The Teenager

In 1968 I bought an album (aye that's what we called them in them there days) by Blood Sweat & Tears called "Child is Father to the Man". I had no idea what it meant then but 40 years on I think I'm beginning to get a clue.

There are many things in my life I'm proud of, a fair few not so much so but nothing has afforded me so much pride, pleasure, love and occasional brain damage as my two wonderful kids.

I wisely chose the one of each gender option so there is "adult child"-male and "the teenager"-female. Of course, they are of equal importance so at a later date I will, no doubt, be eulogising the "biggun". This post, however, is dedicated to the the one in the title.

In a strange twist of fate I got custody of her over eight years ago. This was all without the necessity of dressing up as Spiderman or bungee jumping off Big Ben. Moreover, when my last long term relationship ended I became SINGLE DAD!

At risk of being accused of double standards (heaven forfend!), I was, and am , way more protective of her than I ever was of "adult child". Mind you, I suppose it's pretty natural to be less concerned about a 6'4" 16 stone male 15 year old than the somewhat smaller female equivalent. The trouble is, it wasn't long before the roles started to reverse almost imperceptibly.

Up until she was legally old enough I wouldn't have dreamt of leaving her alone during the evening but eventually it became time for me to regain some semblance of a social life. At first one ventured out tentatively with the reassurance of "Oh Dad, don't be so silly just go out and have fun" and like a good boy off I trotted making sure to be home earlier than really necessary. Inevitably, the time came when I got more confident and stayed out a little later.

"And what time did you get in last night and were you with a WOMAN?"

"It wasn't that late and it was just a date".

"If YOU say so"

See what's happening?

Then I have to suffer the ignominy of being a 21st century metrosexual. We sit and watch a movie or TV programme together. It only has to be about some parent's altruistic love for their offspring or an NSPCC ad' and I'm snuffling like a Pug with extra nasal congestion.

"Oh My God Dad, you are such a wuss"

Harrumph!

Don't even get me started on music! "The Teenager" can sing, I don't mean she can warble along with a degree of competence. I mean she CAN sing. Even worse she has an elephantine memory for the lyrics of every poxy song written in the last 35 years. God forbid, I should have a raspy singalong to something and bugger up the odd word or miss a note. she makes me feel like buying a massive digger, go down about 12 feet, jump in and rapidly fill the hole in with my own hands.

So far I have had to cope with the " can I have my belly button pierced, can I, can I, can I?" Uh NO! Some time later asked again, same response. Then in the tradition of men familiar with being nagged, since time immemorial, I acquiesced. It went septic!

"Can I dye my hair blonde, can I , can I, can I?" Follow the above sequence. It went orange.

She's not getting a tattoo, couldn't cope with septicemia.

We've also done the "can I get a boyfriend?" which was greeted with the same sort of response I might have reserved for a leper asking to borrow my bath towel. But you know what? She's over 16 now, I've got to let go eventually and why shouldn't some poor 17 yr old floppy haired chap get used to an adult life full of "Can I-s"