The other night I couldn’t sleep. Matthew was asleep on the sofa (mouth wide open and snoring), and I was stuffed up with cold feeling sorry for myself with a honey and lemon. I was flicking aimlessly through the channels for something that didn’t require too much attention but kept me mildly amused. I landed on a show from my youth, one I remember sitting in bed in my bedroom at my mum and dads house, on my own laughing at every Friday night. Probably not laughing at the full joke, but got the gist.
Harry Enfield and Chums
Two sketches in particular tickle me (that proves I’m old doesn’t it? When something “tickles” me). The first being Harry and LuLu – a pair of “toddlers” where Harry, the eldest plays innocent whilst hurting/hindering/or setting up his little sister LuLu. This rings so true, as Fatty apparently taught The Beast to say “DIE DIE DIE” (well, he was the second excuse after trying to drop one of the teachers from Pre-School in). The hero worship in LuLu’s eyes as she’s lead to trouble is also a familiar sight as I’ve often witnessed The Fat one being lead towards the cat, the TV remote or stair gate.
The second is more terrifying. More unnerving, more unsettling then any other sketch I’ve seen on the television ever. Why? Because it’s my future.
Kevin and Perry
As that clock chimes and the 12 year old turns into a teenager I see my future unravelling before me. Admittedly The Beast isn’t as nice all the time as Kevin the 12 year old seemed to be (although he’s equally if not more hyper). In fact he already has elements of a teenager with his strops and his answering back, his stubbornness when he doesn’t want to do something, along with his amazing ability to not hear certain things, but I swear if I even type a tweet containing the word chocolate or Spiderman he hears me.
Why am I scared I hear you ask? After all, my three-nager doesn’t clean the toilet after a number two (or the floor after a number one). He has been known to say he hates me when he doesn’t get his own way, he moans through any dinner that isn’t chips, he looks at me with an expression of confused bafflement when I question him about his day at school, his taste in music is already far more advanced then mine, and he frequently reminds me that I’m not cool. I drive him everywhere and I pick up after his trail of destruction as he sits open mouthed gazing at the television.
But what fills me with fear, more then anything else, is when Perry bumbles in. Perry. The slightly clumsy blunderbuss. The slightly chubby pale faced one, who appears to be easily led but actually has his own mind. Oh wait, who does that remind you of? That’s right. The Fat one.
So I’m going to have two of them. Two stinking, grumpy, aggressive teenage boys. Boys that have spots, that shout at me, that slam the doors, that swear and lie, that suddenly are obsessed with boobs, and their mates, who’s washing is three times the size. They will probably smoke, drink, stay out all night, and I can’t see them saying “I love you bestest in the whole world mummy” while asking me to give them a kiss and spiderman lifting him up to the ceiling cuddle. Also, at 7 o’clock, I’m not going to be able to put them to bed smelling clean and fresh, shut the stairgate, and that be that until morning.
I have no way of stopping this, no way of ensuring that my sons turn into cool, polite, nice children. I’ll try my hardest obviously, drumming please, thank you “pardon stop muttering” into them. I’ll engage with them on a regular basis, but as far as I’ve been made aware, as hard as I can try, teenagers are tricky characters. So instead, I have to prepare, prepare for the grunts, learn what to get cross about, what to let go, and focus on the good things (lie ins being my number one priority). There’s no point arguing with them, it wont get me any where.
Plus, they’re going to be bigger then me.