I am not their friend - I am their mother

The death of Amy Winehouse has left me thinking. As the mother of two teens and an 8 year old, I realise that my job is far from over.  (Far from over - how old will I be when the last one leaves the nest?) Even though the Queenager is just about to leave for college, the parenting job goes on, and willingly so. I remember asking my mother-in-law when you finally stop worrying about your children and her prompt response was "Never". In fact, as most of us know, the older you get, the trickier and bigger the problems seem to get, in our own lives and in our children's.

It's all very well to sit in judgement of Amy's parents and upbringing, or the parents of her ex-husband who is deemed by many to be the cause of her decline. What the hell kind of parents were they? Couldn't they have done more? Amy's parents are accused of interfering too much, but wouldn't you do the same if your daughter was clearly under such a negative influence? And what if your's was the recalcitrant Blake Fielder-Civil? Excuse the French, but what an effing nightmare. While recognising that such a child had a severe problem, could you bear to throw him under the bus and admit that he might be the cause of someone else's continuing decline. Doesn't every mother see the best in their child?

I'm resisting the urge to use Amy's death as a "teachable moment" for my teens, one of whom is on the rock 'n roll track and needs no encouragement to live on the dark side.  I do hope however that it gives us teen parents a warning to be both caring and vigilant. If I think my kids are at risk I will face their wrath as I confront them with it, curtailing their activities and their ability to purchase drugs. I will point them in other directions if I can, and I will use sticks and/or carrots to keep them on the up and up.

 I am not their friend - I am their mother.

The Student Life...

You may not know that my nineteen year old son, Grizz, has come back home from Uni for the summer?

He's been back home for about a month.

There have been a couple of tantrums.

It's worse when I wake him up too early by trying to wash HIS dishes from the night before in MY kitchen sink.

By too early I mean anything before 1 in the afternoon!

...Now he kind of brings his girlfriend back on a night or so a week too.

My living room is not mine own.

Ditto the telly.

I can't remember when I last watched something I wanted to watch...

I love having him here, but it's also a bit bizarre, as he's returned to form and acts like a Baby Bird with his beak open waiting to be fed, even though he's more than capable of cooking for himself, as he does the rest of the year at Uni.

Mind, he's moving out to his privately-rented, bijou two-bedroomed flat with a student friend in August, (they know one another from school and he's from a fabulous family, I've met his mother so I am comforted it's going to be fine...).

The downstairs Victorian garden flat is situated in a posh part of the city but very near to a green space.

Beloved of students and its residents alike. I'd describe it as a lovely, 'chi chi' area of town - with greenery and trees, cosmopolitan coffee bars, conventional drinking holes, restaurants and pretty little 'lifestyle' shops that sell haute fashion, fripperies, and Cath Kidston to yummy mummies.

I looked in a second hand jewellery boutique there only the other day and the prices almost made my eyes melt.

I'm wondering when I can move in??!

Oh, it's Fhina by the way...

The Heart Ache of High School Graduation

I'm reading a lot of soulful blogs right now about little kiddies moving on from nursery school to "big" school. Yes, it's a new day, yada yada, - but for feck's sake parents - get a grip. It's not like they're vacating their bedrooms; it's not like there'll be a yawning gap at the dinner table every night; it's not like you're being left in a household of - (gasp) males wth no girl in the house to talk girl stuff with! 

Ok, I'm better now.

No. I'm not! I didn't think it would be this painful.

She's not ready. OK, scratch that! I'm not ready.

We finish high school FOR EVER on June 9th. Then we'll mess around for the summer, with a week of orientation in June, and then we'll come back from our travels and she'll go off to college in August.

And LEAVE.

She's told me that to mess with her bedroom will screw with her head for ever more, (poetic license) so despite the fact that it really needs a new paint job, I'll just go in there about five times a day  once a week, blow off the cobwebs and make sure the dog hasn't pooped on the carpet as a token of love.

And I'll get a web cam so we can Skype.

My heart really hurts, people.

Teen Daughter? Some novel advice -

Pop over to my piece at In the Powder Room for a new and novel idea on how to keep our teen daughters chaste.

Born Yesterday

Despite this being the title of one of my favourite Phillip Larkin poems*, I won't be waxing poetic in this post. It's more in the vein of "I wasn't born yesterday".

The Man-Child (otherwise known as Mr. Minimal) is one of those kids who puts 110% into anything that interests him, and 20% into anything classed as boring, pointless or tedious. (That would be most things academic.)

With a May 19th deadline looming, I finally got him and the Queenager to a chamber orchestra performance they are required to attend as part of being in the High School orchestra. They also have to write a brief critique of it. Once a term. Hardly a killer really.  I had already warned them both that a "collaborative" paper wouldn't pass muster as their teacher had already expressed interest in reading their different viewpoints.

Of course, the Man-Child couldn't find the guidelines (required elements) so I suggested he take last term's paper and copy the format. What I didn't say was cut and paste the opening sentence, which the teacher had highlighted in red because it didn't make sense the first time round. He had also simply replaced words with other words for the sake of expedience. Except that the new words rendered the paper utter rubbish, and I told him so. I mean, "I was impressed with the way the symphony looked"?? Come on. First of all it was a chamber orchestra and not a symphony orchestra; second, only one of the four pieces was from a symphony; and third, a symphony is a piece of music, not a bloody shop window!

Some of the sentences didn't seem to have verbs, or if they did, they were to be found right at the end of the sentence, Latin style. And, he kept referring to "the songs". I'm sorry, did I fall asleep in the middle? I don't remember a single voice being raised in song.

At least he had the grace to laugh when I handed the paper back to him while calling it "Bloody rubbish".

Nice try son.

Expat Mum







*Born Yesterday
Tightly-folded bud,
I have wished you something
None of the others would:
Not the usual stuff
About being beautiful,
Or running off a spring
Of innocence and love -
They will all wish you that,
And should it prove possible,
Well, you’re a lucky girl.

But if it shouldn’t, then
May you be ordinary;
Have, like other women,
An average of talents:
Not ugly, not good-looking,
Nothing uncustomary
To pull you off your balance,
That, unworkable itself,
Stops all the rest from working.
In fact, may you be dull -
If that is what a skilled,
Vigilant, flexible,
Unemphasised, enthralled
Catching of happiness is called.

(This was written as a christening ode to Sally Amis, daughter of Kinglsey Amis)

Conversations I wish I'd Never Started

I've posted two conversations with my 15 year old son on my own blog, Mum's Gone to,  but felt the Mad Manic Mamas might appreciate them and sympathise with me. The inability of my addled, middle-aged brain to connect with the sharp, intolerance of youth.

Conversation One

Me: I see there's that famous bloke coming to town to talk to the Science Society at your school.
Son: What famous bloke?
Me: The one who used to do funny science things
Son: Who?
Me: He's the father of erm, that woman
Son: What woman?
Me: The one who's on the radio
Son: Who?
Me: She's married to a DJ
Son: Vernon Kay?
Me: No, no, a proper DJ, does the spinning things with records
Son: Calvin Harris?
Me: No, an older one
Son: Fat Boy Slim?
Me: YES, that's the one!
Son: What's her name then?
Me: .......Zoe!
Son: Zoe who?
Me: Ball! Zoe Ball.
Son: So it's her father who's coming to Spalding
Me: Yes, his name's something Ball.
Son: Michael?
Me: No, he's the singer
Son: Okay, Mr Ball, let's just call him John.
Me: That's it! Johnny Ball! He's coming. Do you want to go and see him?
Son: Nah!


Conversation Two

Me: I just heard a good song this morning from Radio One's Big Weekend
Son: What was it?
Me: I can't remember.
Son: Who was it by?
Me: The Foo Fighters.
Son: Was it Everlong?
Me: No idea.
Son: Well, how did the song go?
Me: I can't remember now.
Son: What, nothing at all?
Me: No. Say a few more of theirs.
Son: Pretender? Best of You?
Me: Doesn't ring a bell. Actually it might have been Chasing Status?
Son: Chase AND Status
Me: That's what I said! What do they sing?
Son: Let You Go? Blind Faith?
Me: Oh I don't know.
Son: Mum, you're really annoying. Try and think.
Me: I've got it! It went "I've got a feeling...oooh....oooh.....that tonight's gonna be a good night"
Son: That's the Black Eyed Peas.


Trish x

"You with your Mother's Pride and Poetry...!

My word, it's been a little quiet around here lately... Where is everyone?!

I've been less than chatty here as I haven't had a lot to write about. As you know, my son, Grizzler, is away at University. It's only about 20 miles from home so I still manage (if he doesn't outrun me first) to get my paws on him for a cuddle, or to steal a begrudging kiss of his cheek, about every couple of weeks. For the rest of the time, he's living relatively independently, he hasn't starved, and he's managing to get by and to get himself out of bed to lectures on time for the most part. Hip, hip, hooray!

I know when I first started writing here at Mad, Manic, Mamas, when Sara and I decided to launch a blog to help parents of struggling teens, (or should that be struggling parents of teens?), I wanted mainly to vent at how tough I felt it had all become.

...I wanted to feel less isolated in coping with issues presented by living with teenagers; Like how difficult it was coping with the Teen Tantrums, which had turned out to be far worse than Toddler Tantrums.

Those years when you worried endlessly about what was ailing them, because they had no voice, only to find yourself years later, roundly berated and shouted out, sometimes on a daily basis because a sock couldn't be found or a hoodie wasn't dry enough to wear...

And people kept on saying that things would improve. That, in time, the relationship between Mother and Son would be restored.

And that day - those days - finally came.

Distance has given us absence, and indeed fondness. He tells me that he loves me once again. He texts me with the treasured words that I'll never delete them from my 'phone.

I never stopped telling him I loved him, even when I wondered where my sweet boy had gone.

I won't say that it's all sweetness and light.

When he comes home from Uni to stay for a while, sometimes he slips back into familiar territory, crying to be fed every half hour like a helpless baby bird, when I know he is more than capable of fending for himself. He's six-feet-five, for god's sake!

And sometimes I find myself back in the old Drama Triangle: Victim, Rescuer, sometimes Persecutor...

I feel guilt that I am not a good mother, when I know I should be patting myself on the back for being a 'good-enough' mother.

We all should, if we have succeeded in raising adaptable, confident, communicative kids who can thrive all by themselves in the outside worlds.

I wrote these words a few months ago on my own blog (when I was writing about tattoos, when he'd come back from a school trip with an ear-ring like Captain Jack Sparrow!), and they brought me here today:

"I want to say something deep and meaningful about having children, and knowing that they are only on loan to us, their parents, for a short time - and, that, like my peaceful dove, they will spread their wings and fly in an altogether different direction to that which we might ever have dreamed up for them in life, while we looked away in fact, just when we were exhausted from the day's activities, and were thankfully tucking them in for the night, together with lop-eared teddies and favoured scented blankies...

I know that their random acts of boldness, burgeoning maturity, and sometimes even licentiousness, should only serve to remind us that we do not own our children, nor their bodies - That they are theirs to do with as they wish, in actuality...

And then I go and wibble on about tattoos, changing the subject until I am able to cope with the temporal nature of love, life and art again..."

And B R E A T H E!


The title of this post comes from one of my favourite songs by the Eurythmics...

It's Fhina, by the way!