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.

A new word

This morning, my younger son told me about a new word that's been invented. It ties in rather nicely with the post I wrote yesterday. The word is floordrobe. Do I need to explain its meaning to you? No - I think you can work it out.
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Ramblings about teens

Everyone warns you about having teenagers, but I have to say, so far, I'm enjoying it.

Good. Got that out of the way. A disclaimer, in case you're reading this at some point in the future, 15-yo. Hello to you, now you've got children of your own and you're thinking it might be fun to see what your old mum whittered on about when she was writing that blog. *waves*

Seriously. The teenage years bring a new dimension to family life, for sure. There is loss (you hardly see them, and this loss is felt by younger siblings as well as parents), but there is gain. You can watch unsuitable comedy together, and discover a shared love of naughty humour. You can expect more help about the house. You see a person emerging in his own right. There are some rather nice hoodies to borrow if you get bored of your own clothes. You have a live-at-home babysitter for a Saturday night. They self-function, so you no longer have to remind them where to be at what time, what equipment to take, what to wear. There's no more chivvying in the morning, have they remembered this? have they remembered that? have they finished their homework? So if you hate that morning chivvying, take heart; it won't go on forever. They even tell you in advance if they need a particular piece of kit to be washed and ready by a particular date.

Although come to think of it, laundry... ah, laundry... that's actually my big sticking point. I know you people with babies and toddlers think you do a lot of laundry, and I don't want to do that irritating "oh, just you wait till they're teenagers" thing that used to annoy me so much when I had wee ones, but... at least the items are small and cute. A whole drumful of sleepsuits, vests with poppers, tiny socks... Now, it's a pair of jeans, a hoodie, a couple of t-shirts, some track suit bottoms, and the drum is already overloaded. (I miss that American way of putting "already" at the end of the sentence. The drum is overloaded already. There that's better.)

Then there's the other issue, which is the placing of the laundry. Dirty socks, pants and other smaller items, are strewn around the bedroom floor - well it's my bedroom so what does it matter? Large clean items, worn once, are put in the laundry basket - no it's not because I was being lazy and didn't want to put them away, it's because I thought they were dirty, see there's a mark there, um, there, um, somewhere, um, I'm sure I saw one.

But I wouldn't be the Iota you know and love if there weren't some laundry woes involved.

Brag alert: I came across this email the other day, when I was looking for something unrelated, and I forwarded it to 15-yo. It was written soon after he'd started High School, and joined the soccer team. His coach said "I want to let you know that 14-yo has been one of the best young men I have ever had the privilege to coach.  He is very polite and has quite a sense of humor.  He has also been a great impact on the team. With his quiet sneaky style of play he surprises people including us coaches on a ever more frequent basis.  I dare say he is probably my favorite all around player/student/personality on our team." Boy, I miss America. Not only that "already" at the end of a sentence thing, but also, people say gushingly nice things about your children on a regular basis. I add that in to tone down the bragginess of quoting this to you. You have to remember that in Scotland, the equivalent sentiment would be expressed to me with a sniff, and a "yeah, he's doing ok". I also have to add that I had been reluctant to let 14-yo (as he was) join the soccer team, for various reasons which were almost entirely those of cultural misunderstanding and disconnect (*waves and says sorry about that, Son, but it worked out ok in the end, didn't it?*), so I'm thinking that maybe the coach was trying to butter me up a little.

Anyway, I feel I've now prepared the ground well enough, in case he's reading, to be able to share one of those "hopeless teens" stories about my son.

The other evening, I was in the study on the computer. The kids were finishing dinner on their own. 15-yo came in and asked if they could have custard for dessert. Ambrosia custard is one of his favourite things in the whole world. (He has a point.) I said yes. A couple of minutes later, he came back and asked where the tin-opener was. I replied that I didn't know, probably dirty in the dishwasher. He responded, "How do I open the tin, then?" It was a moment for a personal problem-solving challenge, I felt, so I replied "I am confident that if you really want custard, and if the other two also want custard and start nagging you, then you will work out a way." And then I very deliberately didn't go and check up on the situation.

And the end of the story, dear Bloggy Readers, is that later on, I found the tin of custard unopened... and in the fridge.
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