Has Miss Piggy left the bulding?

My daughter is over the swine flu, well actually the flu is gone, but we've been left with the 'swine' part. The poorly girl, who was malleable and sweet, wanted hugs and watched her childhood Disney movies a week ago, that girl has left the building.

I have to remind myself that the flu, separate to the man flu version we all know so well, which is a period of high drama which involves a man, tiredness and the sorry for myself syndrome or at worst a bad head cold, BUT the real deal is really debilitating. I had it only once two years ago and it came on suddenly one afternoon, whilst at the metro centre, and I took to my bed after the teeth chattering journey home, from cold not fear of Larry's driving. Once you have suffered the flu, you never again think a three day head cold is flu. Two days later, Larry insisted that he take me to the Q-doc place for a consultation- and Larry doesn't do insisting nor do doctors, so I was sure I looked worse than I felt. Good old fashioned Influenza the doctor said, fluids and bed rest for a week.

What I need to recall is the period after the symptoms left, when I was bone tired and irritable for weeks afterwards. It takes a lot out of you. With our daughter, she has taken her many free study periods in the mornings this week, and translated them into mean that sleeping in until noon, is the order of the week. And me, her mother turned green and burst forth with,

'Don't you think that study periods may be better used, by getting up and doing some er studying? or some coursework? tidying this den of iniquity? I can't see the floor and you have 9 yes nine I counted them - half full glasses and cups that the dishwasher has been looking for!'

Any sense of humour has disappeared out the door with the flu and I, having worked really hard this week on an exhibition changeover at work, doing manual work dismantling walls and painting 12 foot high walls, just have not the patience to pussy foot around. I cannot get the house and me in a better place IF the vampire is sleeping all day, worse getting under my feet.

Today she and Larry were up at the crack of dawn to visit Edinburgh University for its Open Day. I feel like crap that I haven't gone too, but thinking it through and only getting the day off at the last moment when they had planned to go alone, I decided to leave them to it would be the best.

My daughter confides in me when it matters most, in that she needs my help or advice. I think that it is important to try and keep the communication lines open. It is necessary to remember that they DO NOT know it all, even if they think they do. Knowing that she will shout for my help, not Larry's in certain situations. Is a good thing. I need to remain approachable and not piss her off entirely. She however needs to remember to fill the dishwasher and keep her room tidy. A fair exchange you would think!

Of course it's my fault

So my gigantic almost 14 year old son has been trying to slim down a bit recently. He has finally realized that yes, you can in fact overfeed an adolescent male body. I have to admire his restraint of late, and without over-emphasizing things, he knows that I am proud of him.

At dinner the other night I commented that I could tell he was getting skinny by his wrists. Everyone thought that was hilarious, but you know what I mean? He now has much more pronounced wrist bones.

"Yes but I still need to get rid of my moobs (man-boobs)", he lamented. And then followed up with the inevitable, "Which incidentally, are all your fault".

Try as I did, I simply couldn't make the leap between his moobs and my inadequacies as a mother, unless of course it's simply because I have boobs. Obviusly I was thinking hard enough.

Apparently if I'd mentioned that the little foil-wrapped chocolates in the pantry were women's calcium supplements, he wouldn't have stolen so many a few years ago and wouldn't have moobs now!

Expat Mum

I'm in love with her boyfriend...

No, I don't mean in a Jeremy Kyle, Oprah Winfrey kind of way. Made you look though didn't it?! In fact he is really, I am told, just a friend.

My eldest daughter is nearly sweet sixteen. She's always liked boys, ever since she was a toddler. She just 'gets' them, probably more than she 'gets' girls at times.
As she's matured of course I've encouraged her to try and stay focused on 'other things' (i.e. schoolwork) and since, for various reasons, she moved to an all-girl school last year, it's been fairly quiet on the boy front.

Until a few weeks ago...

...enter Harry.

Harry is 18. He is off to university soon to study English and Politics. He's also learning Arabic, he wants to save the world. Harry works all the hours God sends to save up for uni. and my teen meets him during his lunch break from time to time. On the last occasion we both happened to be in town she brought him over to meet me. Afterwards she told me that he is just a 'friend'. Hmmmm OK then..I'll believe it if she does.

Last night Harry came for dinner. He brought a box of Crispy Cream do-nuts to share after the meal. Harry made eye contact. Harry asked if he could do anything to help. Harry chatted with all of us...he's intelligent...he's done work experience in Westminster...not too gushy...self assured but not in a cocky way. He's handsome and he has a twinkle in his eye for my daughter. Who is just his friend. They sat on the sofa and were comfortable with each other, it was plain for all to see. And he won us all over; even my 10 year old son went out an got him a good luck card before he goes to uni on Tues., having met him only once. I don't even get cards from my 10 year old son unless his arm is forced behind his back by two older sisters.

And I'm thinking...I'd love her to choose a lad like this at some point in her life, to welcome into our family. Then I think "WHAT!!!?"

Excuse me, but when did this happen? When did I turn from a rational, efficient, slightly anxious mother into a dopey eyed, wishful thinking idiot? Is this what teenagers do to us? Of course Harry will go to university, meet lots of girls his age and break my heart. Sorry, I mean my daughter's heart don't I?

Get a grip woman. Show some decorum here. A little sense and perspective please.

Yet could it be true that manners really do maketh man?

You'd all like him, I know you would.

Comfort Food...

Tunnock's Tea-cakes...

Wine Gums...

Stodgy Puddings...

Ice-Cream...

Sausages and Mash...

Hearty Soup...



I wonder whether I am to blame for my son's Comfort Food fixation... For whatever addictions he might develop in life? Are they in the genes?

I over-eat. I know I do. And I associate comfort eating with... Well, comfort.

Being in my peejays surreptitiously breaking off squares of chocolate is one of life's random pleasures, is it not?



And I tried to bring Grizz up with a healthier attitude to food, I did... That he turned out to be no faddy eater was a real result for me... While one of my nephews wanted "Hard toast, please", and the other whined, "Soft toast, please"; The latter was the same child who ate nothing but sausages for several years... I had no such problems with Grizz.

He would eat whatever he was given and he played outdoors rigorously, ran hard, ensuring he was never really overweight... So we indulged ourselves occasionally - A biscuit here, some sweeties there... Avoiding the things with additives and E numbers and no caffeine or Cola, to keep him happy and healthy and hale and hearty...

And now he's practically an adult, with his mother's sweet tooth unfortunately. And I try to keep him healthy still, even while he's making his own choices in life... He indulges in occasional, but never excessive, alcohol... Two bowls of cereal a day... Cheese Sandwiches... Tunnock's Tea-Cakes... Wine Gums...



And I still watch his teeth, and his waist-line, and how he fits in his clothes. And I know it's his body. And he's entitled to make his own choices... But smoking? That's MY bete noir... I really hate what smoking does to people. And I don't know now where I am going with this post, but I just wanted to rant.

Sorry. Rant over. For now!

Home Comforts...

Our darling Saz was writing the other day, as only Saz can do - Making us laugh with tales of her young 'uns scuttling in and out of the kitchen, casting aspersions on their parents' passions, and ram-raiding the fridge and food cupboards...

And I think Beautiful Auntie Gwennie had much the same to say recently, about not being able to keep her lovely, growing son fed... Eating her out of house and home, I should imagine... And then our beloved Scriptor Senex spoke about Junior's magic abilities to make huge hunks of cheese just disappear.

Therefore, I am given to understand that Fhina's not alone in this... In my mind's eye I see the Sainsbury family sitting in their cosy snug each Friday in life, to raise a glass of their own twinkling Prosecco in honour of the profits they have made purely from Fhina's purse and the man-made mountains of food-shopping she has to cart out of their supermarket and into her home!

All of which, I kid you not, makes its way down the beak and gullet of our starveling Baby Bird...



Awwwwwwwwwwwwww!

And then there are the 'phone calls - I swear he has a timer fitted in his tum! We might be stuck in traffic on the way home from work, and the mobile 'phone will trill into life, and we can recite the conversation verbatim.

"Where are you?

When will you be home?

...There's absolutely nothing to eat in this bloody house and I want you to bring some shopping in...

Oh, and remember ice-cream!"

And then we have to start all over again... And Mr Sainsbury's eyes roll back in unadulterated pleasure as his tills go "Kerching!"

On a more serious note....

I enjoy writing fun posts for this blog but in reality it is frequently anything but fun being the parent of a teenager. Equally, and perhaps more importantly, it is often no fun at all being a teenager.


I get frustrated by the state in which Junior leaves the bathroom when he is preparing to go out. The bowl’s dirty, the bath towels are on the floor, the tops are off half as dozen different lotions and smellies. And lecturing him about cleaning up after himself has no effect. But occasionally I put myself in his position and think which would I rather be. The guy who cleans the bathroom or the one who has to spend hours grooming himself and worrying about every hair that might be out of place, every potential spot or blemish and all the other things that a young man going out for the evening has to consider.

I am fortunate in that my life experiences have given me the confidence to deal with things without worrying about what people think of me. I can happily display on my blog the words of Dr Seuss -
“Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”

But what was is it like at nineteen? Very different!

I recall one girlfriend I went out with who was a rugby fan. I brushed up on my rugby knowledge. Magnified the three awful games of rugby I’d played into a season of above average performance. She was tall. In high heels she was taller than me. I wore smart black leather boots for most of that year. ‘By coincidence’ they happened to have higher heels than ordinary shoes. She liked me to be clean-shaven and my beard has always been quick growing so after a day at work I was a bit stubbly. I went through agonies finding various ways of shaving between work and going out. It would seem a simple enough task but this was in the days before electric shavers were common and there would have been nowhere private in work to plug one in. So I had to endure the risk of someone coming in the Gents and finding me shaving. There would have been ribald comments to endure. How mortifying.

Of course, not every evening was spent going out with one’s girlfriend. There were trips to the match and on to the pub with the lads. It didn’t matter what the weather was like or if one had a headache one stood (in those days) at the Anfield Road end of Liverpool’s ground and sang rude songs at the referee. And, most important of all, one had to look like one was enjoying it, even when Liverpool were three nil down and the hail was bouncing off your bare aching head. (What, wear a cap – how wimpish would that have been!) Then , in the pub, how many unwanted glasses of beer were downed and cigarettes smoked simply to keep pace with one’s friends. The pressure to conform outweighed all else.

So I try to look at Junior and remember some of these things. And I’ll pick up the towels from the floor and be thankful. After all, it may not seem like it but he’s got a lot more to worry about than I have.

The disappearing act

Some magicians spend years perfecting their art. The better ones may eventually make money by going on stage and waving their hands in the air to produce bunches of flowers or somehow place a pretty girl in a cabinet and get her to disappear. (What a waste, I always thought!) One thing I have never understood is why people are so impressed. Surely anyone who has had a teenager knows they can make anything disappear.

Let’s examine this week as an example of Junior’s skill in this regard.

It is so obvious to any teen parent that food disappears from the fridge. What is less obvious sometimes is how it is done. You look in the fridge and there is a very large chunk of cheddar cheese. Without leaving the kitchen you plan how you are going to cook that cheese and you get the utensils and other ingredients out for a Welsh Rarebit. You open the fridge door again and the cheese has gone. Does the fridge have a hidden back door that leads directly into his den, I wonder?

In the kitchen we have a pair of orange handled scissors. They are excellent scissors. Junior had been in the kitchen creating one of his excellent Chinese stir fries. When he had finished I washed the dishes for him. (How do you use every dish and utensil in the house to create one stir fry?) The scissors were not among the items I washed. Nor were they in the drawer when I went to use them later that day. They disappeared for a week only to turn up in the fridge in his den. Magic!

I reckon that around the house there are scattered about seven CD players of various sorts. Actually, that seems now to be only six. Oh, the one in the bedroom has gone as well, make that five. I could have sworn there was one in the corner of the lounge. Oh well, at least there’s one in the conservatory. Yes, OK, you can borrow it to listen to the match on the radio if you’re sure your radio isn’t working but you must return it.... Damn. Not a CD player anywhere. What’s he doing, Running a market stall of electrical goods?

But the ultimate disappearing act involves Junior himself.

Me - “Can I just have a word with you for a moment?”
Junior - “Sure, can I just set my Sky to record and I’ll be back in a moment.”
Disappears and doesn’t reappear for at least two days...

Me - “Can I just show you a job I’d like doing in the garden?”
Junior - “Sure, can I just put some shoes on.”
Disappears for at least three days....

What he doesn’t know is I’m working up to finding just the right phrase to make him disappear for a month or two.... Ah, bliss.