But that seems to be where a lot of bloggers are, if your comments are anything to go by, and it's always good to know you're not alone. Thank you.

9-yo asked me a little while ago, about jobs and being a mum. I don't know what prompted the question. I didn't want to get too heavy about it all - she's only 9 - but I said that it seems that most women have to make choices that men don't have to make in quite the same way. I said that you don't have to have children, but if you do, you either have to look after them, or have someone else do it. I said that it was super-fun and very wonderful to be able to do it yourself, but that did mean you couldn't always be concentrating on other things. I said that anyway, it might all have changed a bit by the time she's grown up, but probably not, and she will have choices to make, but it will be ok. You just do the best you can.

She thought about it for a few seconds, and then replied,

"I think I'll have children, and then I'll chillax and get a dog".

So I'm a role model... of some kind?

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I haven't had a glass of wine and it's not late now

Mornin' all.

Thank you for your comments.

OK, here's the thing I'm really pissed off with, with myself.

I used to love blogging. I found I could write. And people liked reading it (either that, or it was a huge conspiracy, set up by Husband or my mum to make me feel nice).

Then blogging moved on, and I was a bit annoyed, but thought it was ok, really, because there was room in the blogosphere for everyone. Even if you just hung around in a small corner, then so long as it was a nice, fun, interesting place to be, that was fine. And my corner was. If it was a tea shop, I'd call it "The Cozy Corner Caff".

Then I thought I'd turn my blog into a book. I don't have a job. The children are out of the house all day at school. I would have time.

Then I found it impossible to get started, and I can't work out why. I bought a self-help book about procrastination. Which I haven't yet read, but will, soon, honestly.

Then I got busy with other stuff, like... oh you know, life stuff. It all seemed important and part of the process of settling myself and my family into our new place. And I kept telling myself to be patient, because I know that it takes ages and ages to settle into a new place, and while you're doing it, you're slightly tired all the time, and you don't have much internal space for anything.

Then I looked back on the almost-year that we've been here, and I felt like I've achieved nothing. I hate that feeling. It comes from time to time, and it's often a bit of a useful spur to action. But at the moment, it's just a bleurgh feeling, and not a spur, useful or otherwise.

I have tried to get a job, and I've been unsuccessful (but two interviews from the first foray, which isn't bad). And then I've been relieved I haven't got a job, because there's still so much else going on in family life. That sounds so darn pathetic, and I don't want you to think I'm the kind of mother who spends her life worrying about whether her son's cricket top is clean or not, because - in spite of the evidence of last night - I'm really not. Or only just a little.

I have looked into studying again, and well, it's still on the back burner, but I never seem to get off the front burner these days.

Then I read the BiBs short list, and I thought about all the bloggers who've used blogging as a springboard into writing a book, or getting a career started in social media, or becoming a writer of some kind or other, and I thought, that could be me, but... it isn't. I realised that actually, I do really want to write my book, and it made me all furious with myself that I just can't quite do it.

Yet.

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You really shouldn't blog when you've had a glass of wine and it's late

I've had a glass of wine. It's late.

I've got to wait up because eldest son needs a cricket top tomorrow which was in the laundry basket (actually, it wasn't in the laundry basket, it was draped over the back of the sofa - hadn't even made it to the bedroom floordrobe). So the top is in the washing machine, and I haven't put it on a wash cycle, because even the shortest wash cycle is long. It's on a "rinse only" cycle, with a bit of powder thrown in. Enough to get the garment clean and fresh-smelling, but not too much, because it's not a proper wash cycle, so it won't get rinsed out properly. Do you think that will work? I've never tried it before. I mean, I could have hand-washed the item, which would have taken 5 minutes, but frankly, hand-washing isn't for me any more.

I've really gone off blogging. I've just read the BiB short lists, and I know hardly any of the blogs. It's never been important to me to keep up with the top bloggers for the sake of it, but I spend quite a bit of time moseying around on screen, and it would be nice to recognise a few more names. I mean, who ARE all these zillions of new bloggers? I bet they're really good, but who has time to read them? I'd need a few research assistants if I was to keep up with blogging these days. An intern! That's what I need. A personal blogging intern! You don't have to pay interns, do you? Ideal.

Where do you advertise for a blogging intern?

Blogging, schmogging.

I've written a post about a really important issue. Education. I've got lots to say about it. And I want to say it. But it all came out wrong, and it just sounds like a huge guilt trip about my own children and being a rubbish parent. So what does that mean? That really I feel guilty about being a rubbish parent? Or that I have some things I'd like to say about education that are really sharp and pertinent, and I can insightfully and appositely illustrate them from my own experience. I can't be bothered to think about it.

The best thing about blogging this week was a post called Feckity Arse Biscuits, which - double whammy! - didn't even mention biscuits. Kudos to you, Not from Lapland. I also love the way you've changed from 'Notes from Lapland', to 'Not from Lapland'. Genius. I used to be 'Not wrong, just different'. Maybe I should have changed to 'Not Not wrong, and not very different either'.

I don't like Bloglovin. I don't like the title. Notlovin Bloglovin. I don't like the title, and I don't like the service. Why is Google closing down Google Reader? Not enough earning potential, I expect. Google is trying to take over the world, and no-one has noticed. Stop trying to take over the world, Google. But if you must, at least do the decent thing and pay your taxes in our little corner of it.

I also don't like my Hotpoint washing machine, but I bet Hotpoint pays taxes. I wonder if that cricket top is ready yet. Why did I even wash it? I should just have made him wear it all stinky. He's a teenager. It goes with the territory.

Well, read this post quickly, because I'm probably going to delete it. But comment before you do so, because unless I get at least 6 comments in the next 24 hours, I'm going to give up blogging for ever. Yes, I know that's manipulative, but I don't care.

Did anyone ever discover what IS the point of blogging? It used to feel fun and vaguely worthwhile, in a nebulous sort of a way, and now it just feels... bleurgh. Maybe bleurghing is the new blogging.

You know what they say. Never write and publish a blog post when you've had a glass of wine and it's late. Ha! What about if you're feeling rebellious? What then?

                                                                                                                                   Photo credit: I'm not telling you
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