How to be a middle aged parent and still relate to your teenager (ish).

Teenage Slang

It’s bad enough that I’m a middle-aged parent. The wrong side of 45. That I homeschool my kids and so therefore only get to speak to another adult when the farmer needs help shifting the cows.

It’s hard enough that  I emigrated from a trendy, city chic lifestyle in the heart of Bath a decision that I  have to justify to my kids every time I get the HP sauce out. An hour from the city lights by train. Yes. There were trains. Real ones. With buffet cars and everything.

I moved myself and my family to the furthest region that sits at the furthest tip of the country that sits at the furthest end of the entire world. And from there, built a house in the shadow of a volcano, up along a really long road that takes ages to get to.

All of these factors regardless that they were definitely the best decisions of my life can leave a particular woman feeling isolated. Remote. Secluded. Cut off. Not with it.

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Can you help to move me please you middle aged cow.

It’s a tragic feeling to be 46, and to not understand a single word of what your teenagers are going on about. That is where I found myself yesterday. My daughter laughing away with her skypey ghosty, not real world friend. “HaHaHa! You’re suuuch a noob” she hooted. Even though, ten minutes earlier she had asked if she could skip karate as her stomach was cramping and she was probably going to need surgery.

Not just feeling like a silly old bag now, but making myself look even more like one, I stopped the wiping down of the kitchen worktop, mopped my brow and questioned: “did you just say boob?

I was given ‘the look’.

I remember when it was me that used to give those looks. When my mum asked me why I kept referring to everything as, ‘Rad!’

“Because it’s rad to say rad that’s why”. Duh.

Words like rad, ace, wicked and busted were commonplace in my vocabulary (in fact they still are, Christ Liz what a saddo) and no doubt they bugged the hell out of my Mother, but I didn’t pepper every single sodding sentence with them.

To be hip and cool and gain the trust and respect from our teenagers, maybe even become, you know, their friends (think Madonna and Lourdes, Vic and Cruz) we have to get down, hang loose, speak their lang.

Here are some wicked words or phrases that’ll take you to the party and I’m not talking the Tupperware one, my babes. So sit back, take a chill pill and read on.

  • Same. Here you go. Here’s one to drive you mental. Same literally means ‘I feel the same or I understand how you feel’. Being lazy arsed teenagers though, they do not say the full sentence. Instead, they just say the last word of it. “I think I’ll go to the gym today” “Same”.”My mums being a total cow” “same”. Or, the one that totally confuses the bejeezus out of me is: teen falls over and twists their ankle. Friend, looking on, doesn’t think to ask if the poor sod needs any help. No. Just shakes their head and says “Same”. What the hell is THAT all about??
  •  Streaks. When I first heard my boy say this, I was impressed. I thought he’d been doing a bit of 1980s history. Looking back at the dangerous life that I led as a teenager when to see two boobies running across Twickenham was the highlight of the year. But no. ‘Streaks’. A set of snappy, crappy, snap chat thingys that you keep sending to the same person. If you want a bit of a laugh, switch off the wifi before midnight and hear your teenager wail “Noooo! I’m gonna lose my streaks now!” Ah, Shaddap streaker.
  • Bro*. Friend/mate/pal . Regardless of the fact that my 16-year-old son was born and raised for the first 8 years of his life in Bath, probably the poshest city IN THE WORLD, he insists on calling everyone he meets, ‘Bro”. Being the open minded and respectful Mother that I am, I like to remind him, a lot,  that he is not actually a gangster in New Jersey, rather a homeschooled British laddy living up a long road under a volcano.*After doing my research, I found that the term ‘Bro’ has been in use since the 60s. Hmmph. I was obviously hanging with the wrong dudes.
  • Fam. (Short for family) Mates/ friends. Like an extension of the bro but this time referring to the plural. “I’m missing my fam”, “I’m with my Fam tonight.” Er, no, Sonny Jim. Actually, you’re not, are you? Were you with your family, those dishes would be done, you’d be practising your piano, and we’d all be in a mood. Like a real damn Fam.
  • Chur. Thank you/ hello/ok/yes/nice/goodbye. Confused? Not as much as I  am when every single friggin thing I ask my son, he answers with “Chur”. “Here’s your dinner.” “Chur”. “I’ll pick you up at 6.” “Chur”. Grrr. Chur off I say.
  • Beef. Issue/an argument/confrontation. I sort of get this one. I think. I sometimes describe people who are muscley as being ‘beefy’, so maybe it’s similar. “She’d better watch out, I’ve got beef with her” or “he is gonna be in such beef”. Do I get it? Nah, actually I don’t. Knowing me I’d get it wrong and say pork. Doesn’t quite have the same ring, does it? “Oi, porky! I’ve got a pork wich yooz”.
  • Lit. Amazing/good/cool. I’m guessing but am probably wrong, that this is an abbreviation of literally. Again, they just can’t be bovered to  say the whole word. Too much effort is not cool. I’ve heard it used in “This party is lit” “Do you want to come round to my place?” “lit!”.Excuse me if I sound like a divvy but I don’t get it.  Lit what?? A fire? A ciggy? English Lit? Lit, tit, fit, sh*t to that I say.

So there they are then. Learn those, and you’re on the road to a Maddy and cruisey relationship. No more will your teenagers look at you as though you are the oldest, slowest, most boring dinosaur that crossed their dirty sock studded path.

You’ll be rockin’ and rolling. You’ll be Fan dabee dozie. Trust me. I know these things. There’s no one cooler than me. Yooz are my fam now, yooz are lit. I got no beef with yooz. Chur fam.

Kind regards, Liz.

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Hiding in my bedroom so the fam can’t find me…

 

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.

 

 

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