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?

Dysfunctional? Look at your car...

'I don't ever want to go out with you again... so don't ask me.' - serious teenage rant after day trip to Barcelona'.

When do you stop forcing your teenage children to go on family excursions with you?

They would say 'now.'

We want them to come, but more than that, we want them to enjoy being together. Part of me knows that the reality of a family trip will not live up to my aspirations of being like the Waltons but without the gingham.
I blame the car.
Things really are stacked against us from the off regarding a happy day out. Having a moody teenage son who is built like Hagrid doesn't help, combine that fact with our car, which is probably the smallest family car you can get without going to a car dealer in Oompa Loompa land and which is only a 3-door hatchback. The main reason for buying a tiny car with no access for the passengers at the back was to discourage them from opening the doors at high speed and throwing themselves out, shouting 'Nooooooo! We're not with them...'.

Normally the kids have to endure their parents' singing as we drive along. We make sure it's loud and raucous so they can't drown us out with their MP3s.
After half an hour of precision packing to get them in the back of the car, (A tricky procedure as we have to strategically position our car-sickness prone teenage daughter and our anxiety ridden 9 yr-old, who really does not want to be vomited on, which results in our clinically depressed Hagrid having to sit in the middle with his feet propped up and his knees up by his ears, bemoaning the fact that he doesn't suffer from an ailment which would ensure his place in a 'window seat'.) and 2 minutes of being 'on the road', they are forced to endure our latest rendition of a Lady Gaga song but with made-up words - normally about happy families or sulky teenagers. It's at this point, 'Hagrid' is made aware of the advantage of having your knees either side of your ears - muffling quality.

What a happy sight we make on the highways of Spain - in the front - parents oblivious, singing and swaying, happy and carefree. Pan to the back, where the squashed, deformed faces and desperate, open hands of bemused children are pressed against the windows with only enough room for them to write in the condensation from their breath on the glass - 'PLEASE ADOPT ME'...

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...