THEY MADE ME A MORON

I have teenagers.  Years and years ago, when these teenagers were infants who got me up three times at night, I used to think that things would be easier one day. Then they were toddlers and I managed to sleep through most nights, but found that I needed my sleep in order to get through the days, full as they were with temper tantrums, spilt food, endless clashes of will. The washing machine was put through its paces, and we got good use out of our vacuum cleaner.

Friends and relatives tried to gently tell me that as my kids grew older, some things would improve but other things would not. And even if I hadn’t had them to tell me this, I might have noticed what teenagers were doing in the world around me and had the sense to see what was coming my way. But for some reason I still foolishly persisted in believing that once my kids were adolescents, I would be able to sit back and take a rest.

Now I see parents with their babies and toddlers and feel nostalgic. I remember the pervasive smell of sour milk, the crusty oatmeal smears on the hems of my skirts, the chucked-up milk on my shoulders. I watch women struggling with their angry four-year-olds and think Ah, those were the days.  

Because my babies were infinitely cute and cuddly. And my toddlers might have been obnoxious when they were mid-tantrum, but they obviously needed me. In fact, they idolized me: I could do anything, knew everything.

Now, as I said, I have teenagers. I’m infinitely smarter and savvier than I was fifteen years ago, but this truth sadly eludes my kids. 

No doubt I could make things easier on myself. I could learn to distinguish between an MP-3 player and an i-Pod. I could learn to text. I could brush up on their music. I could learn to keep my ideas about tattoos and body piercing to myself, dress in more fashionable clothes, and stop singing ‘The Harder they Come’ in front of their friends. But I would lose my own self-respect, so I continue to be me and invite their scorn.

It is odd that with teenagers, you can do everything in the world for them and find that they remain profoundly unmoved, then manage to impress them with some trifling display of knowledge or skill. They are not logical. You ferry them and their friends hither and yon, hem up their skirts and trousers, clean the toilets, vacuum the entire house, welcome unexpected kid guests to dinner conjuring up extra portions out of next-to-nothing in minutes flat, but ask your kids to sort their laundry or take out the trash and the response you get will be Why do I have to do all the work around here?

Yesterday I cooked breakfast for my fifteen-year-old. Then I took her and three friends shopping in Dumfries. I ferried them about, stood there guarding their bags and coats while they tried on clothes (heroically withholding my idiotic adult opinions), treated them to coffee afterwards, drove back in gale-force winds and pouring rain and, for various reasons, ended up putting away 75% of the shopping. Later my kid told my husband that I had earned her undying respect. How, I wondered, did I manage to do this?  Was it my skilful driving and better-than-usual parking, even in such dreadful weather? The fact that I had listened to her and her friends talking about having their navels pierced and never once threatened to get my head shaved in retaliation?  My uncharacteristic generosity in treating everyone to coffee and biscuits?  No, as it turned out, it was the fact that I happened to know the lyrics to the Sex Pistols’ God Save the Queen.