Just keep them fed. Always buy bread, even if you don’t think you need it, buy it. Buy two loaves at a time. Such was the advice from the elders about raising teenagers. Especially teenage boys; they inhale bread. Most homes have their own smell, our signature note is toast. First question in the morning sometimes, from the now 6ft Small Man, before I’ve had a sniff of coffee, is What’s for dinner? Later, if the aroma of dinner is not to his liking it sets the tone. What’s not to like about a home cooked meal? Liberties. It has to be said I recollect turning the key in the house I grew up in, and the waft of stew with the covert parsnips hitting me full on. Double Latin on a Monday morning would have been preferable. Thus there was a causal correlation between what was for dinner and mood rating on the stroppyness scale. Now it’s the reverse, the tables have turned and my children are doing the same to me. Bloody karma.
There is a corner in our kitchen that’s magnetic, where the fridge and food press reside. The physicists in Cern should come and have a gander at it. Like moths to a flame the kids stand staring, fridge door ajar, the light hypnotizing them, like it's a portal to another world. Then they chant their mantra There’s never anything to eat in this house. They move to the press. Again, standing, staring. What they really mean is that they have eaten, but have forgotten they ate all the bread, cream crackers, Nutella, peanut butter, biscuits, ham and cheese (actually I eat all the cheese). I should have shares in Tesco and Lidl. I half expected I might have even received a call at the reading of the will from Mr Ferrero’s solicitor, he of the Nutella dynasty, given the copious quantities they go through each week. There’s never anything to eat, they say, as they grow like weeds. Their bones waving hasta luego to their achy muscles and joints. I feel like a Bean an Tí running a B&B, feeding and washing. With their ever changing moods they are like visitors, going into their rooms one person but you don’t know who you are going to meet when them come out, especially the girls.
All three will be in secondary school in September. I feel as time goes on I may need to employ a transcendental shamanistic approach to try and retrieve their child spirits. That or just increase my running and red wine intake, potentially simultaneously. The child essence that used to look up and smile and wonder at our perceived knowledge, has vanished. Now, I feel like John Snow from Game of Thrones. Not cause I’m partial to sporting a wildebeest around my shoulders but because I’m told you know nothin on a daily basis. Their levels of frustration and annoyance could power a small village if you bottled it. Resistance on their part is no longer futile as the balance must shift to give them a little more autonomy. I need a ‘negotiations’ skills class from the queen mother herself Cersei Lannister (too much?). Let the games begin.
There is a corner in our kitchen that’s magnetic, where the fridge and food press reside. The physicists in Cern should come and have a gander at it. Like moths to a flame the kids stand staring, fridge door ajar, the light hypnotizing them, like it's a portal to another world. Then they chant their mantra There’s never anything to eat in this house. They move to the press. Again, standing, staring. What they really mean is that they have eaten, but have forgotten they ate all the bread, cream crackers, Nutella, peanut butter, biscuits, ham and cheese (actually I eat all the cheese). I should have shares in Tesco and Lidl. I half expected I might have even received a call at the reading of the will from Mr Ferrero’s solicitor, he of the Nutella dynasty, given the copious quantities they go through each week. There’s never anything to eat, they say, as they grow like weeds. Their bones waving hasta luego to their achy muscles and joints. I feel like a Bean an Tí running a B&B, feeding and washing. With their ever changing moods they are like visitors, going into their rooms one person but you don’t know who you are going to meet when them come out, especially the girls.
All three will be in secondary school in September. I feel as time goes on I may need to employ a transcendental shamanistic approach to try and retrieve their child spirits. That or just increase my running and red wine intake, potentially simultaneously. The child essence that used to look up and smile and wonder at our perceived knowledge, has vanished. Now, I feel like John Snow from Game of Thrones. Not cause I’m partial to sporting a wildebeest around my shoulders but because I’m told you know nothin on a daily basis. Their levels of frustration and annoyance could power a small village if you bottled it. Resistance on their part is no longer futile as the balance must shift to give them a little more autonomy. I need a ‘negotiations’ skills class from the queen mother herself Cersei Lannister (too much?). Let the games begin.
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