Going All Teenagery

It’s like welcoming home a returning French gap student into the house. Air kisses. “Morning Mumma dear,” instead of the big bear hugged – tree trunk encounters we usually had over the cornflakes. 

Then it’s the way everything I do – wear – or think, is just completely, tosh. And I’m made to understand this with glaring daggers, under hooded-eyed glances that stop me in mid-flow recounting hilarious fiascos such as what happened to Marian at the counter in …

Withering looks, tell me it’s just – a – really? Get real moment – cop myself on.

Before she leaves for school, the required one-hand-on-her hip stance is made, complete with jaunty air of one going on holiday. My counter-stance, is my two-hands-onto-my-arthritic-feel-like hips.

I am like, so last year, plus one hundred years ago. She asks me if I ever saw the Beatles play live – and I’m wondering if she is serious.

Later in the day, in lashings of rain – I drive past herself and the friend, on the walk home from school. Rolling down the window. “Girls, hey!” I shout. (No. 1 WRONG). “Do you want a lift round the corner?” Julio Iglesias blaring out from the car stereo. (No. 2 WRONG). Withering look while she holds tightly onto straps of her ruck-sack on shoulder. “Like no thanks,” which is Teenagerish speak for “DOH!” As I roll window back up, a seething foulness invades the car, and I spew it out when I get home to the husband and son.

Her first year in Secondary School and she’s having a blast. Cooking up a Mary Berryish storm of a social-after-school-tornado with the likes of Tennis Club (get-to-travel-the-world-or county), netball (get-to-travel-the-world, or up to Belfast), choir (get-to-travel-the-world, or ferry to Le Harve for Annual Choral Festival).

“It’s all ahead of you,” I keep saying and now it’s more like me saying to myself – “it’s all behind you.”

The girl on the other side of the post office counter clicks her fingers together. “It goes,” she says, “like that,” as I tentatively push our weekly savings amount for said daughter’s future (she would like it to be spent on luxurious Manhattan apartment) under the glass window.

“It’s all,” apparently, “money.”

Son is also taking to angst-like worry – frowning and gritting teeth after she passes, whispering – “she’s going all teenagery again,” as if it is the most dire warning that should be accompanied by a loud air-raid siren, but instead is followed by slamming of her bedroom door and subsequent blaring of Will Ferrell's Happy.

Consequently the son is also taking to Teenagerish behaviour – in mimicking form – such as the odd mini-tantrums when asked to do something and then moving across room to exit door-left, like he is leading male dying swan in a Bolshoi Ballet’s production of Swan Lake.

She’s now watching TV programmes like Don’t Tell The Bride providing full running commentary and a host of other cookery programmes, with squeals of delight. Snog Marry Avoid, and I can’t help wondering which group I’d be lumped into. The odd time she gazes over at me - giving me those eyes again, and I know, not to bother asking.

Luckily for the husband and son, they still have some street cred, while I have become Enemy No.1, removing i-Pads for days on end, non-dispensing canteen lunch money, and also holding the threat over her head of a possible cancelation of the annual pilgrimage to IKEA.

Otherwise, she’s a terrific, gentle, loving and courageous soul. And why not be confident? Give it some attitude? Sure it’s only the opposite to what some of us felt like leaving Secondary – peering out from the school sheds at the big wide world ahead, with the most exciting thing - remembering the combination lock on our bikes, followed by cycling on the pavement, into the path of oncoming pedestrians with not so much as an “excuse me.” (c) B. Woods