The Womens Room

Middleagemum.com: why no one cooks quince any more

 
Quince, best left in a good looking pile rather than cooked

I have acquired some odd habits picked up over the years, it's hard not to have, right? when you get to be over 40? One of these odd habits is buying fruit and vegetables JUST TO LOOK AT, not to eat or cook, but just to put on the table and admire. I even have a special table in the kitchen to put the displays on, where they achieve a magazine-shoot-status of loveliness for a while, sitting enticingly in wooden bowls or ceramic dishes all colourfully piled up, expecting, no doubt, as fruit and veg surely must, to be turned into supper any time soon.

I find it almost impossible to walk passed our greengrocer without falling for some seductive pile of seasonal produce. The worst place is markets, particularly Portobello market on a Friday, I get totally caught up in the whole affair, buying stuff entirely for the way it looks.

This week it was quince, a hilly pile of downy yellow fruit that gave off aromatic wafts of perfume everytime they got nudged. Mostly these piles of organic architectural wonder are ignored by the family, who think that I am a bonkers frustrated shopkeeper with all my pointless displays, so accept what ever is on show that week with blind indifference. Usually the piles rot, or I get bored with them and they end up on one of my compost heaps.

Obviously this is a terrible waste of money, times, effort on behalf of the grower and undoubtably a climate killer too, I am always beating myself up about it. This week youngest teenageson commented. "What are those?' pointing at the quince. "Why aren't we going to eat them? They look like apples, can you make a crumble?" So I made myself feel very much better by deciding to NOT WASTE FOOD and cooked the quince.

Have you ever wondered why we don't see quince in Asda? Or even Tesco last time I looked? Here's why. They take three HOURS to get even slightly soft in the oven, and despite turning the most beautiful shade of ruby red, taste absolutely horrid. Yes I know you can make quince cheese, but that's pretty odd too. And nothing like cheese.

So sometimes, despite everything we are taught and against all our better judgement, some things are just best admired for the way they look and a more meaningful relationship is best avoided.

Middleagedmum.com: you're going to make it after all

Teen daughter spent a great deal of half term sitting on the sofa watching back to back episodes of Friends. One day instead of moaning at her to go out and do something, I rather decadently took half and hour out of my day to watch an episode with her. 

Later in the day walking round the supermarket we chatted about the usual stuff, GCSE's, potential careers etc and as she talked me through who she thought she might share a flat with, what it would look like and what job she would be doing, I was instantly transported by to my own 13 year old self and how the long, sometimes boring days of the holidays were spent planning my future and imagining how exciting my life was going to be. Dreaming of the future takes up a lot of time when you're a teenage girl (I think boys do it too, but it involves fast machines and sporting triumphs, so not the same) and nothing sums up that feeling more for me, than watching the opening sequence of the Mary Tyler Moore show. My once a week insight into Mary Richard's life in Minneapolis, the trials and tribulations of sharing a flat with Rhoda (how much did we love Rhoda's mum, Ida) and negotiating her way through her first job in the TV station newsroom, were my first taste of another world. A world of independence and exciting opportunities, new friends, boyfriends and a potential career.
Maybe those episodes of Friends provide that for todays teenage girls and perhaps I'll stop nagging, as it's good to dream.

Middleagedmum.com: Things I thought I would never say

Is there some sort of gene that kicks in when you get past 40, that quite simply turns you into your mother? Almost overnight you start complaining in shops, worrying about the bin men, using up left overs and thinking there is nothing wrong with listening to the Archers. (Well there isn't is there?) 

Here are a list of things we never thought we would find ourselves saying:

I remember when there were only three TV channels and no daytime TV - cue blank looks from teens, while channel hopping, texting and chatting on Facebook. 'what did you say mum'?

You don't want to take the A12, you're much better going up the M11, onto the M25, then join the A12.

Was it on Tuesday or Wednesday, or even a Thursday? Oh I remember, it was a Tuesday because I'd been to the hairdressers and it was re-cycling day.

All they seem to do in Skins is have sex and take drugs.

Why do they have to shout? (when listening to rap) 

Excuse me are you serving or chatting? - In trendy trainer shop while shopping with teen

Trust me, I work in fashion, I know! - in same shop.

Are you old enough to be a Policeman/teacher/traffic warden?

I just want it to ring and text, nothing else, no camera, no music, no fancy bits - cue look of curiosity from young person in mobile phone shop.

Do you have to wear quite so much make-up for school?

It's school not a fashion show!

Yes I do like it, but I'm not so sure it needs to be quite so short?

Do you think you'll be warm enough?

Honestly chick peas are really really nice.

It's not going to kill you to eat something green for pity sake.

A little bit every day, that's the secret to revision.

Surely you can't concentrate on homework with music that loud.

You might be able to find your electrical appliance/gadget/school shirt/Oyster card etc etc, if you tidied that mess you call a bedroom.

My car, my radio and I like radio 4.

You can't go wrong with John Lewis.

Middleagedmum.com: the changing room

I have finally worked out why I hate shopping. It isn't the browsing, or the fact I cant decide what I want, or I don't know what suits me, or even cost (well it often is that, but I try to avoid Margaret Howell and Marni if at all possible). I have more or less worked out my style (although I do stray now and then if PMT kicks in) and enjoy the challenge of putting outfits together and combining new buys with old favourites. I prefer shopping alone and really cannot bear a whole day shopping with an indecisive friend who wants my advice. Maybe its years and years of trawling round shops all over the world, but within five minutes of entering a shop I have sniffed out what I want and will be heading for the changing room. This is where is it all goes horribly wrong. 

I enter the changing room feeling optimistic, even a tiny bit excited. I thank God they are no longer those hideous huge communal affairs, even Top Shop now has individual cubicles. I am armed with a whole host of potential life enhancing garments and feeling good. I am hot, but not over heated and I start trying on the first garment. 

First I pull on the slim leg, beautiful wool trousers and start to feel despondent. That's not how I imagined they would look! If I lob off the customary six inches from the bottom, they will be more of a peg leg shape than a cigarette leg and that is not what I want! 
I move onto the 50's style dress, in my head I am seeing Anna Friel in Breakfast at Tiffany's, in the mirror I see Diana Doors in There's a girl in my soup'! 
I step outside to get a better look and am met with a twenty something wearing the same dress. She is at least six feet of waif like gorgeousness and I retreat back into the safety of my cubicle, telling myself she clearly has an eating disorder!!

Next is the Helmut Lang/Yojhi Yammamoto esque cleverly cut top. That's bound to look good. I pull it on with some difficulty, as it has all sorts of sections and I'm not quite sure where they are supposed to go. I finally get it on and it looks ok. At last, something that doesn't make me look like either Eddie from Ad Fab or a textile lecturer!! 

Ok, I'll have that, I think and begin to take it off. I pull and pull and seem to get myself entangled in the various designer layers. What the Hell is going on, I am now completely stuck and am having a small panic attack. I resist screaming 'someone help me, I am suffocating in a sea of wool jersey'!! 

I poke my head (well my head wrapped in black layers of fabric) out of cubicle and hope there is an assistant near by. 'Excuse me', I whisper, 'could someone help me, please.' 

I make a mental note that from now on, I will always shop online!

middleagedmum.com: Fashion Smashion

I pull my little black dress over a pair of organic narrow jeans from Muji and add my shiny black brogues from Churches. I am feeling good, its a lovely day and I'm going to London Fashion Week. Bring it on, fashion people, I'm ready for you. 

I get off the bus (shouldn't I have a car, or at least a cab?) and encounter a six foot beauty wearing a dress which looks likes its made out of paper clips, she turns round and it seems she also has a beard!! She is accompanied by someone who looks like a cross between the Joker from Batman and Tweedledum (or is it tweedledee?) I am un-phased and make my way through the crowd. 

The beautiful people have gathered outside the catwalk tent, many are at least seven feet tall due to the excruciatingly high shoes they are wearing. They are also very very thin and very very young. I am beginning to feel a little less comfortable with my sensible shoes and understated outfit. Several girls look like they have just walked off the set of Dynasty and some of the boys wouldn't look out of place in an Oscar Wilde play. So far so good, its all quite fascinating and I remind myself that I was once one of those young fashionistas, whose sole aim in life was to dress to impress. 

I meet up with Amanda and we make our way to view the Orla Kiely collection. On the way we spot an interesting footwear collection. Amanda asks to take a photograph for the day job. The very young American girl in charge of the collection says 'no'. To which Amanda curtly informs her that 'we are press.' The girls looks about 12 and is clearly very scared. Good, it seems we have a little Anna Wintour in us after all!

We move through room after room of clothes that we quite simply don't get and begin to wonder if we are missing the point and once again ask the question 'is it our age?'

We arrive at Orla Kiely and breathe a sigh of relief. This is more like it, beautifully designed clothes, quirky yet wearable and not just for 20 somethings.
We wander round the rest of the show and despair at the lack of anything suitable for anyone over 30, who doesn't want to look like Joan Collins. Joan is in fact attending the show and while we think she looks great for her age, we simply don't get the whole 80's revival.

Over the rest of the weekend I scour the papers and the internet for fashion week news and apart from the Margaret Howell, Betty jackson, Nicole Farhi and Ghost collections, (who all, apart from Ghost are designed by older women) I simply cant find anything else that excites me. Is it because I have lost the fashion plot and turned into a mumsy middleaged women who doesn't have a clue? Or is it because designers really only target a very very small minority of the population?

If you live in London (preferably Dalston), work in fashion or the media and spend vast amounts of money in either Top Shop or East End designer shops, then maybe its all relevant and exciting. Or maybe not, I live minutes from Dalston and love Top Shop and the East End, but London Fashion Week still leaves me cold!

Is it just me, am I one step away from a beige tracksuit? Or is it because I have so many other things in my life that are simply much more interesting!

Middleagedmum.com; Boys boys boys

As toddlers, the difference between boys and girls is at its height. SMOG's (smug mothers of girls) look in horror as small boys shout and scream, fight with sticks, push each other, pretend to be cars, aeroplanes, tractors etc and generally career around at breakneck speed 24/7, while the girls learn to write their name, play dressing up and sit through three course meals without moving!!! 

Fast foward to the teenage years and some of the SMOG's are not quite so smug, as their precious little darlings turn into chain smoking, vodka drinking shopaholics. Mostly still nice girls, but definatley more tricky and often less affectionate than those big hulking boys, who still dont sit still and eat enough to keep a small supermarket stocked for a week. 

As the mother of both sexes I can be equally appreciative and frustrated by the differences between boys and girls and often wonder if this is because of their gender or simply their individual personalities. I feel lucky to be able have an insight into both worlds and feel they benefit from gaining a perspective on the opposite sex from the privacy of their own home. Although I know they both long to have a sibling of their own sex.

Having spent a week over the summer camping with six teenage boys (and no girls) I entered a world I had never encountered before. My 13 year old self couldn't believe my luck, I was hanging out with the cool boys, the star of the football team, the singer in the local band, the teen model. I felt like an extra (well a spare part actually!!) in an Abbercrombie and Fitch shoot. What struck me most about them was their simplicity and honesty. 
They constantly bantered and joked and felt no qualms about telling each other if they weren't up to scratch in some way. After what I thought was a particulary harsh comment, I finally said something. 
'You boys are very harsh. Girls are always telling each other how gorgeous they are and how much they love each other'. The boy in question answered, 'yes but they back bite all the time, you dont want to hear what they say about you when they walk out of the room. at least we are honest.' 
I was silenced and humbled. My teenage memories came flooding back. I was always in a constant state of angst about my friendships and wasted so much time and energy either bitching or being bitched about. How refreshing that the boys could see that, and what I percieved as harsh, they saw as honest.

Over the next few days I gained an insight not only into teenage boys, but I saw the kind of men that they will become. Kind, helpful, charming, intelligent, enthusiastic and game for anything, some of them a little bit cheeky, some of them charming with the ladies and a couple of them quieter and more sensitive. 

I often feel it's difficult to be a teenage boy in todays society, as they are often misunderstood and maligned, when actually there is only a very small minority of bad ones and a Hell of a lot of lovely boys, who my very lucky teenage daughter will hopefully meet one day.

Middleagedmum.com: Shopping for School clothes

The letter from school clearly states the approved stockists and exact type of school trousers and skirts that will be allowed. It also clearly states that anyone not wearing the correct uniform will be sent home or to the inclusion room (what a fascinating place that must be!!) But teen daughter has different ideas. She will not be wearing anything from Tesco, Asda, M & S or the approved school outfitters shop. She has already acquired the 'it' bag' of the season (must be a new one every term) and we have found (and customized) a pair of shoes we both approve of, so we are on the last hurdle. 

We start in Topshop and are waylaid by a Sheryl Colesque sequined top. 'Not for school,' I snap, already irritated. "I was just LOOKING!' she snaps back. We are not off to a good start and I reject a tulip shape skirt, shiny black leggings and shorts (all of which I love, but not for school) We move onto Hennes, where it seems everyone else, has managed to find the perfect black skinny school trouser, but still no luck. Normally I am not one to discourage any kind of extreme fashion choices and often live my fashion fantasies through my daughter, but in this case, I know the school are strict and it simply isn't worth it.

 I think back to my own school days, when one of the few joys was to bend the uniform rules as much as possible. Extremely high wooden wedges, extra long high waisted skirts, huge long pointy collars and turned back cuffs, with a short fat tie, flicked hair and shimmering blue eye shadow was the look of choice for the schoolgirl of the 1970's. 

Perhaps I am being a bit 'mum like' and should relax a bit. So when we try Marks and Spencers, I totally agree with her 'OMG, I am so not wearing them.' 
Why cant retailers see that no teenager wants to look like a frump from Malory Towers (much as I loved Malory Towers). I wonder why they can't put together a range of practical, yet fashionable school clothes. Surely it's as easy to design a pair of narrow legged school trousers, as it is a pair of horrible boot cuts. Or what about a nice slim pencil skirt instead of box pleats. Who wears box pleats apart from your great aunt Ethel at the WI?

We finally leave without anything and decide to look online. Teen daughter seems to think there is a website called Fashionable school clothes.com, but it turns out to be just a dream!! (there's an idea, someone?). We compromise and buy a pair of fashionable (but boundary pushing) skinnies from ASOS and some sensible proper school trousers from Next, which I promise to customize. When they arrive she makes me take them in so much, that they are ridiculously narrow. I try to explain that with non- stretch fabrics its not a good idea to make them too slim, as you cant bend your legs. But what do I know, I've only worked in fashion for the last 20 years! 

I watch her hobble to school on the first day back and pray that she doesn't try to sit down!!

Middleagedmum.com: Beach Baby

For around 50 weeks of the year I am happy with my body, not ecstatic, but not depressed. I have come to terms with the fact that I either spend the second half of my life on a permanent diet, or accept that I am no longer seven and a half stone and would rather enjoy my food, than look like Madonna. I was thin until my late 30's and even after I had children I was one of those lucky people that lost weight when breastfeeding (yes it does happen to real people) I can't chart the exact age (as I have never ever been weight obsessed) but very slowly time, age and gravity took its tole and I found myself with a middleagead body. Most of the time I manage this quite well and am reasonably happy. In fact, I have often commented that I have the opposite of anorexia, when I look in the mirror I still see my 30 something thin self. Perhaps 'plumporexia' may become a recognised term in the future!!

The problem is, there are two weeks (sometimes three) when one can no longer hide behind smock dresses and footless tights, cleverly cut poplin tops from COS, slimline tunics and flattering high waisted jeans. Oh no, on holiday (especially when its 38 degrees) there is no escape, no denial, no other way, one has to bare all with the best of them and face the consequences. A spray tan can help for the first day. It's bad enough being the biggest, but one simply doesn't want to be the whitest too, but obviously caution is advised. Overweight Jodie Marsh is not a good look.

This year on our annual holiday I was managing well, I had brought lots of stylish kaftan's and embroidered tunics to get me from the pool entrance to the sunbed and had found a cleverly cut, flattering swimsuit. That is, until day three, when we were all settled round the pool. I was under a brolly with several heavy weight feminist tomes and one chick lit novel (guese which one I was reading?) Kids were happily plugged into Beyonnce and ChipMunk and middlegagedad was working on his tan (he goes a bit George Hamilton after a couple of weeks in the sun)
I commented on the cultural trip we were to take later in the day and received no answer, all normal there then, as I am totally used to being ignored (especially when organising educational trips) I tried again, still no response. Middleagedad and teen son seem to be fixated on something or someone at the other side of the pool.
I glance across to see a gorgeous Euro couple settling themselves into their sunbeds. The man looks gay to me (as do a lot of European men, I think I spend too much time with gay men) and the women is stunning, that is, if you like deeply tanned blondes with fake boobs and a g sting. A g string, what the HELL is that about. We're not in St Tropez for pity sake (I feel myself getting worked up)
I try again with the conversation, 'so what time shall we leave for the Alhambra?' Still no response, by now they are practically drooling and I catch a sneaky look of appreciation pass between them, they may even have winked at each other!
I take another look at her, I try to think in a sisterly way and remember that she's a women too and women should stick together. But OMG how smooth and firm is her bottom, has she had botox on her bum, and those boobs defy gravity?
'Oh silly cow', I say really loudly (middlegaed tourrettes has definitely kicked in) 'she definitely doesn't have a brain and she must have had surgery!'  Middleagedad and teen son reply without averting their gaze, 'we don't care, she's fabulous.'
I throw down my book and stomp off for an almond Magnum.

Middleagemum.com: if it's ok for Madonna.....

 

Madonna's D&G shoot for W magazine, featuring the lovely Jesus

I have a new route to work which involves a long, fat busting walk. Close to the end there is a Pret A Manger where I stop for a much need cappuccino to get me to the office without keeling over. I have been flirting mildly with the totally charming, young Hispanic-looking guy behind the counter who has taken it upon himself to serve me every morning. He has dark eyes ringed with covetable black lashes and an utterly beguiling way with the words “Would you like chocolate on top?”. I am reminded of Madonna and Jesus.

 

Last week there was a gap in my visiting due to being away on holiday and on returning to my routine this week, he smiled broadly at me and seductively hailed me to his counter, “ Where have you been? I thought you had left us” he purred as he handed me over my coffee. He handed me a croissant as a treat, “What have I done to deserve this?” I say, totally charmed. He leans his fit body across to me, slowly, and says” I am from Rio, I don’t get to go home so much and you cheer me up because you remind me so much of my mother…….”

I’m moving to Café Nero from Monday.  

Middleagedmum.com: endings and beginings

 
July is filled with an air of promise for parents and children, the feeling that the months ahead will be filled with fun, freedom and sun. The end of term is filled with exams, finishing course work, sports days and end of term trips and the count down to the holidays can be fraught.

Getting the teens out of bed in the morning is harder each day and I cant wait until we can dispense with routine and melt into an easy going, lossey goosey kind of schedule. Even if I still have to work, I love not having to nag about bedtimes, they can stay up as late as they like and I get a couple of hours of peace in a tidy house, first thing in the morning!

For a mum, the holidays somehow feel like you get your children back, especially if they are teenagers. They are unencumbered by the pressures of school and complications of relationships with their friends and the opposite sex . They seem less complicated and more like the children they once were. Maybe its something to do with getting out of London, long days by the sea or pool with hopefully no phone or internet signal, coupled with family dinners every night, make for a feeling of re-connection.

The beginning of the holidays also often mark the end of a landmark in your children's lives, which is sometimes more heartfelt for parents.  Each stage marks a new phase, filled with exciting experiences and with that comes the need to adapt as a parent. The end of primary school is an emotional time and sees the end of a parents daily involvement with their childs school life. Secondary school is much more remote experience, as one becomes less involved with organising a childs social life and more hands on with course work and exams. 
Isn't it strange how teens cant seem to organise handing in their course work or homework, but their weekends are planned meticulously!

At each stage of my children's lives I have worried and angsted over every potential scenario. The end of the summer term before my eldest started secondary school, saw me take a detour past the school every time I left the house. What did I expect to see? Eleven year olds being tortured by huge teenagers, children taking drugs in the play ground, teachers in tears? Well nothing could be further from the truth (well there are a few horror stories, but we'll skip over those) and as my eldest now enters his last year at secondary school, I wonder what horrific scenarios I will manage to conjure up in the year ahead! 

The end of the summer brings a sense of new beginnings as children change classes, move schools or even leave home to start university. Try as we might to smooth the path ahead, the older our children get, the harder it is to protect them. Maybe it's hardest for those letting go?

This summer for me sees the end of another chapter in my own life, as I wave goodbye to my closest friend to live abroad. I speak to her almost every day, sometimes about nothing in particular. We have been friends since we were teenagers and seen each other through bad boyfriends, climbing the career ladder, marriage, babies and teens and more than out fair share of moaning. For her and her family, its an exciting not to be missed experience, but I cant help feeling more than a little sad.

It's the end of an era and the beginning of another, but at least now I'll have the perfect excuse for a weekend in New York.

Middleagedmum.com: Musical moments

Middleagedad thinks I am a gay man trapped in a middle aged woman's body and he may be right. Amazon seem to think so too, as all their personal recommendations wouldn't look out of place on any of my gay friends book or CD shelves.
Much to my families horror (even teen daughter who has inherited most of my camp characteristics) there is nothing I love more than musicals. I had them embedded into my psyche from a very early age, when on car journeys my Dad would make (yes make) us listen to all the musical greats. South Pacific, West Side Side Story, Annie Get Your gun, you name them, he loves them.
Not only did we have to listen, we also had to join in!  Each person was allocated a part, as my Dad conducted from the driving seat. Today's Health and Safety Police would have been horrified. The dog lay on the back window ledge and my brother and I leapt around the back seat without seat belts, yelling 'I'm going to wash that man right outa my hair.' Actually my brother really should be gay, but sadly no, he is a married father of two!!

My love of all things musical has never gone away and still sees me through good and bad times. What better to cheer you up than a quick blast of Julie Andrews singing 'My favourite things,' when you are having a bad day. 'If they could see me now' from Sweet Charity is perfect to celebrate a promotion or moving into a new house and what could be more welcoming than a quick rendition of 'Getting to know you' from the King and I, when meeting new your husbands new boss. Well actually, no that would be quite quite mad, but I would really love to do it!!

I also highly recommend watching musicals and singing along as a great way to raise children, Mary Poppins has a song for every situation, tidying rooms, taking medicine, going on a feminist march, they're all there. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang has seen us through many a rainy Sunday afternoon when the children were little. Snuggle up under a duvet and sing along, there's nothing better. And if your children are being a little selfish or ungrateful, stick on Annie or Oliver to make them glad they have such a lovely mum!!

The arrival of the new tween musical has seen a renewed interest in the genre and I have heard many mums of tweens wax lyrical about how awful they are. But not me, oh no, I love them all, Troy Bolton, Sharpay, Gabriella. The storylines and emotions are exactly the same as the golden oldies; unrequited love, geeky girl, handsome bad boy, evil baddy and it all comes right in the end, but not without a lot of singing!

On long car journeys, I try to continue the family tradition and stick on the double CD of 'The Best of the musicals.' Only to be met with loud crys of  'Please mum no, not that, anything but that, we don't even mind if you listen to Kate Bush (their other most hated passion of mine) So for now I will have to be content with sharing my guilty pleasure with the boys in the office. Many an afternoon, around three o'clock, we make a cup of tea and log onto You tube for a singalong.
If only real life were like that..............

Middleagedmum.com; where are my shoulder pads?

I am sitting in a meeting listening to the fact that next Autumn/Winter we will be wearing Crystal Carrington/Alexis Colby 80's style power dressing. The younger members of the team are drooling over the shoulder pads, tailored jackets with cheeky peplums and dresses that wouldn't look out of place on Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl (mental note to self - must show off in next meeting about how 'Working Girl' is the quintessential 80's power dressing film!)
They are also waxing lyrical about snow washed jeans and colour blocked jumpsuits. I am trying not to sound like the oldest person in the room, but when we move onto rhinestones and leggings, I can hold it in no longer. 'I'm sorry, they are just hideous, they weren't stylish in the 80's and they are certainly not now!'
Sharp intake of breath from the young trendies and a huge sigh of relief from the other 30 and 40 somethings. 'We were wearing Body Map, Seditionaries and Katherine Hammnet or John Smedleys, MA1 Jackets, Levi's and Doc Martins. Plus we were actually making out own clothes and looking original. For Gods sake, we were even wearing cake icing on our heads!'
Well I wasn't, but Leigh Bowery was, and I remember very clearly one Tuesday night at DoDo's (fabulous one nighter in Tottenham Court Road) seeing Caryn Franklin in a swimsuit, denim jacket and Doc Martin boots, all perfectly co-ordinated with a towel on her head. Now that was stylish!

Its no good, I can rant and rant, but all I get is affectionate but slightly sympathetic looks, like when your mum calls skinny jeans, drainpipes or a Harrington, a jerkin! Poor thing they think, she doesn't get it, she's off again, reminiscing about the old days. I have turned into the fashion version of Dot Cotton.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't still get excited about new trend. I have often sped down to Top Shop and grabbed the high waisted hot pant and black shiney tight combo I've spotted on the streets of Brick Lane. Only to remember I don't actually have a waist, which unfortunately, is essential to that particular look.
I can still feel the thrill of the chase when putting together a new outfit, hunting down the key components and essentials items. It's just that now, when I put them on, I tend to look more Aggie Mackenzie than Agyness Deyn (actually, I know Aggie Mackenzie and she's really quite stylish)

Thank God I have a daughter to channel my passion for fashion. When I feel myself being sucked into a look that is simply not appropriate, I buy exactly the same items, but in a size 8 and take them home to force them on teenage daughter. 'But mum, I'm not sure about a catsuit, no-one else is wearing them!'
I point out that in fact, Peaches Geldoff was wearing one only last night, at Pam Hoggs party!  I also point out that she will be the first of her friends to wear the look and how fabulous is that.
OMG I am so shallow and hate myself, will I never get over the need to prove I am 'in the know!' Luckily my daughter is not so shallow and rejects the catsuit outright, and anyway she has science homework to do (where have I gone wrong!!)

I am however, drawing the line at the 80's look, for me or long suffering daughter. I cannot and will not go there. The 80's were my selfish years, a time for excess and experimentation, clubbing and cocktails and most of all home made, mad, over the top, fabulous outfits, never to be re-created!

Middleagedmum.com: Excuse me young man!

'Would you remind removing you penis from my arm,' I say very clearly and very loudly on the 7.30am Silverlink train from Dalston to Camden Road. Oops, my middleaged tourettes has kicked in a little early this morning. Factor in raging PMT and we might be in for a bit of bumpy ride today.
Well I'm sorry, I'm innocently sitting reading my book and I feel someones presence a little too near, I move around and try to make it known he is (in my daughters words) entering 'my like personal space bubble.' Still he doesn't move, in fact he gets even closer, so close in fact, I am wondering which part of his anatomy I can feel rubbing against my arm. Then something snaps and I say whats on my mind.
He pretty quickly moves away (well as far away as he can on a packed train) and looks sheepish and embarrassed. Well I assume he does, I haven't actually looked him in the eye. There is an air of tension in the carriage and a few people titter (mainly women) and I feel proud that I have represented the moral majority and stood up for women who have to endure rude men on a daily basis. I even fantasize about starting a 'women reclaim their space' campaign on London transport. I get off the train and walk to work with my held head high.

Later, when I calm down and reflect on my outburst I realize I am doing this more and more. Is this a symptom of age, of have I always been a stroppy old bag?
I remember in my 20's, waiting two hours to see a hairdresser at Trevor Sorbie. I waited patiently, feeling more and more anxious, had they forgotten me, should I say something? Then when I eventually had my hair done, I didn't even like it, but left exclaiming how fabulous it was (mind you, I still do that, what is it about hairdressers that is so intimidating?) I was such a little mouse, afraid to upset people, desperate to be liked, even by strangers. But no more, oh no, the older I get the less afraid I am to complain and take issue with things. For some reason these situations usually seem to arise in public and often on London transport.

Another early morning escapade involved tackling some rather loud (and huge) teenage girls on the bus. They were rude, loud and unpleasant and most importantly children. In my day (did I actually just say that?) rude, loud children were told to be quiet. So I did, very politely and very succinctly in front of a very crowded bus. 'What are you gunna do about it, you cant do nuffink,' they replied. I pulled myself up to my full height (5ft 3 inches) well actually, I was sitting down, but I did it mentally!
'Oh yes I can, I can go and speak to the driver and get him to throw you off the bus.' You could almost feel the groan from the other passengers, Here we go, a middlegaged women on a rant, we'll never get to work now!
Other peoples reluctance to get involved, only fuels my indignance and makes me more determined to stick up for what what is right. On another occasion (also on a bus) I actually stood at the front and addressed the other passengers in a ranting, preacher in a gospel church, kind of way. 'Did anyone else see the way this driver just drove down the centre of the road, he is a danger to the public and shouldn't be driving a bus. Is anyone going to back me up here?' Apparently not, oh apart from one (yes, you've guessed it) other middleaged women!!

Of course if I am with my children and decide to take issue with someone, they cringe with embarrassment at my behaviour. On entering the T Mobile shop with my daughter recently, she took one look at the queue and said, 'No mum, I don't think so, there's no point, it'll only wind you up.' She knew only too well that I would huff and puff at the inefficiency of the staff and eventually say something hideously embarrassing (in her eyes) and constructive and helpful (in my eyes)
Middleagedad also thinks I should calm down and now refuses to visit cafes at service stations on the M1 with me, after I suggested to the staff they might like me 'to get behind the counter and help them devise an efficient system!'

Surely if we all spoke up the world would be free of men who sit with their legs wide open and make you sit half on/half off the bus seat, rude teenagers, dangerous drivers, people who drop litter, inefficient shop assistants, oh I could go on forever.
Never mind the community police (who my son informs me everyone ignores, as they're not real police) what we need is 'community grumpy old women.' Give us a uniform and a bit of authority and surely the world would be a better place.
I know just the person to be in charge!!

Middleagedmum.com: F.O.O.D

 
Ok I have done all the washing, cleaned the house from top to bottom, lined up my blog posts for next week and ordered all the shopping from the supermarket. There is now no excuse not to tackle to the pile of correspondence staring at me from the corner of my desk.

It has been there for a couple of weeks now, waiting for me, taunting me, begging to be dealt with. The envelopes are horribly official and full of self importance with their corporate logos and branded envelopes. I don't know what’s in them and I would rather not open them but know I cant put it off any longer. I start with opening the envelopes and putting them into piles marked scary, very scary and too hideous to acknowledge (these will be handed to middleagedad who will also ignore them, making them even more hideous and scary and also very very late!).

Don't get me wrong, I am not in hideous debt or on the run from the tax man or the Next Directory, in fact quite the opposite. Since living the yuppie excessive dream and confronting negative equity in the late 80's, MAD and I have tried our absolute hardest not to have credit cards or scary debts. But somehow our legacy from that particular period of financial denial (when we never opened our bank statements!) is that I now have severe form and official document phobia, commonly known as F.O.O.D (Fear Of Official Documents).

I have a theory that creative people cannot process large portions of text and especially not when written in incomprehensible official jargon. For example, take the little booklets they send you containing the terms and conditions of a new bank account, life insurance etc.
WHO ACTUALLY READS THEM?
Show me someone who does and I'll show you someone who needs to come to the Joiners Arms with me and the gay boys on a night out!!

Its not just forms and official documents that frighten me, instruction booklets do too. So many different ways to tune in a telly, set up a mobile phone, programme a dishwasher. When faced with a new appliance or technology, I usually huff and puff when flicking through the instruction manual, groaning 'Oh for Gods sake where's the English version.' Only to finally disregard it all together, in favour of thinking I know better. Surely my finely tuned instinct will get me through. So I fumble and fiddle, tweaking and touching, not really knowing what I am doing, shouting 'why am I the only one in this house who does anything' as middleagedad shouts 'I hope you're looking at the instruction manual.' Oops, by now its in the bin, along with the three year guarantee and I'm a little hot and panicky and pouring myself a glass of wine.
Teenage son is now required to rescue me. He retrieves the instructions, scans them quickly, flicks a few buttons and we are fully functioning and firing on all cylinders.

Anyone who is tasked with engaging me in anything official or important doesn't have a very easy time either. When I recently decided to become self employed I was required to become VAT registered. I promptly employed a highly qualified, extremely efficient accountant, only to field all his calls, and hastily shut down the computer whenever I received an email from him. He won me round eventually through sheer persistence and I now feel like I have been to therapy when I have filed my VAT return.

Our mortgage advisor took on a similar counselling role when dealing with our recent re-mortgage. After not calling him back for several weeks I finally confessed. 'Look I don't have a clue how much our mortgage is, how much interest we are paying or who our pensions are with. Its all in a drawer in the kitchen and I cant open it, not now, not ever, its too scary.'
Luckily he only deals with actors, designers and creative’s, so wasn't at all surprised. 'Ok just bring me the drawer and I'll sort it out'. So off I trotted to his office in Great Portland street, complete with drawer and he methodically went through it.
I could have kissed him when he had finished.

Practical, logical friends cant understand my phobia, some even like filling in forms. One of my oldest friends positively embraces an instruction manual, which I find amazing. The older I get the more I procrastinate and hate officialdom. Maybe there is a need for a F.O.O.D workshop, similar to those fear of flying courses you can take.
Fasten you seat belts ladies, its time to fill in your tax return!!

Middleagemum.com: Sex and teenagers

Ok, so you’ve got them into good schools, made them work for their exams, they’re growing well, they have reasonable table manners (well when they’re at tea in houses other than your own they apparently do), the last parent’s evening was relatively trouble free and no one is stashing class A drugs in the sock drawer, at least not the last time you looked, so what’s to worry about now? Are we at the end? No we are not, Now we have to worry about teenagers, sex and when it’s ok to let the visiting girlfriend (or boyfriend) sleep in the same bed.

 

Eldest teenage son and middle teenage son frequently have guests to stay overnight, and they are often girls, but they always stay in the spare room, or at least they did until recently. Middle teenageson was out very late at a party with his girlfriend last week and when they both came back in the wee small hours, they crashed fully clothed, in one bed.

 

Since they had asked me to get them up the next morning early as they had a train to catch, I believed that they really were just convenience-crashing in one bed but the seeds of doubt and panic were sown. Putting my head in the sand and going to bed pathetically early so as to avoid any knowledge of what was going on (my preferred option) was no longer a possibility.

 

I sought help from wise friends. My friend Rachel has had condoms sitting next to the Weetabix packets in the kitchen cupboard ever since her three were in primary school. Due to her sister becoming pregnant while still at school and being blessed with an almost un embarrassable disposition, her position on sex education has always been ahead of its time. Her kids learnt young about STDs, unwanted pregnancy and how to avoid both, as did my eldest, who is her eldest’s best friend (she frequently asked, guests included, if anyone wanted to ask any questions on sex as they all tucked into after-school sausage and mash suppers).

 

Another friend, who has possibly the most handsome son in London, categorically will not tolerate any suggestion of sex in the house. My most successful friend, who must surely be good at taking the right decisions since she is so successful, takes early morning tea to her eldest son’s girlfriend if she stays overnight and is sanely relaxed about it, although admits her work colleagues (mostly the men) find the morning tea delivery a service too far.

While researching the subject, my experienced-friend-with-four (her youngest daughter is a 16 year old beauty) shot an email of panic across saying she though her youngest daughter might be having sex with her boyfriend at that moment, since the door to her room had been shut for hours. ‘Hoover loudly in front of the door’. I suggested, as a mood killer. “She would definitely suspect something was up if I started to do housework” she replied, “even the dog looked surprised when he saw me with the Hoover when Stephania (her home help ) was away….”

So it is left to my oldest-friend-since-having-children to give the best counsel. Our sons were each others first friends (made at nursery school) and became best friends though out primary school. Now they are junior grown ups, we’ve shared a lot of ‘when is it ok to….?’ debates across our respective kitchen tables. She lets her son’s girlfriend stay but is insistent that they are discreet about it (she has a younger daughter). “You’ll just know when it’s ok”, she say’s wisely, “you figured out when it was ok to let them walk to school on their own, when to let them stay out late, you’ll know when it’s ok to let the girlfriend stay.”

 

So with that in mind, I will be ready to address the situation when it occurs,  I will know in my heart (which I suspect will be beating very fast with anxiety) when it’s ok. Meanwhile I don’t think that 9.30 is too early for me to go to bed on a Saturday night with my bucket full of sand, do you?

Middleagedmum.com: food glorious food

BC (before children) I considered myself an accomplished, confident cook. I enjoyed cooking and could turn my hand to most things. Food was (and is) an important part of middleagedad and my relationship. We ate out a lot and often had (and still do) have friends over for casual dinners . Middleagedad is indifferent to food (therefore thin) and BM (before marriage) survived mainly on Weetabix, fish fingers and boil in the bag cod in sauce (does that still exist?) A popular urban myth in our house is that, MAD had never eaten a mushroom till he met me. Not sure if its true, but growing up in Yorkshire as one of four kids, and a working mum, he isn't the most adventurous when it comes to food. But nonetheless food was an enjoyable part of our lives.

Cooking took on a whole new meaning when the children came along and became more of a necessity than a pleasure especially when weaning babies and feeding toddlers. Hours and hours spent peeling, straining mushing and spooning into small mouths either leaves you feeling smug and a little bit Annabel Carmel, or inadequate and worried your little one will be taken into care due to malnourishment. Great care is taken to ensure a balanced diet and that they try a variety of tastes. CM's (competitive mothers) love to gush about the different foods their little ones will eat. 'Oh Rory was fabulous is France this year, he loved mussels and snails and keeps asking for them now that we're back home.' Well bully for you, 'little Jake only ate chips and ice cream, washed down with the occasional swig of his Dad's beer'

As they get older, children either relish food and eat everything on offer, or develop the tastes of a Presbyterian minister from the Isle of sky. Plain plain plain and more plain. If I could transport my son back to the 1960's meals of my childhood, he would be more than happy. No nasty vegetables spoiling the meat and potatoes and puddings that would make any school cook proud. Of course they all love the staple diet of any self respecting modern day child, pasta. Pasta with tuna, pesto pasta, pasta with ragu. I can honestly say I hate pasta with a vengeance and would be happy if I never encountered another fusilli, tagliatelle or rigatoni ever in my life.

My recent week off from motherhood made me realize how stressful I find cooking for the family. The liberation from not having to think what to cook four people with opposing tastes was almost euphoric. Give MAD his dues he will eat more or less anything (as long as its not too fancy) but teenage son only really eats meat (the rarer the better) and teenage daughter is a vegetarian. I love food and trying new things, but rarely get to experiment, as I know it will be met with suspicion and a degree of irritation. 'What do you mean Stroganoff, what is stoganoff?' This usually ends in tears (mine) and general stomping off (me) and an argument between MAD and me. 'Why do you never back me up, I am trying to get them to try new things?' To which he answers 'To be honest I'm not that keen on stroganoff either!' At which point, I wonder how many years in prison I would get for manslaughter (with extreme provocation)

So I decided to turn over a new leaf, no more Mrs Nice Mum. In my day you ate what was on you plate unless you had an allergic reaction (and even that was pointless as my mum didn't believe in allergies) So after a weekend of indulgence (as the food on the school trip had been so bad) I turned from the proprietor of a small luxury boutique hotel into the commendant of a boot camp. No more getting breakfast for them (for fear of them going out of the house with an empty stomach; how would they learn anything?) oh no, help yourself or starve.  No more indulgent packed lunches, it was all going to be on my terms from now on. All was going well and the troops didn't seem to be rebelling, that is until it came to dinner time, when horror of horrors, I put goats cheese on the pasta! Goats cheese are you insane!!!

Teenage son was almost in tears, 'goats cheese, but why?' Teen daughter was just angry, which ofcourse made me livid and a row ensued. Enough was enough (and I had PMT) I needed a new strategy. So I calmed down and wrote them a letter. I stated I would no longer be going to the supermarket, cooking or making packed lunches. From now on I was on strike and as the next day was pancake day, I would be having pancakes and they could eat what they liked, as long as they cooked it themsleves. Ofcourse no-one was happy and the evening continued in virtual silence, with me more determined than ever to stick to my plan. No more cooking for me.

Then fate played a strange and lucky card, I woke up the next morning and I couldn't move, at all, not a bit. My neck had gone into spasm and I was in agony. I was ordered by the doctor to spend the rest of the week lying down and had to be waited on hand and foot.

Boy, did I enjoy sending dishes back, asking for things to be cooked in a specific way, making comments like ' oh not a baked potato, I really don't feel like a baked potato!' By day four, teenage son was getting irritable and teen daughter had taken on the air of a downtrodden 1950's housewife.

I think everyone learned a lesson, but it'll be a while before I try the goats cheese again !

Middleagemum.com: Where are my headphones?

 

‘Where are my headphones?’ I ask the breakfast table Monday morning.

 

With age comes the ability to lose things. I can come through the front door, put my car keys down and three seconds later forget completely where I put them.  I then shout at anyone close “Has anyone seen my keys?/ Who has taken my keys?/Oh no! I’ve lost my keys…….at which point middleagedad usually picks up keys from where I left them and say’s ‘do you mean these?’.

 

This happens at least once a day.

 

However, despite this carelessness with important items such as phones, keys and purses, I NEVER, EVER lose my iPod earphones. At any moment, I know exactly where they are because to innocently put down an iPod with earphones attached in this house of four iPod users, is to lose them into the ‘earphone black hole’ forever.

 

Teenagesons.com are very attached to their iPods and wonder through life permanently dangling wires from their ears while singing to some heavy rap/hip hop rant and ignoring everyone trying to talk to them.

Due to the fact that they are teenagers and therefore always losing or breaking things, someone is always missing theirs and despite buying countless new sets every few months, we are always short.

 

‘Who’s got my headphones?’I rant as I run for the bus to work and teenagesons.com race to school…..no one replies, they can’t hear me, all being plugged in to their sets and are out of the door so swiftly I can’t check them. I trudge to work music-less and cross.

 

“Who’s got my headphones?’ I scream again that evening when they are unplugged. No one apparently and there is barely disguised contempt for my sloppy behaviour at leaving my iPod unattended in the first place. It is, apparently, my fault they are missing (how is it everything is my fault?)

 

They are still missing on Tuesday -middleagedad has ordered more from Amazon but by Wednesday the thought of another music-less tube ride to work is unbearable so ‘borrow-with-out-telling’ eldest son’s set.

 

At lunchtime the family receive a very grumpy text reminding us (me) that to steal from another family member is despicable and unacceptable (funny how that never seems to work when it’s something belonging to middleagemum or dad) and that the earphones must be returned WITHOUT FAIL that evening. Go to text back and admit it was me but remember what eldest teenage son is like when cross and decide to remain silent.

 

Thursday morning I pull rank on middle teenage son and demand his headphones, as he is going to school and therefore will need to listen to his teachers. He hands them over but half way through the day sends text detailing how he and his girlfriend will be expecting a Chinese take-away on Friday evening as payment, it is, apparently, The Least I Can Do.

 

New headphones arrive on Friday, as does expensive Chinese. As we dig into the crispy duck, we all put our iPods and have a kitchen silent disco, grooving to our own beats. We giggle at how silly we look jigging around the house spilling sweet and sour sauce everywhere.

 

As I mop up neon orange puddles of stickiness from the floor I knock over a pile of cookery books and find - my old earphones- exactly where I had left them last weekend.

Middleagedmum.com: a messy house

Its day four of the first week in 15 years that I have had to think of absolutely no-one except myself. Well, ok, there is middleagedad.com, but he's a grown up and despite being male he can actually fend for himself. The teens are both on a school trip and its very very weird!

It is so so quiet and the house is unusually messy. It has taken on an almost student like feel, dirty dishes in the sink (dishwashers broken again!) clutter everywhere and the bed not even made. Whats that about? Its almost as if I am liberated from being perfect. Obviously I am not perfect, but somehow as a mum, I have to be seen to do all the things I nag about all the time. No point in asking everyone to pick up clothes, load the dishwasher, clean the bathroom after them etc etc, if I don't do it myself. Its a bit like smoking, try telling your teenagers not to do it after they've seen you puffing away outside the kitchen door every night.

So it appears I am actually as naturally messy and slovenly as I was when I was 14. The perfect tidy house has regressed into a hovel and I only have myself to blame. I wonder when the tidying obsession kicked in? I wasn't tidy as a student (we once had a bag of chips filled with cigarette buts under our sofa for three weeks) and certainly never when I shared flats. Even when middleagedad and I bought our first flat, he regularly complained about the mound of clothes in the bedroom (well I work in fashion, which means a daily clothes crisis)

I hate to blame everything on the children but I think it was the day we arrived home from hospital with baby no 1. Overnight our beautiful designer flat turned into a seething mess of nappies, sterilizers, hideous changing mats decorated with bunnies, horrible bright plastic mobiles and a huge plastic baby bath (which we never ever used) As the baby became a toddler, all carefully chosen nick knacks from our travels to the more remote parts of the world were removed from harms way and replaced with stair gates, large pieces of educational plastic that made hideous noises when prodded and strange swinging contraptions that look like instruments of torture.

As one turned into two and they grew, the children required toy versions of adult things such as kitchens, tool benches, Wendy houses and bikes which completely took over the whole house. Mess took on a whole new meaning as their friends came over and large elaborate games were created involving every toy in the house. There is nothing quite like the sound of the Lego/Playmobil/Polly Pocket box being emptied, to strike fear into the heart of any mother. You just know it will be you who tidies it up, and there is a strange compulsion, no matter how tired you are, to put everything back in the right box. I used to look with horror at mothers who piled it all in together. Isn't an ordered toy box the sign of a good mother? How would they ever be able to play properly with a jumbled mix of brands and OMG the horror of the different scales. Giant plastic soldiers in with small square playmobil people and tiny Polly Pockets, its just wrong, wrong, wrong! Maybe that's when my OCD began. I went from a chaotic creative to Mary Poppins before you could say 'Rosie cheeks and everything.'

There was nothing quite like the satisfaction of sitting in a child free, tidy living room at the end of a hard day with a large glass of wine, knowing your little ones were safely tucked up in bed and you had regained control of your environment.

Perhaps that's what its all about, control. Living with teenagers, one definitely looses control of the house. Recently my daughter was having friends round and asked me to not come downstairs or use the kitchen and in fact 'could I pretend I didn't actually live there' Hello, if I didn't live there, who would tidy up when your friends went home? 

I do ask myself from time to time if it really matters and why don't I just let things go. But whenever I try that, everyone else lets things go too and we end up living on the set of Withnail and I. So I seem to have assumed the role of 'Tidying fairy.' A magical creature who moves silently round the house, picking things up and restoring them to their rightful place, and all without anyone even noticing.

But not this week, oh no, by Friday there will be takeaway cartons, wine bottles maybe even the odd cigarette end (and I don't even smoke) strewn carelessly around the living room. The bathroom will be filled with wet towels and expensive pots of lotion with the tops off and the bedroom will look like Top Shop's changing room at 5.PM on a Saturday.

There's only one problem, guess who'll be tidying it up?

Middleagemum.com: Teen taming two

 

   

 An update on yesterday's teen taming post, today saw the best example yet of how to make a teenage child very, very happy. It goes like this....

7.30 am and Middleagemum.com picks her way carefully through the piles of abandoned clothes, crockery and muddy ruby boots covering teenageboy's bedroom floor to draw the curtains for the usual Monday morning wake up routine. But it's different today.

 "Good morning, there is seven inches of snow on the ground, it's still snowing heavily and school has just rung to say it is closed for the day". Instant, joyous, teenage happiness.

Middleagedmum.com: Teen taming

An article in the Guardian G2 last week featuring advice from posts on Mumsnet on how to handle toddlers, got me thinking. There often isn’t a great deal of difference when dealing with teenagers. Some of the issues may have changed but the methods to get them to do what you want are pretty similar. As one enters the teenage years the opportunities for sharing tips and advice with other parents are rarer. There is no hanging round the school gates and fewer social situations to swap stories. Most teens with any savvy will actively discourage their parents to meet up with their friends parents, as they know it will inevitably lead to some indiscretion being revealed. When you do talk to other parents of teens you find they are all pretty much the same. Here are MAM.com’s observations on living  with teens.

Behaviour
Direct confrontation is never a good idea as it can lead to tantrums and digging in of heels. Distraction often works to avert bad behaviour and complete denial that they are actually your children, is the solution in extreme situations.

Food
Never ever answer the question 'what are we having for dinner?' After slogging home on the bus from Hell, carrying several bags of M & S shopping snatched in your lunch hour. You will almost definitely want to cause physical harm when they say. 'I really don’t like (insert food that they loved the week before) cant we have (insert food that they have hated since they were babies)

Don’t attempt to change teenage sons eating habits. KFC, kebabs and copious amounts of chocolate are staples and the 'you'll get spots and really fat' argument doesn’t work.

Don’t attempt to change teenage daughters eating habits. Special K instead of meals followed by copious amounts of Harribo are staples and the 'you'll get spots and your thighs are not enormous' argument doesn’t work.

Don’t try to introduce new foods into their diet unless they are deep fried or come delivered in a box with an Italian, Chinese or Indian logo on them.

Drugs and Alcohol
When asked the question did you take drugs - lie. If you didn’t, say you did once and didn’t like it (the Bill Clinton approach) if you did, say you did once and didn’t like it, don’t mention the time you took three black bombers, went to the Hacienda and didn’t sleep for a week. Either way they won’t believe a word you say.

Don’t try to tell your teen anything about drugs, they get enough information at school to open a small narcotics factory.

Don’t leave half opened bottles of alcohol in the house if you are leaving them home alone. You won’t be able to remember how full it was (as you were half cut yourself when putting it away) and will not be able to make accusations.

Don’t overreact when faced with a drunken teenager, just hoover really loudly, play the Sex Pistols at top volume and make them a full English breakfast, very early the next morning.

Money
Give your teen a set amount of money each month and don’t give them any more when they run out. Try to stick to this and don’t believe the 'I'll pay you back honestly' approach. My children now owe me the cost of a small terraced house in Hull.

Teenage boys will loose bank cards (Oyster cards, keys, coats, in fact anything that isn’t attached to their body) and never ever have any money. They will always have some kind of scam on the go, involving trading of play station games or buying of technology/guitars/music etc etc on EBay.

Teenage girls will try to entice you to go shopping with them under the guise of 'mother and daughter bonding.' What they actually mean is, if you buy me lots of clothes, I will be nice to you for a couple of hours. If you buy me lunch as well, it might even last all day!

And finally
Enjoy all the thing things that are great about teenagers; listening to new music and sharing your favourites with them, buying your daughter clothes you love but would look ridiculous in yourself, being amazed by their confidence and ability to sing, play the guitar, draw, understand science etc etc. Most of all, be grateful you no longer have to worry about best friends, girl friends, boy friends, spots, GCSE's and interfering parents!

The Guardian

Mumsnet