Three months ago I was a parent to three children in primary school. Then in September, life changed, drastically. The older two suddenly ditched their book bags, yanked on oversized blazers and back packs and strode out of the front door off to secondary school.
Life has never been the same since my primary school babes disappeared and became full on tweens.
Full sentences are a struggle, we now mainly converse through the use of animalistic grunts and growls. Requests for breakfast orders are met with a grunt and a shrug, and usually followed by a primal grab of a carbohydrate based food and the whole conversation is finished with the slam of the door.
Requests to understand how their day was are futile. The answer is always one of three…
- Fine – in between bites of more carb based products
- Yup – which means they paid no attention to the question
- Sic – not vomit – as one of my age would think.
Has to be designer…
Once upon a time my son proudly boasted the entire range of Asda’s T-Shirt, from the plain v-necks, to the cute ones with gorillas pretending to play the drums on. Last week, the boy child threw me off kilter by actually speaking to me, in a full sentence, and held my hand, in public. Turns out it was all a rouse to get me inside JD Sports; where we then proceeded to look at clothing that had price tags that would cripple my mate George at Asda.
The new rule for all clothing is, it must be washed, daily. Nothing can be hung back up in the wardrobe.
In primary, the kids would wear some clothes until they got up and walked to the laundry basket themselves. Now, every item of clothing is pulled by magnetic force to the wicker basket in the corner of the room….
Those feckers have relocated to the Twilight zone. Whether I buy seven pairs a week or seventeen, by the time we get to Sunday all that is left is a range of mixed sizes from the local Trampoline park. And those cheap nasty things get bobbles on them that look like a teenage boys acne.
Come the weekend, only a Nike tracksuit and Hype shirt will do. Monday to Friday, creased white shirts and dirty blazers are apparently all the rage.
Is a very private thing…..
And they don’t take kindly by being reminded that you a) grew them, b) fed them from your breast….
References to how you wiped their arse as a baby are also met with distain…..
They understand it far better than you, which has benefits when you need them to help you download Netflix to the TV, and its downsides when they can navigate through your poor parental control settings with the ease of a warm knife through room temperature butter.
Hormones have moved in
As a woman, I have struggled with my own hormones. Now I am the proud owner of three sets of hormonal imbalances that take great joy in tearing round the home, smashing into each other…..
I feel for my neighbours, certainly on the third Thursday of each cycle.
They want you for likes not comments….
Follow your kids on instagram? They love it when you like their posts, but be prepared to face the wrath of Satan if you dare to comment on their photography skills.
Apparently, reminding them they are on a phone ban when they post a selfie from their room is a VERY bad thing to do.
(Funny as hell when you are a parent tho…)
Some days, when you are queueing outside your own bathroom, doing the desperate for a wee-wee dance, and this tall youth pushes past you to exit the room, you can be mistaken for thinking you are house sharing rather than parenting. You find yourself longing for them to finish the word ‘mum’ with the second syllable it used to have.
Your hand feels sad as no one pressed theirs into it that much anymore.
Until they want money – then, and only then, do my babies return to me. Full sentences, ‘mummy’ dripping from their lips and hands squeezing mine.
That is how I know I am a mum to tweens…..