Reggie Kray and Mackerel

Time goes so fast.
It is a truth I tell to my eye bags in the mirror most mornings.
Inside I am still 19 and full of resilience with the enviable quality of being able to sleep on someone's floor and bounce up the next morning looking refreshed and bright-eyed, rather than walking like a lame John Wayne with piles, while clicking dislocated shoulder and hip joints back into place before brewing half a litre of espresso to combat the painful lack of sleep and telephone ordering an electric bed with memory foam mattress and pillow from the 24hr 'Orthopaedic Channel'.
One minute, I'm getting married, the next, my 7 year old bridesmaid from 1992 is planning her own wedding next year. I am officially old. I may cry at the wedding. (note to self - up the Prozac before September.). Anyway, time does indeed fly, and the older we get - the faster its little wings seem to beat.
One of the reasons I have been thinking a lot about time lately, is my children, namely the oldest two, who seem to have 'grown up' all of a sudden. I seem to have adapted okay to this phenomenon with my 15 yr old daughter even though none of her girl friends seems to have a 'sensible' curfew and she's always the first one in her group going home. She understands it's because I worry about her and think that the world's a scary place. I'm sure her friends think I'm mad.
So sue me.
She's lucky I don't follow her around wearing dark glasses and a false moustache, rapidly hiding in bushes when she turns round. My daughter is highly aware that things could be worse (She's very gateful for the invention of the mobile phone, without it, I could easily be stalking her.).
My son, however, is, has always been, and will always be, convinced that he is at the nadir of his own existence. The success of life for my son, is based on the amount of wool he can pull over his parents' eyes. At the age of 15, our uncanny knack to predict his next move (after having years of experience) is ticking him off. It's just not 'cool' for a fifteen year old to be that transparent. I realized too, that the time has come when I need to change 'how' I speak to him. I've always had to be very blunt with my son - euphemisms or sensitive suggestion have never really worked. Mainly because his constant 'Why?'s always reduced any 'sensitive suggestions' down to the wire and I have had to get to the point. Bluntly. For example;
'Maybe you should have a shower love'
'But I had one last month...'
'Yes I know that love - you should really shower every day...'
'Why?'
'Because it's usual to.'
*Getting exasperated and shouting, 'But why have I got to have one NOW?'
*squirming a bit, 'Because you need one.'
'BUT WHY???'
'Because you do.'
'BUT WHY???'

Hours of wasted time and energy later, I decided just to tell him that he needs to shower because he smells bad. Fullstop. We avoid all of that and cut to the chase. The trouble is at 13, he appreciated the bluntness. At 15, he's becoming sensitive to it and I need to respect that.
We have just had a talk about this. That sounds so reasonable, but really, it was an argument that peaked at the statement, made by my son and heir that I, his mother who has an almost 'psychic' gift of knowing when a lie is being told, is 'a right, bloody pain'. 'If you want us to get on, then get off my case.' - I think Reggie Kray said something similar as they carted him off to prison.
Resisting the urge to say, 'The only case I'll be 'on', my darlin', will be the one full of your clothes when you're zipping it up, on the day you leave home.', I calmed him down and we discussed the use of 'codewords', when he's inappropriate or hyperactive, to lessen his embarrassment at me 'getting on his case' in public.
I am trying to be positive. I really am. It's just that, I know that when our son is hyper and talking at six million miles an hour, without pausing and without actually ever finishing a sentence, he just doesn't listen. Unless I punch him in the face with a comedy boxing glove to break his flow, he won't hear me. It'll be that or he'll forget that we ever talked about using codewords and he'll think I'm just being bizarre... But for the sake of helping him to maintain his 'coolness', I am going with it.
So,if you see someone with a false moustache and shades, frantically chasing an adolescent male down the street, as he sings along to his MP3 player with abandon while swinging round lamp posts, and they're shouting over and over again 'The Red Mackerel is Flying Over the Blue Danube Tonight son', you'll know it's me...

The monotony of love

'To bother persistently with trivial complaints' - To nag.

I never did want to be classed as a 'nagger', but it seems to be a role I'm slipping into with ease which is a tad worrying because the next stage up from nagging mother is tyrannical mother-in-law and I don't know if I have the energy for that - let alone the inclination... but...

Every day is like the film 'Groundhog Day'.

My son wakes up every day with his memory seemingly completely wiped from the day before, which is a trait I would love. As I'm still stinging from a heated conversation the day before about the merits of putting clothes in the washing basket rather than leaving them to amass on the bedroom floor for so long that they form a small uprising, grow legs and walk to the washing machine of their own accord to escape the pungent aroma of festering underwear and clothes, he is blithely re-starting life stuffing the cutlery down the sides of the settee (again) as he un-stacks the dishwasher not wanting to sort out the knives and forks into their particular spaces in the sideboard drawer.
'Aah! I hear you say, 'why doesn't she just give him two sets of underwear and clothes, so he is forced, by mere clothing deprivation, to put them in the wash?'
Those of you with children like my beautiful but challenging son will be knowingly scoffing at that concept. I tried it, proud of myself for being so clever, only to be outwitted by the latest member of the ‘Guiness Book of Records’ in achieving the longest amount of time the same pair of underpants has been worn by one person – my boy, who thought that spraying his clothes with air freshener cleaned and sanitised them at the same time. If only...

Nagging, lists, notes, contracts of behaviour, self-esteem sessions, counselling sessions, bribery, affirmation, punishment... threats of uploading a photo of his bedroom to Facebook - I have spent years reinforcing every day basic rules hoping that one day some will sink in. And some have. But mostly every day, even now at 15 years old, involves standing over him as he brushes his teeth, washes, does his homework, etcetera, etcetera. I don't mind doing it so much now, 'nagging' scarily rolls off me automatically with less exasperation. Now that we have a diagnosis, I understand him more. Working against us is the unreasonableness of adolescence which doesn't help. In some ways I'm glad we didn't get the diagnoses of ADHD and PDD-NOS earlier because, who knows, we may have given up and just accepted his behaviour as typical instead of constantly reinforcing basic concepts. We just keep going, trying not to keep score - there's no merit in counting - it would just overwhelm me. Every day, the monotony of 'nagging' is only relieved by knowing this one thing; behind every 'nag' there is a subliminal 'I love you so much - I want to help you to grow to your full potential and if that means me constantly reinforcing basic rules, then so be it but I'm not giving up on you.'.

I 'really' tell him I love him most days, scared he'll forget that he is loved in his 'Groundhog Day' world.

I realise that I tell him that I love him through 'nagging' about 30 times a day.

But who's counting?

Hoisted by my own petard

Homework. Exams. Apparently not as important as re-arranging the furniture in your room and placing your book collection in order of size... Now I know that I am to blame for some of this newly adopted tactic by the son and heir to displace any school-related activity in favour of a more mind-numbing activity.
For 10 years, I have tried with a monumental effort, to get my son to tidy his room. For 10 years, I have also, with an even more monumental effort,tried to get him motivated to do his schoolwork and study.
Now, in a cunning twist of events and with a certain amount of intellectual aplomb, my son has decided to do his homework in his room (ok, he's 15 - we'll go with that) - but first, he has to completely overhaul his room to ensure it's habitability. Unfortunately, this process can take 2 hours - not leaving much time for schoolwork, but leaving an immaculate and ordered room. Now, this new approach towards his pit is, don't get me wrong, refreshing - visitors may use the bathroom and on the way, not mistake his room for a pig breeding centre or an experimental toxin laboratory. When people ask if they can use the bathroom, I glow with pride, I am like the woman from the shampoo ad - I shake my lovely shiney hair in a carefree manner and beam 'Of course, go right ahead, take your time, maybe even 'linger' for a while outside my son's room...'. I fight the urge to give them a camera.
The trouble is he knows I like 'tidy' and 'clean' and that I like his room to be tidy and, because his study time is obviously more important, I am going to have to utter words which I know will stick in my throat;

'Forget your room, come and study.'

Coup de grâce, checkmate, 'hoisted by your own petard', 'stitched up like a kipper' -he will use my words to his advantage for ever more. If only he put as much effort into life skills as he does into out-witting me... His bedroom will once more return to its natural state, while he pretends to work (staring at a school book for 3 hours while really plotting his next move). Once more, when visitors ask to use the bathroom, I'll look plaintively at them and say 'We haven't got one...', it's that or blindfold them while spraying half a can of 'Oust' in front of them as they climb the stairs...