The girl left precise instructions. We were to collect her, some time after midnight, from a house absolutely miles from anywhere we intended to be. We were to text her when we arrived. Under no circumstances were we to ring the bell or attempt to come in. We were, she stressed, of course free to enjoy our own New Year’s Eve festivities but her host had made clear that her party was over at 1am so it was probably best not to stray too far outside the catchment area.
As we drew near, she texted again to remind us not to breach the outer perimeter. We were not to come in, or indeed to do anything that might embarrass her, such as, for example, visibly existing. We have, it seems, entered the twilight zone of parenting — where you are there only as rumour or facilities management.
We had been through this period with the boy but felt it less keenly, as we still had his younger sister to justify our continued presence on the planet. In fact, things were on the up. Having passed through the worst of teenage surliness, the first born has assumed an affable adult presence in the house, ready again to enjoy conversing with his parents. However, he is now into the last few months under our roof before, hopefully, heading off to college, so this time we have truly entered the parental half-life.
This is the period when any significant time spent with adults is viewed as a concession. Where once it was us who had to be nagged to play with the spawn, now it is we who are battling to find a collective family activity over the holiday period. It is not easy. There are only so many Star Wars movies (at least I hope there are — The Last Jedi was a binding promise, wasn’t it?). Even where there is consensus in principle on a particular activity, we face the difficulty of managing four different diaries and at least seven different moods. We are not entirely sure what they have been doing that leaves them so exhausted but after several days of doing not much, they “just want to relax”.
In fairness to the girl’s attitude on New Year’s Eve, it is not only outsiders who she tries to shelter from her parents. She also works to minimise her own exposure. Having finally completed her long-threatened takeover of the loft room, up two flights of stairs, she now prefers to communicate by text. Occasionally, she phones downstairs just to mix things up a bit. This is confusing, as pretty much all other calls on our landline are from people trying to sell us something. With the girl, it is more likely to be a request for services. So far she is replying to communication in person but it cannot be long before she gets a digital assistant — or a call centre in Romania — to manage parental messaging. There is logic to her approach. At this age, conversation is likely to focus on chores, homework or other areas where parental input is considered unwelcome.
In communal activity, we are just about hanging on to mealtime. There was a wobble after we made the schoolboy error of allowing the boy to eat in his room during periods of hectic revision, after which he and the girl both tried to push back on the imposition of having to dine with adults — an attitude only exacerbated by the ban on mobiles at the table. The girl did road test a new strategy of not being hungry at conventional mealtimes, but unfortunately this clashed with her other strategy of still expecting us to cook for her.
I am probably exaggerating. There is nothing abnormal in any of this. She is still a good kid at heart. As for the instructions to Dadcabs, those further down the line tell me I should be grateful she is letting us know where she is at night.
Perhaps the irritation is less with the normal teen transition than with the realisation that we are heading towards the next phase. We are moving into parenthood but without the parenting, a place where we still have all the usual worries and neuroses but without the same level of input. Everyone knows that becoming a parent is a major transition. No one warned us about the one at the other end. I suppose it is too early to start wishing for grandchildren.
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