Stressed - Who Me?

Ours can’t be the only household at the moment swamped by a high volume of stress pheromones.

It’s exam time. There isn’t a clear surface anywhere in the house – everything is covered with note paper, writing material, text books. The poor teenager sits with her nose to the grindstone, morning, noon and night.

I tell her she is doing too much, she argues she is not doing enough. Revision has become competitive.  First thing in the morning she learns from Facebook that her friend Fred has been in the college library since seven o’clock. He was there until closing time last night. He will get A*’s, she will only get A’s…

Things have changed a lot since my day. Back in the 1980’s I undertook one of those new-fangled modular style courses at the local Technical College.  I accrued passes, and apart from a Business Studies A Level which I took alongside RSA typing and shorthand (yes – it really was that long ago) I didn’t have to sit two hour long hand-written exams, regurgitating a whole load of facts and figures.  I wasn’t going on to university – my life didn’t depend whether I passed or failed, whether I got that all important A* or just a sad old E, which I did, for my Business Studies. By the time I left college I already had a job lined up. Those were the days.

Naturally I try and sympathise. Of course it’s tough, I know it’s important, but it really isn’t the be all and end all.  Exams can be re-sat, careers – and universities - can be and do get changed. What you want at 18 is not always what you want at 21, or 30.

I know the teenager will do her best. I tell her to breathe, take a break.  Brains reach saturation point. There is only so much knowledge that can be consumed at any one time.  Obviously I don't understand at all.

Our whole lives are now on hold for the next couple of weeks.  We are walking on egg-shells, tip-toeing around piles of papers. I provide food and drink upon demand, I am on standby for the emergency dash to the train station.  I have read essays, listened to the re-counting of philosophical and psychological practices, recitations of quotations. I will be there in that exam room with her and I too am stressed beyond belief....

Soon it will all be over and the teenager won't be the only one hitting the vodka and heaving a huge sigh of relief.

Starting Over...(again)

I woke up this morning and decided to start blogging again.

I’m not quite sure why it fell by the wayside. I’ve hardly been busy – but perhaps that was the problem. Not enough to write about.

It’s all right harping on about the challenges of being an ex-ex-pat but eighteen months on and it's as if I’d never been away.  There's nothing surreal about shopping in Tesco and bumping into people I’d known at secondary school.

My creative writing tutor says we all need a ‘writers’ platform, where we can boast about our successes and promote our work.  We need to blog, tweet, and brag about ourselves on Facebook. I’m self-effacing so that type of thing doesn’t sit comfortably with me, but having finally had a short story ‘accepted’ by a magazine - albeit it a local free one (and the story is on hold until later in the year) – I probably do need to start getting myself out there again.  

So, six months on from my last post, where I am? Adjusting.  The husband has returned home so we’ve progressed from me, the cat and a teenager, to a household of four. It’s amazing the additional amount of housework one extra creates -  and a routine again as well. He wants proper meals – none of that oh we’ll have scrambled egg on toast tonight in front of the TV I could get away before.

The teenager is also now 18, a fully qualified driver and less teenager and more young adult – although one look in her room confirms the teenage status. Keep the door shut on it all the parenting books tell you, so I do.

Daughter No 1 graduated and is working abroad.  We’ve obviously given her the taste for the travel bug.  She is also a blogger – probably another incentive to take it up again (a little competition is always a good thing).  She has moved to Asia, where she is embracing a celebrity lifestyle as something of a novelty – a blonde in Beijing.

 I hit the half century – a depressing day brightened considerably by an early morning flight to Rome and a wonderful week’s holiday in Italy – which I could have written numerous travel blogs about, and probably should have done, although it’s a bit late now.

The weight gained from seven solid days of pasta has refused to come off, despite lengthy walks – currently in waders and wellingtons along the river.  I had hoped this weight increase could be blamed on muscle from increased sessions at the gym, but a diagnosis of high cholesterol at my over 50’s health check put paid to that. Too much cheese, wine and yoghurt apparently (I thought yoghurt was good for you?)

Anyway, life isn’t so bad on the downhill slope.  I’ve decided not to hurtle, but to gently slalom. I can’t put off the ageing process so I might as well enjoy it. At least I can finally put my ‘senior moments’ down to just that.

One picture of Italy - more may follow 

Bonding

The reason I haven’t written any new posts for a few weeks is not because I haven’t done anything to write about, but because of the gym thing –  something had to give. I was hoping it was going to be the housework but alas it appears to have been my creativity.

I've been busy, I've done loads I could have written about but no witty words have sprung to mind. I have swam lengths hoping for inspiration, I have pounded the treadmill and even my usual strolls along the river have failed to produce any literary greats. So I gave it a break.

Time is moving on and it is nearly a whole year since our return from the US. Do I miss that Californian sun?Just a tad.

The teenager has commenced her study leave for AS levels and I realise she is coming to the end of her first year of UK education.   She is learning to drive – yet again – and apparently managing well with the complications of a clutch and a stick shift, and tiny, winding narrow roads.  Teaching the teenager to drive in the US was a great mother and daughter bonding moment - but I'm not sure it would work that well over here. I've decided to let a professional driving instructor have that pleasure instead. 

Taking the teenager to the stage show of the Full Monty was a fun evening out and also good for bonding.  The bar tills malfunctioned in the interval and we had to gulp our glasses of wine down very quickly before returning to our seats but I think that only added to the overall experience. We also went shopping and to my great delight, now that the teenager is a working girl with money of her own, she actually  turned her back on the Jack Wills sweatpants with a comment of ‘I can buy those for half the price in H&M’. Exactly what I had been telling her for years.

We've decided we could also bond over the new Great Gatsby movie - it is one of my all time favourite books along with Tender is the Night. The teenager loves them both too, but will we be disappointed? Robert Redford will always be my Gatsby and I'm not so sure about Leonardo Dicaprico (who incidentally comes ahead of Leonardo di Vinci when I googled his name to correct the spelling - a sad sign of these shallow Hollywood times we live in.)

The arrival of the university prospectuses has also provided more bonding.  I hadn't realised that booking appointments for Open Days was such a competitive process - we have apparently left it 'quite late' and lots of  advertised talks and tours are already full. How can people be so organised?  I am starting to feel like an inadequate parent and need to get my super-school-mom uniform back on.  I need to FOCUS.  At the end of June we now have two early morning 6.00 am car journey starts to be on schedule for the only available slots  at 9.00 am.  Not something to look forward to. Perhaps I do need to fast track her driving lessons in the hope that if she passes her test before then she could always just go by herself......

A Weekend in Bath

I’ve just spend a great weekend catching up with some old friends and enjoying an afternoon at the thermae spa in Bath.

Bath is a great city to visit with or without the relatively new addition of the modern Thermae Spa,  and of course people have been coming to Bath to ‘take the waters’ since Roman times.

It’s a relatively compact, slightly hilly city, easy to walk round, and of course a complete tourist trap.  Even my friends in the US had heard of Bath. The city centre is full of  bustling speciality shops and boutiques as well as the usual high street department stores, a multitude of cafes, tea rooms, bars and restaurants.  It is one of those quintessentially British places, eclectic, bohemian and rather posh.  

I was meeting up with old friends from the Tech college I had attended over 30 years ago, two of whom I hadn’t seen for 20 odd years. We had a lot of catching up to do.

The Thermae Spa was a real treat.  Two hours sat in bubbling hot water in a roof top pool overlooking Bath’s glorious Georgian  rooftops and the surrounding countryside. So what if it was raining, we were wet anyway.

There are two large spa pools and four differently aromatic steam rooms available on a two hour ‘open’ ticket at the  Spa.  As all we wanted to do was sit and talk, it was great.  It was only the fact that we were turning (more) wrinkly that made us want to get out.

When I first met these friends, I was a teenager, just like the one I have at home now. Partying, drinking, and desperately trying to squeeze college work into a busy social life.  We all got married within a few years of each other and all have children approximately the same age. Obviously there have been some major life changes and everyone has had their ups and downs, but it was a great reunion, reminiscing about college days and discovering what we’d all been up to in the last thirty  years.  

In my head I’m nowhere near as old as my birth certificate insists, and by the end of the weekend  it really did feel like we had only walked out of that college refectory twenty minutes or so ago.  The wonders of modern technology make it so much easier to keep in touch - the odd like or comment on facebook really does a go a long way to preserve or re-new a friendship.

Naturally after a night of heavy drinking, and a weekend climbing up and down three flights of stairs to our attic room in a B&B, the soothing effects of the Thermae Spa had totally worn off. My body was definitely telling me I was nearer that birth certificate age than I would ever care to admit, but if I have to grow old, at least I'm going to do it disgracefully in a very posh place.

.  

Week 9

This week’s good news is that the teenager has finally been offered a part time job. She has been applying for jobs for ever since we got back from the US.  No longer mixing with the rich and spoilt of Beverly Hills, I felt the amount of pocket money handed over every month could now be decreased. What better incentive could she have?

To give credit where it’s due she has been an avid  job hunter – but the frustration of on-line applications, and a standard procedure designed to cover everything from prospective store managers to a Saturday girl - has had her thwart. My teenager does not fit the norm; she hasn’t had a standard UK education, nor has she any work experience.

Apart from the major stumbling block of no GCSE’s and very often no room on an on-line form to explain their absence – ie three years in the US education system – I imagine most of these applications are assessed  by a rigid tick-box short-list criteria at company headquarters, and quite naturally on paper she doesn’t look like the ideal candidate.

Back in the old days when I was a girl Saturday jobs could normally be procured simply by going into a shop and asking, or at the very most handing in a CV.  Today’s job market is very different.

She has no work experience – she is a student.  One on-line application absolutely refused to let her move onto the next page without putting in a date she left her ‘previous employment’.

My teenager is intelligent and articulate – I knew if she could just secure an interview she could probably secure a job, and thankfully, eventually it has happened. It’s only temporary but it’s a start, and at least it will be something to put on the next application form even if this one doesn’t work out.

 I recently met up  with an old college friend also the mum of two daughters, for a chick flick and a long walk in the countryside.  We reminisced about the good old days - how different our teenage years were. Life really was so much simpler then.  I'm pretty sure it was also a lot quieter. 

I want my teenager to bring her friends home  – I’d much they were where I could see them than wandering around the streets at night. What I don’t want to do, however, is hear them.  The teenager is pretty good at turning up with waifs and strays, and to be honest, I don't mind. We've a big house - we need to fill it. However, last weekend I was sorely tempted to send a text upstairs at 2.00 am in the morning asking when chatty man was finally going to quieten down.

‘You should be glad we were only talking,’ was the teenager’s cheeky retort when I complained about the noise the following morning.

Yes I know I should be thankful for small mercies –  as my health visitor once told me when I complained a certain baby only slept for twenty minutes at a time.  Be grateful for those twenty minutes she said.  However I never  anticipated that seventeen years later I'd still be struggling to get a  decent night’s sleep.....

Week 4

As the parent of a teenage girl, my life is beset with worries and doubts.  Questions remain unanswered, the daily concerns of who is she with, where is she going, what is she up to, and why wont she wear a coat ?

A friend who has come late into motherhood and is now having to cope with the tantrums of a three year old regularly asks me when does it get better. I tell it doesn’t – enjoy it now, this is the good bit. A three year old  normally wakes in the morning and greets you with a loving smile; she might sulk for five minutes if she doesn’t get her own way, she will stamp and scream, or go rigid when you try and strap her in a car seat, but ultimately you are still in control and she will put on a coat.

Am I the only mother in the land who has seen her teenager heading off outside in recent weeks, with temperatures well below zero degrees, in several inches of snow, minus a coat?

I could dismiss it as being out of practice, after all, three years in California  and we’re not used to wearing coats. Even in the height of winter, a coat was not a necessity. Day time temperatures would regularly reach that of an English summer and the most that was usually required in the early  morning or late evening would be light jacket, or an extra layer. The teenager would trot off to High School proudly attired in her cosy school sweatshirt, which incidentally she was more than happy to wear at home and on days out,  sporting her uniform with as much aplomb as if it were Jack Wills.

Naturally on our return to the UK I deemed a winter coat a necessity, after all although she only has a short walk from home to the station, and a short walk from the station to sixth form, she was going to be out in all elements.  Not expecting a nearly 17 year old to wear the same coat that had remained unworn in the UK since she was 13, cash was generously given at the beginning of autumn with the specific instruction to "choose a coat you will wear."

Has it been worn? No.  As temperatures in the UK plummet the new coat remains in the wardrobe. She layers up in two pairs of tights, several cardigans and an old shirt.  

I, meanwhile, have been wearing a selection of coats indoors reluctant to remove any item of clothing when I return from a rare venture outside.

It must be a generation gap thing.

The House of Horror

These were the rules: Yes she could have a party but for no more than 20 people, they had to stay in the kitchen and the conservatory, use the downstairs cloakroom and definitely no smoking indoors. We would go to the pub, but we would come back. It had to end at midnight.

It’s only a small Halloween party, I told myself, a chance for the teenager to catch up with her old school friends, socialise with some of the new, and drag in a couple of complete strangers off the street. The perfect party combo.  Add in some beer, copious amounts of vodka and a generous dose of who knows what else, and there you have it - 30 teenagers in the kitchen, in various stages of fancy dress, undress and total inebriation. Of course they weren’t all in the kitchen -  just go straight to your room mum, she said, don’t look at the stair carpet and don’t worry about the lad passed out on the landing or the two puking up in the bathroom.....

So how were these teenagers planning on getting home? On the train? Good what time is the last train? Half an hour ago. Apparently she had told them all they could stay the night. Where exactly??

The lights went on and the damage assessed.  Why do they drink so much? Why don’t they know when to stop? Why can’t they pick up a bottle when they break it? Why can’t they take their shoes off when they come in from the rain and head upstairs? Why were they even going upstairs? Why was I making such a fuss?  

Because I was genuinely concerned – not just about the state of my bathroom and my kitchen but about the welfare of these teenagers. I had visions of police, paramedics, parents, professional carpet cleaners..... 

So was I mad to let her have a party? Definitely according to my other half, what was I even thinking of? Discussing anything on our regular skype sessions is extremely difficult – conversations generally run along the lines of I can’t hear you, you’re frozen, you’re pixellated, what was that you said? I said she’s asked to have a small party on Halloween. I think his reply must have been lost somewhere in cyber space.

Those who did stay the night (and it was very many) seemed more than happy to clear up in the morning and they all assured me they’d had a great time.  If great referred to the amount of vomit produced, I could understand it, but is it really such fun throwing up all night?  

24 hours later and the house was more or less back to normal.  The worries and dramas of the previous evening had evaporated - the lost i-phone  had been found, the 16 year old set off by herself on the 3 mile walk home at 1.00 am had safely returned, and the passed out had revived. 

Nobody died, the teenager cheerfully pointed out. There was no permanent damage apart from a broken candle holder which I didn’t even like, the stair carpet was already looking better after only one attempt with the Vax, and ever since we’d moved in we’d been saying the hallway walls needed freshening up with a new coat of paint. In fact, both the bathrooms and the kitchen are now a lot cleaner than they’ve ever been so she’s probably done me a favour really....