Teenage Daydream

I have recently made a conscious decision to love my teenager. I love him anyway but I mean to love his teenagerness. My daughter Regina, left home three years ago and she did have her moments in her teenage years but I simply don’t remember it being quite as traumatic (to the rest of us) as the transmogrification of little Reg to bigger Reg.

As he races to being 16 I know that it’s only a matter of time before his fleeting appearances are just memories and for that reason I intend to stay in the moment and love it, all of it, and without reaching for the Valium. These fleeting appearances are now down to a ten-second jaunt through the lounge on his way to the fridge before embarking on the ten-seconds return journey to his bedroom loaded with so much food that I suspect he has smuggled in three friends or is feeding a character from Whistle Down the Wind.

Occasionally after opening cupboards and wondering if we’ve been burgled by some phantom crockery thief I dare to venture into his domain with the mission aim to retrieve plates which I encounter having various hues of mould growing upon along with glasses and cups all containing an inch of radioactive purple liquid happily undisturbed and trying to evolve with haste so as to crawl up the sides.
However on the plus side I do now know every note of each Pendulum track, albeit subconsciously as their beats seem to be a permanent soundtrack in our humble abode.

Lately he seems to have discovered clumsiness like never before and has an uncanny knack of filling a pint glass with squash of a colour I can’t find in the spectrum and then suddenly, as if it’s on purpose, knocking the glass over, but never on a spare piece of accessible floor but instead under the sofa, under the washing machine, over the TV remote and on top of the bolier. On a recent spillage incident he made his way to grab some kitchen roll only to flick his hand to meet with the cordless phone for it to respond with a double summersault and a perfect rip entry into the cat’s very recently filled water bowl. The phone has since been ringing itself and leaving messages.

This morning he surpassed himself whilst rummaging in the fridge managing quite deftly to usurp a full carton of double cream which then did this manic thing of trying to smother each and every vegetable in the bottom tray before heading for the door that once opened, hours later by me, took flight and headed for cover under the fridge and round the back of the fixed kitchen units standing helplessly nearby.
I was truly befuddled how 10 litres of stodgy lazy cream can fit into a half litre carton and suddenly transform, once toppled, to a most athletic dairy product.
Of course, he didn’t do it and I actually believe he believes that.

I’ve got to take him driving soon so please pray for me.

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