The mother of a rising adolescent (again)

But when she’s not a sweet, affectionate, adoring daughter, she’s – well – quite a formidable enemy.

Why? Because our children know us well. They hear us say things like, ‘I shouldn’t have eaten that tenth teacake, I’ll be huge by Thursday’ or, ‘I’d lose my head if it wasn’t screwed on properly’ And then they build up artillery of verbal weapons to use against us.

My daughter’s like a first-class barrister. ‘But you said yesterday it wasn’t good to follow other people. Now you want me to eat lentils because you do.’ I thought I looked quite slinky in my little skirt and jumper the other day. Along comes adorable daughter and pokes my tummy. The tummy I don’t have, you understand.

Another day. What would you friend like to eat when she comes over?’ ‘Don’t do chips. Yours are always burned.’ Another day. ‘Are you going to wear that jumper?’ OK. I know adolescents need to sever the ties with their mothers to become individuals. And I know from having an older child that she’ll come back and there’ll be no more enmity.

The rationality doesn’t help. For some reason all mothers of growing children look weak and ineffectual. As though we’ve lost our backbone, our ability to argue, reason, justify and even think.

My achievements to date lose all value. ‘So what if you were the best dancer when you went clubbing; you’re old now.’ And, ‘I’m glad I didn’t go to your school/listen to your music/ride your boring bike.’ (No gears, a tartan shopping box on the back and lights powered by a dynamo – you know, they go off when you stop pedalling.) These days I do a lot of sighing. I lose energy. My daughter’s energy is boundless and she’s fearless. An outsider would think I don’t know what to say to my daughter. Truth is, I know when to stop. It’s easy to crush a young person and use adult repartee to squash a developing mind.

But the whole pint of adolescence and the fighting between parent and child is their development. They’re flexing their intellectual muscles and seeing what they’re capable of.

And they’re learning about social skills – how to defend themselves, argue, debate, stand their ground and still find there’s love at the end.

She laughs at my childhood hobbies and my adult habits. She mocks my hair and ugly shoes and the covers of the books I read. (Looks so boring’) What she’s doing is establishing that what she does is OK. That’s an empowering tool in life. And she needs something to knock so she can create something better. (Destruction is a vital part of construction.) So off I go to marinate some meat (‘You shouldn’t use that bowl’) and cook some dinner (‘why did you cook it like that?’) Some days, by 9.00pm I feel I’ve been in court all day. Charged with contradicting myself, saying ‘Hello’ in the wrong way, sounding old, forgetting my sister’s postcode, burning chips, not removing chipped nail polish, not knowing a song by Bruno Mars, not having straight hair, repeating myself and being generally and overwhelmingly uncool.

I wonder sometimes how I can live with myself. My daughter wonders the same.

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