I want to make an official complaint to the MP for Motherhood. When I signed up for this whole parenting thing I was under the impression that I could look forward to at least sixteen years of unconditional love, footie games in the park, sneaking into Disney movies and using the kids as an excuse to go to Pizza Hut. And all it would cost me is a lifetime of mother’s worry (breast or bottle, working versus stay-at-home, and will my cooking scar them for life?).
Apparently not. This week, a new study has revealed that childhood is effectively over by the age of eleven. Noooooooo. In future years, who’s going to come with me to see High School Musical 6 if my boys are too busy doing typical thirteen-year-old stuff like applying for their first mortgage and researching pensions?
Depressingly, though, I think the researchers have a point. In fact, in some cases childhood can end even earlier.
8 a.m. at the Low house: the air resounds with a panicked, ‘Where’s my hair gel?’ Husband? Me? Er, no. Low the Elder, aged seven, he of the boyband barnet, the one who inherited his mother’s shallow and superficial genes and prays every night to the Gods of Nike and Lacoste that I’ll buckle and let him have designer trainers.
Although close in age at six and seven, my boys are at opposite ends of the maturity spectrum. My youngest still believes that you should regularly smother your mother with kisses, still sleeps with a menagerie of furry animals, and is saving up his pocket money so he can adopt Scooby Doo.
But the older one? Witness the scene: the noise of football studs marching down the hallway announces his arrival home from football training. He strolls into the kitchen and, with a casual, ‘Hey Mum,’ bypasses me on the way to the fridge. There he pulls out a fajita wrap, ham, and a tin of corn, plops them on a plate, pours a glass of fresh orange juice, closes the fridge door and announces, ‘I’m just away to watch the game.’ The game. That’s the footie match on Setanta that he left a note for me to remember to Sky+.
He grabs the paper first every day to read the sports pages. He’s happy to have a two-hour conversation about the merits of the transfer window system. When I’m clothes shopping, he taps his watch and tuts every few minutes. That’s not a Primary 3 kid – it’s a miniature middle-aged man.
How did this happen? In the age-old tradition of maternal guilt, I’m wondering if it’s all my fault.
I’ve tried to avoid lavishing them with the perks of adulthood; much to their disgust, they don’t have TVs in their rooms, ditto DVD players, and I’m absolutely paranoid about the damage mobile phones may or may not do to the brain, so they won’t be getting those until they’re thirty. And at the first sign of fresh, dry air I still wrench them away from the computer games and prod them out the back door with a football.
On the other hand, however, I have encouraged the mature traits of independence and self-sufficiency, thinking that I was instilling valuable life skills. Since they could walk, they’ve been making their own beds, putting their clothes in the laundry basket and tidying their rooms. We haven’t put them down a mine, but they do have to set the dinner table, clear up afterwards and pitch in with the housework. And my youngest, completely unprompted by us, has taken to making the packed lunches every night and running the Dyson round the kitchen. He’ll make a lovely husband one day… as long as his new wife is prepared to accept the stuffed animals and adoption of Scooby Doo.
So, parents who’ve been through this, help me out here with the dilemmas of family life. How do I make sure that their childhood lasts as long as possible, while teaching them to be responsible and domesticated? How do I hold back the pressure to grow up too quickly? What, exactly, is the transfer window system? And if you can’t answer with any of those issues, maybe you could offer some practical support – in a few years’ time, fancy coming to see High School Musical 6?