In Support of the Teenager​.

It has come to my attention that over the past few months of writing this blog, I may have come over as being a whinging old bag. A hormonal, moaning Brit expat. The mother of two teenagers.

It dawned on me, Continue reading “In Support of the Teenager​.”

It’s Not Fair.That’s​ Right Kid. It Ain’t​.

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It’s not fair.

I won’t tell you what my mother used to retort with when I used to bellow this at her from the upstairs landing. All I’ll say was it involved a gentleman with no underpants who originated from Timbuktu. No PC parenting when I was a girl.

It’s not fair.

I’ve just had that unoriginal accusation hurled at me for not volunteering to be a taxi service at 9 o’clock tonight. Continue reading “It’s Not Fair.That’s​ Right Kid. It Ain’t​.”

The Elastic has gone in my knickers…

I feel like shit today. I’ve tried to shake it off but to no avail. One of those days.

I had to phone the piano teacher and tell her Tessa no longer wanted to have lessons. She’s 78. She’s been teaching her for the past 6 years. It was hideous. She was obviously upset and disappointed. Me, babbling on like a duck. Trying to make it sound better than it was. 

I cried at that. 

Not on the phone thankfully, but when I came off. 

My cold-hearted daughters response was, “well I’m sorry, but I’m going to leave her sometime, so it might as well be now…”
Oh, to be 12 and tough.

My hair looks like an upside down mop. Well, a cross between a mop and the nurse from ‘Meet the Midwife’ and I’m not talking about the sexy blonde one. Incase you’ve never seen it, the nurse in question is the one whose hair is a cross between mine, and an upside down mop.

I’m not going to read this blog back as I normally do. I usually write, read and then think God no… I can’t write that, and change a load of things. But what I write today stays. 

 Rebellious at last. It’s only taken 46 years.

I’ve read about three different blogs today to try and inspire myself. Cheer myself up. 

My favourite was one written by a mum, entitled ’46 things they never tell you about raising a teenage boy’.  I sat there and blubbed. Wallowing in self-pity. Wishing my own teenage boy wasn’t at correspondence school for the day. That he was here with me, wiping my tears, promising me that he’ll never turn into a man and leave me.

 He returns at 4 o’clock. I shout at him for heading straight to the computer. He says’ Ive only just walked in the door and you’re getting at me’.

I cry again.

Its been a crap day.

The elastic has gone in my knickers . They’re only staying up because my jeans are too tight. Frayed bits of grey, worm like elastic holding onto my baggy knickers .

I feel like an old mop head with falling down knickers. My kids think I’m on my way to the insane assylum. They’ve both retreated to the safety of their rooms. I can hear Tess , skyping her friends. Using an over the top American accent, even though she’s English living in new Zealand.

I am grateful that I don’t have any taxi-ing around to do tonight, and for this reason, I purposely don’t bother wiping the black smudges from under my eyes. 

When you are wallowing as I am, it helps to walk past the mirror and see a tear-stained face. This means you can wallow some more. I choose to stare into the glass and cry at my reflection. 

I now feel as though a friend has joined me, and together we’re bonding over blub and snot. 

Breathe .

Ok. 

I’m done.

This blog has made me smile. 

I’ve managed to cheer myself up. Laughing at my own jokes is one of my unfortunate characteristics and one that drives my kids insane . 

I am going to to wipe this mascara from under my eyes. 

Put my jarmies on.

Brush my hair. 

And burn these horrific knickers.

There . All better.

 

 

diaryofanimperfectmum

Spot. The difference when you’re not 12. 

As Mothers, we are always telling our children, “be who you are!” “Dont worry what people think of you!” ” Just love being you!”.

Right?

I woke up this morning with a big fat spot on the side of  my face.

“Where the hell has that come from?” is what flickered through my mind for 3 seconds. But, then I remembered.

We had run out of toilet roll last night.  If the kids were to use the kitchen paper towel when they visited the toilet this morning, it would block up the septic tank. Not a nice thought , and one much more important than the offending spot. Off to the shop I go. New face guest in tow. Ah, how bliss it is, to be 46 and not give a shit about a spot.

Fast forward five hours. Sitting next to my 12 (and 3/4 ) year old daughter, in the car. Although we have been together all day, still, she had failed to notice this new addition. Until now.

“What is that on your cheek?” She asks, in a tone that is reserved only for mothers and daughters.

“A spot- see! Even adults get spots!”

It was said in a , ‘look at me ! I’m 46 , Ive got a spot and I’m so cool about it.’ sort of way. To reassure, not myself, but her.

Or maybe both of us.

The reasoning behind that?

I look at this beautiful girl. Who, so far this week, has worried and fretted about the following :

  • The new knickers that you bought me (2 weeks ago) show through my dance shorts.
  • My lips are getting too big for my flute (honestly) and its not blowing right.
  • I think there are  flees in my bed (new kittens, so fair point), my backs itchy.
  • I’ve got a mono brow.
  • I’m too tall.
  • My T.shirt isn’t white anymore (hands up to that one)
  • Ive got too many moles…

OOhhhh …I could go on and on.

Really.

My wonderful girl is 12. She’s beautiful, she’s talented.

But she’s 12.

And remember how hard 12 was?

And I think I’ve got problems, with an overflowing septic tank.

So, my lesson and hope for today?

Is that, when she saw her Mother-facing the world without an ounce of, ‘its going to make it look worse’ concealer on- she took something away.  Even a little,tiddly,12 year old something. And logged it, into that beautiful brain of hers.

Please know that you’re  gorgeous. Know that it wouldn’t matter if you had twenty million spots and eyebrow hairs and lips and fleas and yellowy white t shirts – you’ll still always be gorgeous. Because you are you. Because you are 12.Because you are 46. 52. 64. 73. 88. 96…

We are all … just gorgeous .

Thank you spot. Thank you age… Thank you toilet rolls.