Well, for a start, I'm full of shit. I've only 'been' 9 times today, so I suppose that's an improvement on yesterdays 22 times. There will probably be more -- unless I lie down and keep VERY still! Irritable Bowel Syndrome; what a laugh that is. If you're running to the loo all the time, you can't go anywhere or do anything much. Even if you're 'stuck' you still have to run to the loo because the cramps make you feel like you want to 'go' anyway. To be honest, I rarely suffer from the latter. Last week I did though and that was bad enough.
To anyone reading this, I should warn you: I often talk shit as well. I am accused of 'blowing things up out of all proportion' frequently. The old-fashioned term for this is, I believe, 'making mountains out of molehills'. Anyway, I do both -- all the time. This doesn't necessarily mean that there are no mountains or that there are never any huge stresses. The trouble is, I can't seem to tell the difference between minor small stuff and great big, life-changing stuff. It's ALL stress to me. To other people, I may seem to be blowing things up disproportionately, but believe me, from inside 'me' everything really is huge. The pain of fibromylagia, keeping six mental cats and two equally daft dogs, kids -- the ones here and the ones grown up and gone. Everything. Including the shit.
So I live here with a teenaged boy (14 going on 44, although sometimes, 14 acting like a 4 year old). Mostly, we get along pretty well, even though he is a long-haired, enormous (5'11") Gothy rebel. It just so happens I rather like loud, heavy music and the Gothy clothes are sooooo cool. I wish they'd been around when I was in my teens. If they had been, I'd have put the 'oth' in Goth!
You might not guess from the way I write, but I cuss rather a lot. I've always done it, ever since I was about 16 (when it was considered VERY bad). I suppose now, it's just habit. It's f*cking this and f*cking that. If I get mad though, I generally don't cuss all that much, I just use long, complicated words spoken between tightly clenched teeth. Anyway, I'm not po-faced about kids cussing. I know most of them do it when they aren't at home. Just listen at the gates of any primary or secondary school and you might even learn some new cuss words. I always allowed my kids to cuss all they want once they got to secondary school age -- with a few basic rules: If you cuss AT me, I'll slap your face; if you cuss in company, or shame me in any way, you'll suffer for it later.
All the other kids cussed a fair old bit when they were teenagers. After all, I guess it's pretty cool to be able to cuss in front of your parents. Enough for other people to think you and your mum are cool anyway.
The trouble now is, this particular 14 year old just cusses randomly all the time. He also cusses AT me a fair bit without getting his face slapped. This has something to do with the following: he's a black-belt in Tae Kwon Do (what idiot paid for those lessons I hear you wonder) and so automatically 'blocks' anything coming toward his face in an aggressive manner. I'm also a lot older and considerably frailer than I was when the others were young; by the time I've struggled out of the armchair, he's left the country! Since I really cannot be doing with rows and screaming fits these days, I mostly snap out some rebuke (which he totally ignores) and remain seated grumbling to myself. Bad form. Bad parenting. Bugger. (There: my first blog cuss word).
All the other kids had a 'three strikes and you're out' upbringing. That is -- first I ask you. Then I tell you. Then I shout. They rarely got further than the shout because bad things happened if it went past that. Loss of privileges like going out to play, sweeties or watching TV. In this way, all the others grew up with a great deal of respect. Generally, if I got as far as shouting, they were scared to death. I've tried to continue that with this 14 year old but it is definitely not working.
All the other kids (there were six of them) got their quota of smacks when they were little (up to three years old). I'm not saying one should batter one's kids, of course not. But when the little git is just about to stick their fingers in a plug socket, a sharp slap on the back of the hand teaches them firstly that doing that hurts -- although a smacked hand is rarely as fatal as 40,000 volts and secondly, that after the shout, something bad might happen. Hence, by the time all the others were 3 years old, I was firmly in the driver's seat as it were. This kid was different. He was just 2 years old when I woke and found him to all intents and purposes, dead. Off we rushed to the hospital with worried paramedics telling me he was 'comatose'. Blah blah blah. I'm not going to go into all the details but, after twenty minutes, the crash team at the hospital found that his blood sugar level was 0.8! (Healthy is anywhere between 4.5 and 8.0). They said blood sugar, I assumed diabetes. Wrong. After 7 months of hospital appointments and exhaustive tests, it was found he has a rare metabolic condition called MCADD. Basically, he's missing an enzyme in his body and so cannot convert glucose stored in body fat into usable glucose. They told me he is very frail (even though he looked strong and healthy) and if his blood sugar suddenly dropped, he could die suddenly.
In short, I left the hospital with a prescription for L-Carnitine (which apparently helps), some Hypo-Stop syrup and a great deal of fear and panic. Shortly after that, I had a nervous breakdown. Whoopee-do! That was fun (NOT). I had loads of support and much medication and 'recovered'. The touble is, I never really did recover completely. The first thing down the pan was the the three strikes and you're out. It's really tough to be ever so firm and a disciplinarian with a kid who may just drop dead any second. Hence, the little blighter got away with murder -- and he nearly did murder one of his brothers in a fit of temper. So. In my panic and fear, I lost the reins completely. Now I'm stuck with the consequences. Again: BUGGER!
So today was a shit day. I've only been asking/begging/telling the boy for four weeks to clean the bomb-site that is his bedroom. Generally, I avoid the place -- after all, the room is inhabited by the species 'teenaged boy' so not a good place for anyone over the age of about 17 to be. However, there are limits. When one can no longer see either the floor or the bed and the lad has completely run out of clothing, it is time to get it sorted. So. Four weeks ago, I started to ask him to clean and tidy his room. This was met with "Yeah, all right, in a bit," or "Not now, I'm going out/listening to music/talking to my mates on MSN/about to get something to eat." After a week of asking, I started the telling him to clean and tidy his room. Same response. Now and then, he said stuff like "I'm gonna go clean my room in a bit". Progress. Or not. After a week of telling, I began to nag. Really nag. Same or similar responses. By the time I began shouting and making a scene about it, he'd thought up some really good shit to fling back like "It's not your problem. It's my room and I don't care." or "Why should you be bothered? It's not your room." Stuff like that. Fair enough. BUT I keep having to remind myself that it's MY house and I'm the Mummy. I lowered myself to begging and pleading, trying bribery all sorts. All to no avail.
Well today, he suddenly decides he wants to go to visit his best mate. I said 'no' the first three times he asked. I didn't like the idea of having to be away from a toilet for more than ten minutes -- it takes thirty minutes to drive to his mates house and back. Then I got to thinking: how clever it would be if I tell him he can go to his mates for a few hours IF he tidies his room up? I did this, thinking he'd bound off up the stairs like an eager little bunny and turn World War 63 into Paradise in about an hour (by which time the Immodium might have started working). Wrong. He tells his mate on the phone he can't come after all because his mum is a total retard and won't bring him unless he tidies his room -- which will apparently take about 5 hours! Wheedling and reasoning for about thirty minutes and off he goes to 'do' his room. I swallow Immodium, have a cup of tea and think I have an hour or so to spare. Wrong.
Just fifteen minutes later, the offending teenaged creature reappears bearing a dustbin bag which looks as if it may contain a couple of empty crisp packets. Two minutes later he throws a stinking heap of dirty laundry down the stairs which he then proceeds to push through the kitchen into the utility room with his feet -- because it's too vile to touch. Then he says the room is done and will I take him to his mates house now.
Suspending my disbelief (particularly since I heard him tell his mate -- who suggested he thrust everything under the bed -- that he could probably 'bodge it' in less than an hour) I clamber the stairs to inspect the work. The only thing which was different was that I could see a little bit of the floor. Used plates, dishes and cups still littered the place. The bed was unmade and covered with debris and, not to put too fine a point on it, rubbish. Empty crisp and snack wrappers, empty cola and soft drink bottles littered the corners. There was still quite a quantity of soiled laundry laying about and in the corner, beneath a couple of mats, was a vast heap of ... well whatever stuff teenaged boys fill their rooms with.
So. Of course, I pointed out all the above and told him 'not good enough' and what he'd need to do to make it acceptable. Not least, clear the floor and sweep it, if not mop it with VERY strong disinfectant. Unfortunately, the smart-arse cussed and got aggressive and pretty angry. So I left the room, went downstairs and made another cup of tea. There followed no less than three hours of the following:
"Can I go to my mates now?"
"When you've done your room."
"I've done my room. You said tidy it, not clean it as well."
"Do you room, please."
"I've done it. Can I go to my mates now?"
"When you've done your room. Do it now please."
"FFS. I've done my f*cking room. Can I go to my mates now?"
"When you've done your room. Do it now please."
"F*cking hell! I've done my f*cking room. Can I go to my mates now?"
"When you've done your room. Do it now please."
Anyway, the cussing and shouting got worse. I kept repeating myself, determined not to lose my temper or to say anything else. When he got really abusive and started calling me an old cow, a bitch, a retard and much, much worse, I changed my phrase to: "Take yourselt away from me now. Go to your room."
More abuse. The mantra from me, "Go to your room."
Eventually, he went. By that time, I'd decided I couldn't 'do' life like this any more. My friend called around. I told her I intended to place him in the care of the local authority tomorrow. She thought it a good idea. I really meant it when I said it. I really did think I would do it too. I even sent a text to his older brother, telling him I was going to do it.
Two hours later, the offending teenager came back downstairs and decided to have something to eat. He started out cooking. I removed the pizza from his hands and told him to tidy his room and then he could cook it. He tried to defy me and cook it anyway. I told him I'd take it out of the oven and bin it unless he obeyed me! There followed a long monologue from the teenager as to how I was impinging on his human rights and anyway, due to his MCADD I could not refuse him food. Of course, I replied in my 'reasonable' tone of voice, that I was only deferring food and clearing his room would only take an hour if he got right down to it. Finally, I won and he went and did it.
End of blog? Not quite. After he'd cooked and eaten his pizza, he went off to run an errand for his older brother -- all thoughts of visiting his mate apparently forgotten. After all, by this time, it was nearly 8pm. His older brother apparently told him he'd pushed his luck too far and that if he didn't start behaving himself (he actually told him to suck up to me and be REALLY pleasant and helpful) he'd be going into care. Of course, by the time all this went on, I'd more or less forgotten I'd intended to do that. (I did warn you, I'm full of shit).
Long story cut short. He was pissy about the threat of being put into care, got into a hell of a rage about it in fact. I tried to talk to him -- tell him I love him to bits and really care about how he gets on in life but that I cannot cope with the way he's being and do not know what else to do -- but he screamed and cussed abuse at me and then stormed out of the house with the words "See you NEVER!"
OK. It is past 10pm by now. He's gone off out into the dark without a coat or a mobile phone or any money -- and is apparently never coming back. The fact that he's big and mean and very, very mad (as well as being a black belt in TKD) is no comfort when one reminds oneself that he is actually only 14 and there are some bigger, meaner, badder buggers about who could do him some real harm, not to mention the possibility of freezing to death when the rage-heat wears off. BUGGER!
So. A text to his older brother -- who thinks I'VE blown it up out of all proportion and says he will go out to look for him (even though they don't get on and the appearance of the brother he likes least might make him more aggressive). After a few moments thought, I rang the police and very cautiously told them my son had 'gone'.
I was still talking to the police when he came back. Then the older brother arrived. There was some conversation, some yelling and some cussing. I got upset and started crying. Then there was some more talk, the older brother went again. THEN the teenager admits he's been a total dick all day (but doesn't apologise). I manage to get my point across and he says he'll stop it. The police arrive -- just to check he is safe and none of us are distraught or worse. Storm in a teacup is their comment. Police leave. Teenager talks some more and then takes himself off to bed. Mildly traumatised mother sits at the computer and writes it all down -- then reads it through.
BUGGER. Mountains out of molehills again -- but who actually MADE it so? Was it me? I thought I was just holding my ground. Oh, well.
And, being so full of shit, now I have to 'go' -- AGAIN. Bugger!
